Bad 'uns

Boring, Boring....

Sally was my grandparents' neighbour in the terraced street of 20 houses where we lived until I was four. She lived at no 19, diagonally across the cobbled street from my grandparents at no 18. The street was twenty cobbles wide, and with little or no traffic, crossing the cobbles was a more exciting way to learn to count than an abacus. Sally worked the morning shift at a local mill and would come across for a cup of tea and a chat with my mum and grandma when she got home. Her language sparkled with Lancashire idioms, although she toned down the expletives in my presence: "bloody hell" became "bleeding 'erry "

Unlike the Queen who tied her headscarf under her chin, Sally always tied her headscarf on her forehead to keep her hair out of the looms. She would arrive with the headscarf still on and curse her husband, Wilf, with occasional affection. She held no such store for some others in the street, who she said were "bad 'uns". The Doyles had two sons in Borstal and were always on the take, and the Hudsons had 5 children and smelt of fish, not surprising given that they lived in a 2-bedroom flat above Macfisheries. She could let fly at bin men who dropped rubbish or window cleaners who missed a window with undiluted mill speak. Apart from these traits, Sally, the pride of our alley, would help anyone in trouble; her rough demeanour concealed a heart of gold.

It was her reference to bad 'uns that has always stuck with me. She meant people who could not be trusted; they would steal and do unacceptable things to other people. I realised this at school; the bad 'uns were the boys who would cheat, lie, bully and steal. You could easily spot the bad 'uns; they acquired reputations, and you had to be wary of them,  

In adult life, bad 'uns often presented positive attributes, but they could do far more damage. It was still possible to spot them. Many folk were attracted to them as they displayed their power or celebrity and, by doing so, this encouraged their bravado and sense of entitlement. I could never understand the popularity of Jimmy Savile; he was an obvious bad ‘un. I remember in my first Glasgow Marathon getting stuck behind him and his fan club of a hundred or so runners as we ran along Bath Street. He had started ahead of his expected finishing time and subjected a thousand or so runners who had been more honest in their predicted times to being stuck behind him and his entourage as he waved to the crowds. What a wanker.

There are lots of others who appeared to be obvious bad 'uns years before they were outed: Gary Glitter, Robert Maxwell, Nicolas Fairbairn, Mohamad Al-Fayad, ex Prince Andrew, Owen Paterson, Russell Brand, Michelle Mone, as well as neighbours and work colleagues who you steered clear of.

The whole world is aware that there are global bad 'uns like the US and Russian Presidents, Netanyahu, the Israeli PM and his ministers, Smotrich and Ben-Gvir. I watched the shady money deals and duplicitous jeering and cruel handling of demonstrators at the Reform conference, with Farage leading the delegates with the chants of boring, boring at the demonstrators. I then caught clips of the speeches and concluded that Nigel Farage, Robert Jenrick and Zia Yusuf are not just part of the establishment but also the UK's top team of bad 'uns. Oh, for Sally to be alive to give them a good skelping with a side helping of mill speak.

Scottish Hill Running Relay Championships

Comrie Relay Championship HQ

It was late August, a mellow, sunny day that was just perfect. Gregor collected me for the journey up to Comrie, a picture-book village on the edge of the Highlands set in glorious landscapes. The Comrie Relay Races have been going for 19 years and were selected to host the inaugural Scottish Hill Running Relay Championships. The setting was mesmeric on the edge of the village, at the cricket ground with the pavilion built on a south-facing slope that was nature's design for basking in the sun as autumn beckoned. 

It was Gregor's first hill race. He had been invited to join the new Queen's Park Athletic Club, which had broken away from Shettleston Harriers earlier in the year. He had joined the previous week and been selected to run the first leg for the V40 team. It was serendipity that we had lived next to Queen's Park for seven years. In the year before Gregor was born, I started running competitively again, beginning with a half marathon in June 1983 and then the Glasgow Marathon in September. My training was largely around Queen's Park most evenings, trying to achieve a PB on every run.

Gregor had raced for ten years entirely on the roads; he had run 2 hours 21 minutes for the marathon and been selected to represent Scotland at International Events. He had always enjoyed running in the hills but was hesitant about competing in hill races. After his 420-mile Running Scotland earlier this year, much of it on trails and in the mountains, he was open to giving hill running a go when Queen's Park called.

When Gregor went for his warm-up before the start of the race, I set off for the first changeover point, walking up Glen Lednock on the Laggan trail, initially on the route of the first leg of the race, then climbing more directly through the spectacular native woodland and crossing the River Lednock on the Shaking Bridge. Across the river was the Lord Melville Monument at the top of Dun Mor. To the north were the craggy slopes below Ben Chonzie that were ascended on the third leg of the relays. 

The handover station was buzzing with 50 or so runners who were to take over on the second leg. I met Matt Ogston, an old running partner, who was a marshal, and Malcolm Patterson, the coach of Queen's Park AC. He was one of many who had transferred from Shettleston Harriers. He had a clear objective for Queen’s Park AC  to become competitive with tthe all-conquering Carnethy Hill Running Club, Scotland's premier hill running club. He seemed to know a lot about me from other runners I had competed with in the 1980s and 90s. I have always regretted that I didn't have the time to train and race for hill running and only competed in about ten races, although I did manage a dozen 2-day mountain marathons. The enthusiasm of the hill runners today reminded me of the easy friendship and companionship that is given in hill running circles. 

Gregor made a good start on the first leg, plugging his transponder chip at the handover station in third place, a couple of minutes behind Carnethy. He decided to run up the Glen to the next handover point to support his team. I returned down the west side of Glen Lednock and called in for a coffee in Comrie before returning to the cricket ground in time for the finish. Carnethy won in 3 hours and 5 minutes, a new course record. Queen's Park men's team came second and the women's team third,  whilst the V40 team were the first vets team home. 

The afternoon sun was beating down on the slope in front of the cricket pitch as the runners arrived and soaked up the sun and some seriously good food served by Strathearn Harriers. A perfect place to enjoy a grand day out and the companionship of the hill running fraternity, complete with happy children and well-exercised dogs. The last team arrived in just less than 5 hours as the prize-giving began. Every team that came in got a rousing reception from the crowd on the hill. There were no fools here.

Path in the Laggan Wood

Second leg summit - Crappich Hill

Lord Melville's Monument on Dun Mor

Shaking Bridge over River Lednock

Handover point for second leg

G finishing first leg

Time to relax at the finish

Queen's Park win V40 team prize - beer

London in the Time of Climate Change

From Primrose Hill

It was my first visit to London since February. Scotland had been washed clean by heavy overnight rain, but from Darlington down, the fields were drained of colour. It looked more like Spain with far too many settlements. The sun was out at King's Cross; a cooling breeze made it a pleasant welcome as I crossed to St Pancras for my local train. As I alighted, the heavens opened, and I had to retrieve my Gore-Tex jacket. I stopped under a shop sun canopy; the man next to me said, "At last". I figured he meant the rain and said: "You should have seen it in Scotland this morning". "Ah, so you've brought it with you" was the jovial reply. The rain hammered down for the 15-minute walk to my destination; my jeans had acted like blotting paper.

After the rains stopped, my daughter suggested a walk through the nearby cemetery and dinner at the local pizza cafe. We entered the cemetery at a new gate and walked for about a kilometre to the other end; the gates had been locked and padlocked. We walked back to the new gate, which also had been closed and the padlock was on, the stone walls were high and we pretended not to panic in front of the grandchildren. Then I noticed the padlock hadn't been locked. We escaped, and the pizzas tasted great, even better than they would have without the cemetery adventure.

The next day we were joined by Gregor; it was fresh and sunny, about 25°C, so we decided on a bus trip to Borough Market for lunch and a jaunt along the South Bank. The afternoon culminated with a humongous ice cream cone at Herne Hill Station. We sauntered back home; hot town, summer in the city, walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head. The day reminded me of 1967 when, wherever you were in that balmy summer, the airwaves reverberated to the Whiter Shade of Pale.

The next day we visited Whitstable, one of the more salubrious beach towns along the north Kent coast. I had two friends at University that had lived there, and it has always been an intention to visit. Greenwich to Manston is the longest stretch of the UK coast that I have never set foot on. It took over an hour on the train from south London. Whitstable was alive with day trippers; the emergency services and RNLI were giving displays of their equipment and sounding their sirens at the busy harbour. The main street was bustling with seaside shops. The grandchildren went fishing off the harbour walls for crabs and jellyfish whilst we sampled the local ales. Whitstable was slightly disappointing, confirming what an Irish woman from nearby Faversham had told me during my last visit to London. She had decided to move back from North Kent to Ireland. 

Sunday was a lazy day at home, although Gregor managed a long walk in Richmond Park followed by a 22-kilometre run back to Dulwich. The highlight was an Indian meal from Kricket Brixton, a restaurant that never fails to deliver. On Monday the grown-ups went back to work, leaving the children and retired folk to potter about. I decided on a pensioner's day haircut followed by a trip to Regent's Park, a place I had never visited. It was parched and a paler shade of brown. Unlike Dulwich College grounds, which were infinitely greener than their most distinguished alumni, the Royal Parks were not able to water their extensive lawns. The park was far larger than I had imagined and absorbed the lunchtime joggers, the foreign tourists and the well-heeled citizens of St John's Wood with ease. The boating Lake was awash with families and the cafes were busy. 

I decided to pop up Primrose Hill to get a view of the City; it was heaving with young people looking like a mob of Meerkats as they peered over London's impressive skyscape. I had never been to Camden Market, so I dropped down to the Regent's Canal and followed it to the Market. The canal was lined with houseboats and shaded by overhanging willow trees. A punt-like boat glided past with a violinist serenading her friends or customers who were splayed out on deck sunning themselves. 

Camden Market was a hotspot for young people and tourists. The offerings of market tat were outrageously priced, and this continued along the crowded Camden High Street, a contender for the worst shopping street I have ever trundled down. The bonus was to stumble on  Mornington Crescent Underground Station just across the road from the Lyttleton Arms. I had got there from Primrose Hill, a game winner! 

My London trip was almost over, although I was enticed into the massive Evans cycle shop at St Pancras and was almost seduced into buying a Checkpoint Gravel Bike at a 20% discount. The problem would be getting it back on the train. As always, the journey home the next day from King's Cross was on a fairly full train and five and a half hours sitting down is never good for your posture. I treated myself to an Ocean Pie from M&S and watched the Vuelta Mountain stage from Andorra on arriving home. 

Heading for Borough Market

South Bank vista

Whitstable Harbour

A meadow fit for climate change deniers

Regent's Park Boating Lake

Regent's Canal

Camden Market

Got there -the shrine to Humphrey

 

A Septagarian's Wedding

PGS Old Boys with Neil in sling

Back in the 1970s and 1980s, weddings were regular events as the baby boomers, having had fun in the sixties, settled down with mortgages, children, and debt, which was ramped up by inflation. I had been a best man on five occasions for a school friend (Neil), a couple of university friends, a flatmate and my brother. This weekend was a party for Neil on his second wedding to Jessica, his partner of twenty-five years. 

His children and his grandchildren were there along with old school friends and others that I had met over the years. It was a relaxed affair deep in the bucolic fringe of the Lake District at a house and garden straight out of central casting. The marquee, piper, casks of real ale, sparkling wines and the chance to play croquet or table tennis were available, but so were a spectacular array of canapés that were interlaced with conversations from yonder years. No presents had been stipulated in the invite, and dress code was whatever was comfortable, although my choice of jeans was probably a bit naff.

Neil and Jessica had got married at the registry office in Edinburgh City Chambers back in April. The party had been put off until summer, when an outdoor event in a marquee and the grounds of an eighteenth-century house would be more appealing. The only problem was that Neil had fallen down a ladder and broken his ribs and left elbow when painting windows. Neil had been a fearless rock climber and had never fallen when climbing to a high standard in the Alps, the Lake District and Scotland; I could vouch for that, having seconded him up many climbs that had scared the hell out of me.

Jessica's mother hosted the event at her house. It started at 12:30 pm. Neil's stepmother was there, along with a motley assembly of friends and distant relatives who had negotiated the maze of local roads to a location so remote that it was absent on most satnavs. A nearby field was used for parking, and a handful of folk came on bikes. Neil and Jessica had met through cycling. 

The summer heatwave was finally over, and we were regaled by an artistic blue and white sky that induced a relaxed atmosphere, perfect for conversations that provided answers to life's journeys and secrets. I met a distant cousin of Neil, a retired Doctor from Herefordshire who had worked with my old girlfriend's brother, whom I had climbed with in the Avon Gorge. We both had memories of their eccentric Irish father who was the local GP in an idyllic Cotswold village. I met a Pilates teacher who promised to provide me with exercises to improve flexibility after my hip operation. Another of Neil's friends had married one of Neil's former girlfriends, whom I had inadvertently introduced to Neil during our underage drinking days. An old school friend had just published an illustrated children's book; he was always a talented cartoonist and had been an amazing javelin thrower. Jessica's brother was over from Montreal with his family and had 2 days before his flight home. He was taking his boys to Glencoe to climb Buachaille Etive Mor; I was able to show them photographs of the treat they had in store.

I chatted to Neil's children, in their forties now, and probably revealed some scurrilous episodes from Neil's past. I was asked by many about Ian, Neil's older brother and also a good friend who had sadly died in his mid-twenties after a badly executed operation. Neil and I had scattered his ashes on Scafell Pike on a miserable December day before drinking away our sorrows in an Ambleside pub. 

Guests had been asked to provide playlists for the dancing and eating in the marquee. The bubbly and casks of local ale kept people talking during the buffet. People rotated, shared stories and found common ground. The party had fizzed on as time whizzed by, and by 6pm people were drifting off to nether regions. I reflected on the way home that I had been to four funerals and a wedding in the past twelve months; it's a baby boomer's thing.  A film waiting to be made, perhaps?

Fit for a wedding

The setting

 

A Dash up Great Calva

The Dash

Friday, 14 August 2926

Great Calva      690m    1hr   54mins
Little Calva      642m    2hrs 16mins

Ascent:         530 metres
Distance:      11.5 kilometres
Time:            3 hours 42 minutes

I was attending a wedding party for Neil and Jessica in the North Lakes and decided to leave earlyish and climb one of my remaining singleton Wainwright hills. After the heatwave of recent weeks, I had been awoken by a thunderstorm, and it was raining as I left. The M74 was relatively quiet. After Carlisle, I navigated the narrow lanes to Outhwaite using satnav, then, using OS maps online, to the start of the walk on the Cumbria Way at Peter House Farm. I squeezed into the last parking space. I was feeling a bit anxious having struggled up Ben Gullipen in the heat a couple of days earlier, but nothing ventured. All the hills were enveloped in grey cloud after weeks of sunshine, wildfires and eclipses.

The track was just what I needed, a steady incline and the prospect of reaching the imaginatively named Whitewater Dash, a soda syphon of a waterfall on the Dash Beck, that unlike most water courses in England was still spouting H2O. At the top of the Dash, I was about to start the steep path onto Little Calva when a couple warned me against it. I followed them along the Cumbria Way for another mile and found what I thought was the start of a narrow path through the heathers to Great Calva. I could see them a couple of hundred metres ahead, but they had found the real path; I had been hoodwinked by a sheep's path that disappeared into a bog along the stream before eventually joining the path that was scored into the peat and heather. And then, just twenty minutes of a slog to the summit, enlightened by a chat with a couple from Middlesbrough who were descending and on the way to Bakestall. 

My last visit to Great Calva, in 2010, had included Bakestall. They were part of 10 Wainwrights climbed with Gregor in a frantic day and a half involving 4 separate walks; I had moaned about the tedious slog up the heather-clad Great Calva despite having speed and fitness on my side. Arriving at the summit, the clouds had dispersed although they lingered on Skiddaw and Blencathra. The woman from Middlesbrough had made a disdainful reference to Mungrisdale Common, a piss-take of a hill listed by Wainwright. My sentiments exactly. It is no more than a gentle uplift of less than 10 metres on the descent from Blencathra towards Great Calva. Wainwright had probably stopped for lunch there to do a sketch. 

I decided to descend via the adjacent hill, Little Calva. It was an easy path across to its flat summit, which was decorated by a small gathering of stones that certainly didn't constitute a cairn. Obviously Wainwright didn't have lunch here; otherwise it would be listed. The descent was gentle at first, following some fence posts until the final 120 metres of descent, which were steep as they gauged out a channel through the heather. Arriving at the Cumbria Way, I made reasonable time down to Peter House Farm, but it had not been a dash; last time the walk had also included Bakestall and took 2 hours 41 minutes. This time it had taken almost 4 hours, including a couple of stops for chats and 15 minutes on Great Calva having some lunch and imbibing the joy of a summit. Summits are not only viewpoints but self-inflicted endorsements of achievement. 

I had booked a hotel for the night in Cockermouth, one of the few places, even in this less visited part of the Lake District, that had a vacancy. I showered and changed and then drove to Hesketh Newmarket, where the wedding party goers were meeting for a meal at the Crown Inn, the fuelling place of Mount Everest junkies Chris Bonington and Doug Scott. It was the perfect summer evening, but the occasion was interrupted by a government announcement on the danger of wildfires, all of our phones going off at regular intervals. Apparently, a fire chief in the Midlands had demanded the warning, although for most of the UK there was no such danger. The consternation was viral, another example of a centralised UK government decision that should have been devolved to localities in danger.  Scotland had been subjected to heavy rain for the previous 48 hours.

Conversations resumed after phones were switched off. Chance to catch up with old school friends, and acquaintances of Neil whom I had met at various birthday and other significant events since we first became friends at school 65 years ago. We had spilled ou to the street and mingled with locals before being herded into a back room for our meals. Driving 20 miles back to Cockermouth at 10:30pm was a bit of a trial, but sleep was easy.

The next morning, after my first full breakfast for over a year, I explored Cockermouth for a couple of hours. On the edge of the Lake District, it has a friendly demeanour, located on the banks of the River Derwent and with some fine buildings. The main street was host to many independent shops, including a splendid bookshop, and half a dozen coffee shops with not a franchise amongst them. I visited an arts fair and found paintings by a local artist; she had imaginatively combined her paintings with OS maps to make greeting cards. She had one of Slater's Bridge in Little Langdale, one of our very special places. After a coffee and charging the car, I drove back to the wedding destination near Caldbeck for the wedding party.

Binsey from Cumbria Way

Path to Great Calva

Great Calva summit

Great Calva from Little Calva

Skiddaw from Little Calva

A peek of Thirlmere beyond Lonscale Fell

Slater's Bridge

 

If our politicians were comedians

Michael Gove

August is supposed to be the silly season; our politicians have headed for the Mediterranean along with many of their electorate. It sums up their lack of curiosity and unwillingness to try something different. Crowded beaches, airport delays, too hot to enjoy, and the added bonus of fires as Europe heats up and dries out. "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and getting the same results" is a quote attributed to Einstein, but it sounds more like a quip from Tony Hancock.

It got me thinking about what it would be like if comedians played our politicians.  The first politician to appear in the silly season was almost inevitable: Mel Stride, the bumbling shadow Chancellor, and a ubiquitous presence on TV and Radio. He can shape-shift his previous statements with impunity. He gets things wrong and can empty a room or make you change channels faster than you can say Harry Worth. And if a comedian were to play him, then Harry would be the man.

Next up was Robert Jenrik, a man so keen to discombobulate previous colleagues and opposition parties that he would have to be played by Ricky Gervais. Nigel Farage has disappeared somewhere in Europe to avoid any involvement in his self-inflicted by-election and escape investigations of his financial shenanigans whilst he goes through another regeneration. He has had so many that Steve Coogan would need to play him. 

Kathy Burke would be a shoo-in for Kemi Badenoch: brutally blunt and taking no prisoners, though maybe not quite as aggressive as Kemi. 

Wes Streeting is quick with a quip and willing to criticise, and Jo Brand has the looks, NHS lived experience and the sharp tongue to play the part. 

Ed Davey could obviously play himself, but Frank Spencer would be a good stand-in. 

Frankie Boyle goes where other comedians fear to tread and could stretch to either end of the UK's power-crazed politicians: Zach Polanski of the Greens and Zia Yusuf of Reform, both of whom reside in cloud cuckoo land. 

As for Andy Burnham, well, the popular press would probably suggest Andy from Little Britain, but they lack imagination; I think Spike Milligan would be a better choice, and as this clip shows, particularly when negotiating with American Presidents or dealing with Kathy Burke at PM Questions.

Michael Gove was a Pinocchio of the Tory Party during the Austerity, Brexit and Covid years, and it would be fitting for another blast from the past, Chick Murray to do the honours.

Rachel Reeves and Angela Raynor could both be played by the impressionist Jan Ravens, who is also the voice double for our greatest ever PM Liz Truss......I Know.

Eclipse of the Sun

 

7:25pm 12 August 2026

There was a great deal of publicity for the total eclipse of the sun on 12 August, but that was for Iceland and Spain. The UK will have to wait until 2090 for a total eclipse. So in the UK we had a partial eclipse visible in most of England. In Scotland, the eclipse was largely concealed by the cloud cover.  I was a bit underwhelmed.

I think Pink Floyd did it better in 1973.

And all that is now

And all that is gone

And all that's to come

And everything under the sun is in tune (Everything)

But the sun is eclipsed by the moon

Spain had a total eclipse

The elusive Ben Ledi

 

Ben Ledi from Ben Gullipen 

Loch Venachar and Ben Ledi

I have climbed Ben Ledi over thirty times, more than any other Scottish Mountain. I could climb it from my in-laws' back garden and did so several times a year, sometimes carrying skis to the top for some dodgy descents. I trained for mountain marathons by running it in the 1980s and 90s and occasionally dragged my children and their friends up. Although it is less than half an hour away from home, I have only made a handful of visits since moving house several years ago.

It has been my intention to climb it since my hip operation, but I had been diffident about attempting it too soon. I had climbed the local smaller hills half a dozen times and had a couple of days hillwalking in the Lake District. After my weekly exercise session in Callander and on a perfect summer's day, I decided the time was right for Ben Ledi. It was midday as I drove to the start point at the Stank; the car park was full and so were the parking places on the A84 to the north. It was the day before the schools went back and families and teachers were maxing out on their summer holidays;  I decided to make a shorter excursion up Ben Gullipen instead. As recently as late 2004, it had taken a mere 45 minutes if I ran the less steep sections on the ascent and ran all the way down.

It was 27°C as I began the seriously steep section at the start of the ascent, stopping every few minutes; and when I reached the gentler gradients, there was no oomph in the legs. I ambled to the summit in 45 minutes. The reward was Ben Ledi looking magnificent set against the crystal-clear blue skies. I was thankful that the car park had been full. It would have taken a couple of hours to reach the summit in the heat at today's pace. I began to justify my walk by telling myself that it is sometimes better to admire the mountains from below. I walked down at a sedate pace; the hip was no problem; it was a sore back and breathing that held me back. I was home by 2pm. My exercise class and a slow plod up and down a micro hill were sufficient to prompt a heatwave-induced siesta. Ben Ledi could wait.

Mountebanks of Reform

Crashing out is becoming a habit for the leader of the Mountebanks

Back in January, the then Prime Minister, Keir Starmer, refused to allow Andy Burnham, the Mayor of Greater Manchester,  to stand in the Gorton and Denton by-election that was subsequently won by the Greens. Starmer claimed it would avoid an expensive and time-consuming by-election for the Mayor of Greater Manchester if Andy Burnham had won the by-election. At the local elections in May, the Reform Party took 30.7% of the votes in the 10 local authorities that make up the Greater Manchester Combined Authority. Labour received 23.6% of the vote and the Greens 19.1%. The Reform Party had become the dominant party in Greater Manchester. Keir Starmer had signed his own dismissal notice.

By the time of the next by-election in Makersfield, caused by the resignation of Josh Simons as the MP, Andy Burnham was allowed to stand, and won in a seat that had been expected to be won by the Reform Party after the results of the May local elections. Within days, Starmer had resigned, the election for the new Mayor of Greater Manchester was called, and six months had been wasted. Starmer's vision of time was metronomic but set in months and years, not days.

Meanwhile, Andy Burnham had become the new PM and was whipping up a storm of new initiatives and zealously dominating social media. He was generating some hope after the moribund days of decline under Johnson, Truss, Sunak and Starmer. 

Starmer had not been wrong about the cost (or the slow pace of the election count) as we waited up until 11pm on the day after the poll to get the result. His handling of calling by-elections characterised his period in office: mindful of cost, devoid of imagination and always cautious. His demise was his failure to inspire or provide a glimpse of hope that the UK needs in these troubled times. The Reform Party had become the gathering post for the Mountebanks who amplified the problems with all the deceit to be expected from their leaders, who are hard-core members of the very establishment that they mock.

Like so much else in the UK, the pace of the Greater Manchester Mayoral count was diabolical. The technology is there to do this count electronically; we piloted the technology for the Electoral Commission in 2002 for a ward by-election in Stirling, and we declared by 10pm on the day of the election. It led to the use of the technology in the 2007 combined Council Multi-Member Ward Election System and Scottish Parliament Additional Member Voting System. Both of these are much more complex than the Supplementary Voting System used in Greater Manchester. We had the results for both elections completed and the counters released from the count by 3am, just 5 hours later than the close of polls, not 25 hours later.

The Labour candidate, Bev Craig, won the Greater Manchester Mayor election with 66.3% of the share of the vote, including the second preferences. Reform took 33.7%. The respective figures for first preferences were 47% to 21%, with 12% for the Greens. These first preference votes are the most realistic comparison with the Council elections in May when Labour had 23.6% and Reform 30.7%. The tables had been turned, and Reform was on the slide. 

Once again, the Grand Old Duke of the Mountebanks, Nigel Farage, had marched his latest wheeze, the Reform Party, to the top of the hill, to see them have a great fall. He has lost his fabled ability to popularise the zeitgeist of despair, and even the sympathetic right-wing media and senior Reform members are distancing themselves from him.  Can all Nige's crypto and all Nige's friends ever put Reform together again? Well, there is plenty of evidence that this is unlikely, especially if Count Binface chips away at his vote share in the Clacton by-election that Farage has brought upon himself. His previous incarnations as leader of the UKIP party died away in 2019, and the Brexit Party was killed off in 2021. It would appear that each of his regenerations to cheat death gets more desperate as he ages. Expect him to emerge from a TARDIS with a new gang of Mountebanks sometime soon. Perhaps he could call it the Dalek Party or, better still, the  Underworld Party as it fades out and he finally stops bleeping.

Dalek Party unveiled

Commonwealth Games and Broadcasters

Tunnocks Tea Cake Lands in The Hydro

I had switched to Channel 5 to watch the opening ceremony of the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow. The games had crept up without the pizzazz that normally accompanies major events. Partly because Victoria State in Australia had pulled out as the hosts for the 2026 event and Glasgow had stepped in with less than 2 years to rescue the 'friendly games'. Advance publicity was then scuppered because the BBC had been outbid for coverage of the event by TNT Sports in partnership with Channel 5. 

I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the opening ceremony, although nothing could compete with the London Olympic Games. For the first time, it was an indoor ceremony held at the Glasgow Hydro. It was classy and sassy. The King and Queen arrived in a TARDIS, and the First Minister joined in the singing of the UK national anthem by the excellent Scottish Youth Choir. This provided both humour and, in the absence of the Flower of Scotland as the national anthem, a certain edginess.

A Scottish Nature Garden provided the centrepiece of The Hydro for the arrival of the 3000 competitors from 74 Commonwealth countries and was inspiring, as were the changing images on the massive screen. The competitors were regaled by pipers, dancers and a raucous Glasgow crowd with not a traffic cone in sight. It was the arrival of a TARDIS and the landing of a Tunnocks tea cake from the roof void that typified Glasgow's comity and brutal self-deprecation.

But, being Channel 5, there were adverts, and when the wannabe influencer, Emma Radacanu, popped up on yet another advert, I switched off. Radacanu will cash in on her fleeting shelf life to advertise anything. It prompted me to think about all the superb broadcasters we have in the UK who have moral integrity that forbids them from behaving like Raducanu, Beckham, and their ilk.  They are as irritating as broadcasters who flaunt their self-seeking importance or those who are just crap at broadcasting.

I have listed those for whom I reach for the zapper and immediately tune out when they appear on TV or the radio. To achieve balance and offset the critique of influencers with no shame or irritating broadcasters, I have first listed plaudits for the worthy TV, radio, or podcast broadcasters of news, knowledge, and facts, 

In no particular order, here is a list of broadcasters that I most value and respect as worthy bringers of news, knowledge and facts as I watch TV, listen to the radio or seek out podcasts.

Jeremy Hardy (deceased)

Anna Foster, BBC Today

Evan Davies, BBC PM

Helen Lewis,  Atlantic and Private Eye (p94) Podcast

Gary Gibbon, Channel 4 News Political Editor

Anoosh Chakelian, New Statesman Podcast

Jeremy Bowen, BBC International Editor

Emily Maitliss, Newsagents Podcast

Steve Rosenberg, BBC Russia Correspondent

Anushka Asthana, Channel 4 US Editor

Steve Cram, BBC Athletics

Mishal Hussain, ex BBC Today

Mark Chapman,  BBC TV and Radio 5 Sports presenter

Katya Adler, BBC Europe Editor

Andrew Marr,  LBC

Pipa Creaar, Guardian and Politics Weekly Podcast

Dominic Sandbrook, The Rest is History Podcast

Orla Chennaoui, TNT Sport cycling presenter

Andrew Rawnsley, Observer and Newsnight

And a list of those self-important or crap broadcasters and influencers that I switch off instantly 

Emma Barnett, BBC Today

Robert Jenrick, Farage apologist

Laura Kuensberg, journalist

Nigel Farage, GB News

Naga Munchetty, BBC Radio 5

Micah Richards, BBC Football pundit

Fiona Bruce, BBC News and Question Time 

Robbie Savage, BBC Radio 5

Helia Ebrahimi, Channel 4 News

Michael Owen, football pundit

Emma Raducanu, former future tennis star

David Beckham, Knight of sponsorship and advertisement deals

Influencers: add cost and stymie facts

Best 2026 World Cup Advert 

Watching the World Cup forced me to watch some games on ITV, which means that I have been bombarded by adverts fronted by a baleful bonanza of influencers. What are they for? What do they add other than cost? Davis Beckham has appeared in 11 adverts for products, some of which he has probably never consumed or used. Companies believe that celebrities sell products, and perhaps they do if they are authentic. Those promoting charities are probably doing it because they have a genuine commitment to the cause. Footballers promoting a make of boot are probably sponsored by Nike or Adidas; Nigel Farage promoting Crypto Investments is a genuine attempt to reward himself. I am less sure about Alan Shearer advertising Betfair, Coral or McDonald's, or Micah Richards promoting We Buy Any Car when he drives a Lamborghini.

In the days of newspaper adverts, we got pictures and some facts about the product or service, and we could easily skip over them. TV adverts gave us colour and sometimes humour. World Cup adverts give us fantasy, and they cost a bomb for filming, payments to influencers, and FIFA's broadcasting charges passed on by the TV and streaming advertising costs. Who pays? The supporters for tickets and TV networks. And we all have to suffer the intrusion of adverts not only at half-time, which can last 25 minutes, but also before and after the games and during hydration breaks. FIFA created as many opportunities as possible to fire adverts at us. 

The result: I only managed to watch 5 games from end to end. The others I gave up at half-time or, on some occasions, at the first hydration break. The prospect of watching David Beckham and similar money-obsessed influencers raking in even more dosh was a complete turn-off.

I was delighted to see that the best-ranked advert in the World Cup was a home-based product that had no influencer other than Susan Boyle, and she was an AI insert as she swayed about on the girders of the Forth Railway Bridge. Pure Dead Brilliant.

Irn Bru World Cup Advert

Andy's Prehistoric Adventures

I switched on the BBC News to catch up on the new Prime Minister's cabinet appointments, and on came Andy's Prehistoric Adventures. I presumed that Laura Kuensberg had been re-employed to deploy her cynicism on the appointments before I realised that I had dialled into CBeebies. 

Alas, the News was an interview with Robert Jenrick; he was once the supposed saviour of the Tories but is now relegated as Nigel Farage's apologist. He was telling porkies about immigration, despite having been the immigration minister when net migration reached its peak of 745,000 in 2022; it fell to 171,000 in 2025. I had watched the transfer of power from Sir Keir Starmer to Andy Burnham earlier in the day. I welcomed the new PM's promise to work in collaboration across political parties and his instinctive commitment to devolving power to localities. I suppose that could be called a prehistoric adventure with democracy! The importance of place and less tribalism are vital ingredients for gaining pace and releasing the energy of both the public and private sectors working in step with each other at the local level, as they did before Westminster and Holyrood centralised business taxation and controlled and froze local expenditure. 

The responses to the new Prime Minister from world leaders and the devolved governments within the UK were positive and welcoming. They expressed a desire to work collaboratively, unlike the immediate messages from Reform and the Conservatives, which respectively called for an election and criticised policies that had not been announced. The UK media had a cynical tone; they were peeved that they had not been able to obtain leaks about new cabinet members and policies.

Most of the management of the transition has been well handled, apart from the hasty and populist announcement by Lucy Powell, the deputy leader of the Labour Party, that digital identity will be abandoned. This will make it more difficult to manage immigration, voting reform, and information sharing among health, police, education, and social work. This could vastly improve our response to child abuse, community care and special education. Most of the other broad hints of new policies address issues that have hindered progress and been the reason Keir Starmer lost the support of the press, voters and Labour MPs. They seem to have landed well, and the optimistic mood in the Downing Street sunshine was enhanced by a crowd of scousers, being respectful to Evertonian Andy Burnham. They should have sung You'll Never Walk Alone!

It is 3pm and still no announcements. I desperately hope for ministers who will not be afraid to instigate some disruption in the tax system and speed up the pace of change.  The new PM needs competent ministers brave enough to drive change, unlike some of the moribund crew who supported Keir Starmer..