Ok I got that wrong

But I didn’t expect that in one of the most important trials in American history they wouldn’t call for witnesses.

It’s hard to fathom the above fact but it’s sadly true.

The American democratic process is shot through and the parlous state of its partisan politics laid nauseatingly bare, at the highest level.

The reality is that the world now is at the mercy of a laquered, mincy-haired, smug faced oaf who has the values of a dodgy, down-town second hand car salesman.

And worse, he is backed up by spineless millionaire sycophants who value the Dow Jones and their seats above oaths and their duty to the American people.

Deary me.

So what else is up? Not too much I’m afraid apart from feeding the roses and deciding on the way forward with an Edinburgh bistro.

On the sporting front, we’ve got the Calcutta Cup match in Edinburgh at the weekend and I strongly fancy Scotland. As long as Hogg doesn’t try pointless (yes indeed pointless) one-handed put-downs.

That honestly was a shocker. Even more so the fact that he pretended that he’d not done it. The camera doesn’t lie Stuart.

Also, I certainly hope that we don’t see any nudging off the ball and cheap penalties forsaken like we did against Ireland. We don’t want to go the way of football. It’s a bloody game after all.

But I do think the French merit winning the Six Nations Championship on the back of their crowd’s performance in singing the Marseillaise last Saturday in Paris.

That was truly awesome.

By the way has anyone read Bryson? I am gobsmacked at how mediocre he is. And the bloke has sold millions of books. How?

I am guilty partly, as I thought I’d take one on holiday ‘Neither here nor there’, recounting his journey through Europe.

I am not sure if he was trying to be funny when he put the following anecdote in about his pal’s chat up line in Amsterdam. But unfortunately after having read his book I do believe it was some attempt at humour.

Here goes.

The chap, seemingly, went up and tried the following line on several women.

‘Excuse me, I know you don’t know me but will you help me move something 6 inches?

I presume there was a massive amount of incredulity and a rightful demand to know just what at this juncture.

To which his friend seemingly replied ‘2 ounces of sperm’

Bill intimated that his friend’s line of chat up was not a successful one.

Well bowl me over Bill.

How on earth did this man become such a successful author by putting crap like this in his books? That’s almost as bad as listening to Lyndsey Graham orating.

Help ma bob. Lordy me. Get me a train. God save America or something to that effect.

Trump finally stumped

Is this finally Trump’s Nixon moment and the smoking gun?

Surely the Bolton book revelation is the ball that knocked his middle stump for six? I’ll be damned if he is not out with this one.

Sorry about the cricket analogies, but I’m rather partial to following the old game these days. Been listening to the South African Test. It’s just a shame they cut the Johnathan Agnew commentary from the coverage.

Because that man is sublime. The most wonderful and delightful sports presenter out there. His sonorous tones are a Cotswold landscape on a spring day. He is sprung rhythm, fresh, endearing, humble and kind. He is wise and insightful and clear minded.

I’d chuck him in the Commons any day. Imagine someone like Aggers in there? What a blessing and a relief to us all it would be.

He is the antithesis of that ghastly bloke across the pond. That irksome, slippery, floppy, smug, loathsome, ghastly bag of tricks of a human being at the centre of the circus that is American politics.

But enough of that. For as Rabbie says:

‘Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a’that,

That Sense and Worth o’er the earth,

Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ ‘that’

Apart from these thoughts nothing much is afoot. The students are back and I take it the in-word at the moment is ‘literally’?

Because I can’t walk past a group of them without hearing one using it and with such emphasis. Well I suppose it’s better than ‘sweet’ or ‘grizly’ or ‘honestly’.

Anyway, ‘minerality’ is the big word in wine at the moment, by all accounts. Except no one can really explain what they mean by it. They got a bunch ( forgive me) of wine buffs together including that Oz Clarke chap, but they were at a complete loss to agree on it. Someone said it was just a metaphor.

He listen guys, I’m at pains already to get any of the subtleties of a wine masters’ description without you guys beginning to throw in metaphors too!

Elsewhere in the world our restaurant is going through a personality crisis. There are many things on the table at the moment, it’s just a pity none of them is food.

Unfortunately we are still closed.

We should resolve matters in the next week.

But don’t hold your breath.

A wee rant

Ok I’ll admit that there are a few hings that annoy me. Fund Managers exorbitant charging rates, Town Council Planning Committees, Meghan Sparkle, modern cricket gamesmanship, the ‘professional’ football foul, smoking, tasting menus, Iranian international diplomacy, Boris Johnson, Ben Stokes, Chris Evans, Matt Wallace and that Guiliani chappy.

I see in the US now that over half the money in equities is in tracker funds. Doesn’t that quite smack in the face and rather undermine the principle of the whole sector? Yes. Seemingly some journalist chap threw darts, when blindfolded, at the stocks list and they outperformed more than half the funds advised by Hargreaves Lansdowne, that large and respected investment platform.

My money is staying on the horses.

Now, in my day cricket was a gentlemanly game played with smiles and decorum and all that. But now there is a lot of back chat out on the field. It was discussed at the last Test Match and some buffoon commentator tried to justify it on the basis that he thought it was integral to the competitive spirit.

Lordy me. Can’t you have a competitive spirit without goading the opposing captain for being gay?

Again. Lordy me.

The ‘professional” football foul is one of the main reasons I don’t like footy. That and it nearly always being 90 minutes of tedium. At least rugby is only 80 minutes and you get lots of breaks when they haves scrums.

And that’s another thing I should have added. The scrum put-in must be the laughing stock of the century. And what about the poor wee hooker? He’ s now basically redundant and just spends half the game sandwiched between 14 sweaty bruisers collapsing upon him in most instances. Who’d be a hooker?

Now, this tasting menu fad is getting a bit out of hand. As that food journalist Raynor said rather aptly at the weekend ‘tasting menus are like double maths, something you have to endure and pay for after’.

Yes last time I think I paid £80 a head, without wine and remember being decidedly hungry after.

But it’s a very hard game this restaurant business as I’ve found out. I now fully get John Cleese in Fawlty Towers.

And of course, the funniest sketch ever in screen comedy ‘ my dear, what do you expect to see out of a Torquay bedroom window? …. giant roving wilderbeasts, the hanging gardens of Babylon?’

Now that is funny.

Bill Bryson and Frank Skinner take note.

Back from the wildernesses

This might not be such a major world changing event for everyone, but I’m back on the blog.

A bit like being back on the sauce I suppose but with less dire consequences and probably more fun.

As some people may know I’ve been in Edinburgh, attempting to open a restaurant. And it’s been rather exacting to be honest. The learning curve has been incredibly steep but I must say I now know how a good and successful restaurant should run. It’s just the putting it all into practice that is the issue.

However, I will not elaborate lest I get myself into rather deep and perilous waters. But what’s new.

Anyway, here I am having a lovely repose back in St Andrews and contemplating my future. And this may I say is the tricky one. An option is to do nothing, establish my wee man shed in the garden and write my memoirs.

But that would be entirely silly. There’s not much to say and people wouldn’t believe what I’ve been up to either. Also I’d have to either do a quick Reggie Perrin or publish anonymously. The latter appeals more as the North Sea is not overly welcoming.

Anyway, I do have a few ideas and you will have to glue yourself to my blog to find out.

Now, that at least is relatively interesting.

Or maybe deathly dull in the Icelandic!




The Headingley Test

I listened to the closing moments of the England cricket Test against Australia on Sunday in disbelief.

Ben Stokes had brought off the most remarkable victory in international cricket history. With last man Jack Leach they had to score 73 to win. And win they did.

But it was the closing moments which were wholly and utterly remarkable. Stokes was first dropped, then with the entire Australian team surrounding the boundary he hit a six which just got over the leaping fielder. He then went for a crazy single with two to win and stopped, only to leave Leach stranded half-way down the pitch. At this point it was surely all over and what a tragedy it would have been. But Nathan Lyons somehow fumbled the incoming throw. Then the next delivery from a riled Lyons hits Stokes on the pads, but umpire Watson gives ‘not out’. The camera clearly showed differently, but the Aussies had used up all their reviews and the last one rashly. A single was then achieved to cleverly put Stokes on strike in the next over. The English now cannot lose. The tension is immense as fast bowler Cummings scorches in to deliver the vital ball to Stokes, who simply battered it through the covers for four and the whole of Headingly and England erupted in jubilation.

This was immense. I had to watch the replays several times later on TV to take it all in.

But imagine being there?

The wonderful commentator Johnathan Agnew said that he had never seen anything like it and I don’t think he ever will again.

Don’t we just love sport in this country? It’s something we are very good at and it is something that this country revolves around. Whether it’s WImbledon or the Boat Race or Ascot or The Open or the rugby. We excel at it. And this Test Match was at the pinnacle of that.

It’s a shame we don’t have a Johnathan Agnew in golf mind you. For old Aggers is simply sublime. A wonderful commentator on the game. His timing, his knowledge, his sensitivity, his passion. His niceness actually. He does come across as a very decent bloke indeed and you can hear and see everyone responding to this. It’s heart warming and life giving. I really can’t get enough of Aggers.

There is a wonderful anecdote from last summer about someone who had written a letter to him which he read out on air. About how this chap’s father had sublimely drifted to another world, in the utmost contentment, listening to the kindly and euphonious tones of Aggers on Test Match live.

What a way to close your innings.

But in golf we are bereft of good or even decent commentators. There is no one near the level or pitch of Aggers. Ok we had Peter Alliss for donkeys and he indeed still pops up from time to time on the feeble Beeb coverage of the Open. But he never did it for me. Rather far too self-obsessed I felt and always annoyingly trying to be funny. But not very.

And then we have the likes of Ken Brown and Ian Carter and Ewan Murray who are mind blowingly boring. And then Sir Nick Faldo over on Sky of course.

Oh deary, deary me.

He’s about as inspiring as a kick in the head.

Anyone for cricket?


The Open Shop, St Andrews

I have previously written about my disbelief in the renaming of the Old Tom Morris Shop as ‘The Open’ by the Links Trust.

This morning I was wandering down by there and I saw Old Tom’s great, great, grand daughter (sweeping outside the shop as she owns the flat above and indeed the shop). At least I think she’s direct lineage or maybe she is just his great, great niece or whatever.

Anyway, I asked her what she thought of the renaming of their historic shop and she most politely said ‘I really can’t comment. It’s been sub-let to the R&A’.

Well I said. I can comment.

‘It’s an absolute shocker’

And she carried on her sweeping and made no comment.

While I’m on this theme, I may add that we have finally come up with a name for our bistrot in Edinburgh. It’s to be called ‘Leopardo’

This has been a painstaking process. In fact, it’s taken two years to get to Leopardo, via Old Flower Shop, Wild, Gardner and Costa, Leftbank, The Crazy Duck, The White Duck, The Blind Duck, Riverside Cafe, Sika, Idiom, Air Cafe, Ulysses, Velvet, Untitled, Little Sicily, Palermo, Aeolian and many, many more.

I finally settled on Bang, Bang, Bang. But no one was overly enthusiastic, apart from moi of course.

For I thought it was kind of memorable and had some latent, nuanced, obscure, underlying humour, given Alessandro’s Sicilian heritage.

But it was not to be.

We ultimately had a vote and Leopardo won handsomely.

Let’s say a slightly more conservative choice.


on the benefits of sea bathing

I have been swimming in the sea three days this week and it’s been wonderful for body and soul. I am convinced that this is much better for your mental health than a long dose of anti-depressants. Not that I’ve ever had a long dose of anti-depressants, but I’m convinced that GP’s should be advocating regular dips in cold water before prescribing them.

I was inspired to start doing this again by a new buddy Mark Vigil, aka The Wall Street Caddie, who is here for the summer, writing a book on young Tom Morris and caddying at Kingsbarns. A most affable bloke, he sets his day around drinking coffee in Taste, caddying, practicing his golf, dipping in the North Sea, having a few beers in Aikmans and writing his book. I look forward to reading it.

Our bistrot is very nearly there and we are just waiting for the council to give us building control clearance. The only major factor is that we haven’t got a name yet.

Leftbank has been ditched and there are numerous other possibilities being thrown around. I am now of the opinion that a good name is pretty important and we are finding it very hard to come to a consensus on this. Aeolian, Il Gattopardo, Wild, Old Flower Shop, Sika, Untitled all hit a mark and are there or thereabouts but I want something completely different (which I won’t disclose here because it’s rather hot property in my opinion). It’s completely off the wall but is certainly individual and memorable. And that’s what a good name should be I reckon.

If anyone has any immediate and inspired thoughts please send with haste.



I found it very interesting that Paul Lawrie was ‘gutted’ after he hit a marshal in the recent British Seniors championship. And interesting only because he said that ‘he always shouts fore’.

Because he didn’t in this case and the said marshal got hit. I posted this on Facebook and no one commented on it. And that is strange.

I also find this interesting because it’s quite a hot topic at the moment and one that should have elicited some response, especially amongst caddies.

Remember, at the last Ryder Cup, when a poor French lass got blinded in one eye when the pro golfer didn’t shout ‘fore’?

The glaring reality is that a lot of professional golfers have not been in the habit of shouting ‘fore’ for whatever reason. And this has to change, for it’s manifestly their responsibility and indeed they are the best judge of their own shots.

It certainly should not be left to a marshall on the tee, as I think might be the ongoing presumption among some pros.



what a palaver!

I’m in the habit of getting the 7.50am bus into Edinburgh at the moment.

Yesterday, a very interesting thing happened.

A lass got on at Ferrytoll, sat on one of the side seats at the front and proceeded to apply her make-up all the way into Edinburgh (20 minutes).

Now, this was particularly fascinating from my male perspective, as I hadn’t quite imagined that so much could go into the female visage (and I do mean this both literally and metaphorically). But I also think this display was fascinating for the rest of the full bus too. In fact we were all rather captivated by this pretty, self-absorbed lady, who really acted like she was all alone.

Anyway, there was much intermittent powdering and the administration of creams and sprays and brushes and pomaders (I think they are called pomaders?) and puffing and pouting and squinting and hare-eyed staring, the most careful attention around the eyes and the neck and the forehead and several, regular, dramatic, still-camera pose moments of maybe not quite self-admiration, but certainly junctures of deep self-reflection. Kind of Picasso mid-paint like. But, I’m not sure Picasso had the want to update his self-portrait on a quotidian basis. However, maybe with such a captivated and attentive audience he might have?

I was slightly irked as I had to get off at Blackhall and couldn’t see the finale. At this stage the lipstick was being very carefully administered, the Chanel 5 was wafting, not unpleasantly, through the bus and the face was a fine and deep, smooth rouge.

The couple behind were having a wee chuckle and informed me that the procedure had started in the bus station at Ferrytoll.

God get me a train!

Apart from that highlight to the week I saw the one and only Cologne Tom out on the Old, which was cool. In years to come people will rue the fact that they came to St Andrews, saw the castle and the cathedral, Hamish McHamish, stepped on the Swilcan Bridge, posed next to the R&A, had fish and chips in Anstruther, a pint in the Jigger, but never met the most wonderful man that is now the Old Course caddie, Tom Stevenson.

He is a delightful one-off. I have never met a person with such charisma.

I once wrote an article for HK Golf decrying the powers that be in the Links Trust, and more particularly the incumbent and present caddie master, for not putting Tom on Obama’s bag when he visited a couple of years back.

That was a massive missed opportunity. It would have done wonders for the image of the St Andrews caddie and immeasurably enhanced our international relations in one fell swoop. I mean stuff all that Downing Street and Chequers nonsense. This would have been enormous and everlasting. Tom would have had Barack eating out of his hands.

I mean even that buffoon Boris Johnson would have grasped that one.

But alas not the Links Trust.

On the golf front I have scraped into the final of the Jock Hutchison over the Old. After a massive collapse with consecutive out of bounds on fifteen and sixteen and a nervous three stab on seventeen, I just held my nerve to hole a Doug Sanders on eighteen.

There is goff in the old dog yet.