The Kilt

A conversation at work this morning has got me thinking about the kilt (which apparently is the correct plural of kilt not kilts).

Being part Scottish I feel that I have the right to wear one. In fact I’m pretty sure there’s a Blake tartan draped over a shop window display in Aviemore even as I type.

But I’ve never actually got round to donning one.

I mean, it’s pretty hard to find an appropriate occasion when you’re living and working in the English Midlands.

The perfect opportunity arose back in 1976 (or thereabouts) when my Auntie Josie married my Uncle Tam in Glasgow and all the men wore the kilt to the ceremony and the reception. I had the chance to experience the swirl of my own bagpipes amongst the impressive company of my whisky drinking peers... but alas being 7 years old and brought up a Sassenach I bottled it and stuck to ma troosers.

Now, some years later, I regret that youthful decision as opportunities to wrap up my nether regions in a nice rough bit of tartan are as scarce on the ground as tax rebates from Gordon Brown (Broon).

But maybe I should just think ‘outside the sporran’ and get a kilt to sate my own personal sense of satisfaction and actively engineer occasions to wear it? A work’s do? My mother’s birthday? Christmas? My son’s parent’s evening at school? All viable occasions I’m sure you’ll agree.

Life is too short to wait. Sometimes you’ve just got to give things a bit of a prod.

So. My questions are thus: is there an item of national dress (yours or another nation’s) that you’ve always had a secret hankering to wear? What is it and have you ever?

Ranking Frank

Thursday evening telly has received something of a boost lately with the return of Mock The Week. Produced by the same guys that gave the UK Whose Line Is It Anyway? it builds on a similar format to pit various comedians against each other in rounds designed to test their improv skills, stand-up abilities and ad-libbed responses to topical news stories.

It’s effing hilarious and I have yet to watch a single episode where I wasn’t howling out loud with unstoppable belly laughter. That’s no mean feat on a Thursday night; the fag end of the working week.

For me the stand alone star of the show is the formidable Frankie Boyle (though I love Hugh Dennis’s unassumingly dry wit too). With a Glaswegian accent as brutal as a head-butt in your kisser Frankie Boyle is beyond sharp. The man is viciously serrated at an atomic level (but in a good way).

Quite honestly, Frankie Boyle could split a surgical laser beam lengthways with a single quip. One wrong word and Frankie’s tongue could slice off the top of your head like Sylar from Heroes performing an ad hoc lobotomy.

The man is blisteringly funny. But even better he’s blisteringly intelligent. Week after week I watch in awe as he pulls topical news stories out of the air and reconnects them in ways that seem so damned obvious once he’s done it. After I’ve finished laughing my guts up the same thought constantly reoccurs in my head: why the hell didn’t I think of that?

The man is quick. 0 to 187mph in under 2 seconds. I actually feel sorry for the other guys he’s pitted against. They look clumsy and amateurish by comparison. It’s like racing a Bugatti against a Skoda. No contest.

Best of all the man is real. There’s utterly no bullshit with Frankie. He tells it like it is; he’d rather kick you in the teeth with the truth than sprinkle a load of Canderel lies over your tongue.

The man is absolute comedy royalty.

In fact forget Forest Whittaker as Idi Amin: Frankie Boyle is the last king of Scotland!


P.S. This is my 200th post. Huzzah!