Maxwell Macleod's Cauld Blast

I WAS AMUSED, though frankly not much, to meet the renowned scriptwriter James Harding the other day and for him to inform me that when he manages to get his hands on a copy of ArtWork he will sometimes read out my column (probably standing on a chair as the poor man is quite small) to his colleagues, impersonating my voice.

Well, Mr Harding if this is indeed the case here's hoping you fall off. Cheeky sod. Honestly, the days when cutting edge investigative journalism is appreciated are clearly on the wain.

TALKING OF unwarranted abuse I understand from Lord Famedram that he has received a somewhat rambling (ghastly sin) letter from a reader claiming that my recent in-depth analysis of the current situation in Jerusalem was short on facts! My God, who will save me from these sins.

Anyone who has risked their lives living in such places as Jerusalem's New Swedish Hostel, where it is necessary to back into their lavatories, so tight is the space, whilst mining for truth, will know that politics is no longer about facts, but beliefs and an insecure loyalty to tribalism, and they need look no further than the recent council elections for corroboration.

That Scotland should back an organisation that is proposing an armed border and a different currency to England as a path to economic development is surely evidence. I also note that both Cowdenbeath and Shettleston have elected Tory councillors. Beware flying pigs. Anything is possible.

Talking of Jerusalem, I have it from a highly unreliable source that four men were recently trapped in a lift in the King David Hotel and that by the time they had been released four definite and contradictory versions of the absolute truth in the Middle East had been expounded, two new political parties had been formed and several death threats issued.

Facts? No longer fashionable. Story telling is the new path to enlightenment.

I WAS recently at the visually alarming celebration of the anniversary of the battle of Culloden with the deposed King of Ruanda, a decent man if ever there was one. I say visually alarming as the once exclusive meeting of usually around four women with profiles like post boxes wrapped in bullet proof tweed is now a magnet for every hard tartan Nat nutter north of Crianlarich, many dressed like exploded Anta sofas and carrying criminally defaced saltires supporting their manic cause.

Now, whilst I wouldn't dream of revealing any of the private conversations I had with His Majesty I think he and his courtiers will forgive me if I share memories of a memorable incident that subsequently took place in David Gladwin's new public house in Inverness where we were sampling the beer.

It was late on in the evening when almost all of Inverness's only womens' rugby team arrived, none of whom were entirely without refreshment. Their somewhat direct and biologically oriented enquiry as to whether our party was so flamboyantly kitted out as we were on the way to a fancy dress party was naturally met with the stony silence that befitted our station and when they were presented to His Majesty they initially simply admired his outfit and enquired where he had hired it.

On the truth being explained, the only alteration to their language was the addition of a religious element. Now that's what I call a good night out.

Read that lot out to your pals James, and mind you don't fall off your chair. Facts? Who needs them? Story telling is now king.