Glasgow Central Station Fire

It looks like Dresden, I thought as I peered over the fencing and looked down Union Street. The dreich Glasgow afternoon provided the perfect setting for what was left of the building on Union Corner at the epicentre of Glasgow. The cupola that had adorned the building had been shed following a fire started at a vape shop. An unintended consequence of the 2006 Scottish Smoking Ban.

All trains into Central Station had been cancelled, even 8 days later, and the usual search for culprits was underway. The locally based high-reach appliances in Glasgow were not available, and others had to be brought in from Coatbridge, Falkirk and Edinburgh. Would they have saved the cupola? Who knows, and that will probably be the answer in a year or so when the inquiry is published. Unfortunately, there have been far too many splendid Victorian buildings subjected to fires or, more commonly, developer vandalism in recent years

The Lord Provost has suggested a five-star hotel on the site. After all, it is handy for buses and trains, and there is a Greggs just across Gordon Street. There were a few other voyeurs like myself, and Drury Lane was filling up with groups of middle-aged construction workers in search of a bevvy. I had spent too long sitting in a restaurant for a reunion lunch with work colleagues, and my hips were sore. I sashayed up Buchanan Street to catch the ever-efficient and comfortable Ember Bus back to the Park and Ride.

View from Hope Street with Central Station frontage

View from Renfield Street

 

Iran: evidence that the UK needs a revised democracy

The illegal declaration of war on Iran by Netanyahu, quickly endorsed by a miffed Trump, who was not happy when his America First mantra was outgunned by Israel First. His characteristic dismissal of the United Nations and belief in the USA's right to exert its power have not just disrupted but exploded the world's peace efforts. His lack of diplomatic skills meant that the UK and Europe, supposedly NATO allies, were not informed until the day before the attack. Starmer, unsurprisingly, refused to join the attacks given the lack of legal justification and with the nagging experience of the Iraq war in mind.

The consequences of the action are not going well for Trump as the war has cascaded to all the Gulf States. Deaths are already in the thousands, retaliatory strikes have been made on American bases and oil refineries across the Gulf, oil and gas prices have rocketed, and the cost of living is on an upward trajectory. According to the latest Reuters/Ipsos poll, only 27% of Americans public agreee with Trump's war, and that seems to be diminishing every time Pete Hegseth, the appropriately named Secretary of War, updates with undisguised glee the damage and deaths inflicted on Iran.

Meanwhile, in the UK, the latest Survation poll shows that 69% of the electorate oppose the war or believe we should remain neutral. Only 6% agree with Kemi Badenoch's argument that we should have joined the war effort. No surprise there, she is ferociously binary on most issues, and belligerence is her core value in any debate. On the assumption that Farage is in Trump's pocket, it suggests that the so-called right-wing parties, by being in hock to Trump's American policies, are totally out of touch with the UK electorate. Trump is becoming one of the defining issues influencing voters; woe betide parties that have supported his fiction of facts and flip-flappery.

Set this against the most recent opinion polls in the UK. These suggest that Reform and the Conservatives would receive around 45%of the vote, with the vote for the centre-left parties: Labour, Greens, Lib Dems, and the Scottish and Welsh Independents split fairly evenly. With little likelihood of the Conservative and Labour parties obtaining a clear majority, it is surely time to introduce a proportional voting system for the House of Commons that accommodates the multi-party reality that is the new norm. Reform and the Greens, influenced by the Gorton and Denton by-election and the opinion polls, would prefer to risk continuing with the present first-past-the-post system. We need a democratic abacus that is fairer but also retains strong links between the MP and the constituency.

The UK Parliament is no longer fit for purpose. In a bicameral system, do we need 650 MPs? Reducing the Commons to 450 MPs would still leave it larger than the average representation in the parliaments of the six largest European Union countries, and 450 MPs would match the capacity of the benches in the chamber.  It would also allow them to focus on national policies and possibly reduce their interference in local affairs that are the responsibility of Councils. 

Similarly, how can we justify 850 members of the House of Lords? A second chamber focusing on scrutiny and revising legislation would work better with a combination of elected representatives from the regions, together with independently chosen individuals (tribunes) for their specialist knowledge, and a people's jury (boule), drawn to represent the wider public. In other words, providing a bicameral system where the revising/scrutiny function (Senate) is independent of the Commons and comprises a balance of elected representatives, a comprehensive range of expert opinion and a representative voice of the public. It would be more balanced, nuanced and about a third of the size of the House of Lords; again, this would match the capacity on the benches. This approach would take some of the elements from the earliest democracies in Athens and Rome, along with directly elected members. 

Rob Roy Way: Lochearnhead to Strathyre

Leaving Lochearnhead

Friday, 6 March 2026

Distance:    10 kilometres
Time:          2 hours 16 minutes

Aileen and I began walking the Rob Roy Way after we retired. The intention was to start at Pitlochry and walk north to south, the opposite way of the normal route. For reasons of bus timetables changing and, in my case, the perpetual pull of Munros, we never completed the sections.  I still have two of the 8 sections to complete: Aberfeldy to Acharn and Killin to Strathyre. I decided to walk half of the latter section today as part of bedding in my new hip. I figured that 10 kilometres would be challenging enough, my longest walk since last July. 

I caught the excellent C60 mini bus to Lochearnhead and met a woman who used to live in Brig a'Turk and was a friend of Ellie and Stanley, my in-laws. She had run a care home and was visiting her husband, who was in the community-run care home in Killin. She was angry that Callander's private care homes had both closed, but was full of praise for Killin, which had taken over a private care home. This was largely down to John MacPherson, a redoubtable community activist, who had been the chair of the Community Council and had badgered the Council to provide the support for a community buy-out. My colleague, Helen Munro, had responded to the request with characteristic vim and chivvied the Health Board into giving support as well. The home remains a lasting example of community engagement and the willingness of the Council and Health Board to be proactive in their support.

I got off the bus at the centre of Lochearnhead at Cameron Crescent, a group of 15 social rented houses that we had obtained funding for from the Scottish Office in 1999. The sun was shining, and my mood was euphoric as I headed south for a kilometre to reach the side road leading to the Rob Roy Way. Could I manage a 10-kilometre walk?. Until a few years ago, I would run this distance 3 or 4 times a week.

Arriving at the gate that gave access to the Way, the buds of Spring were bursting with colour.  I settled into a steady pace, rotating my head to observe the arc of snow-capped hills. After making a mistake in following a road to Edinchip, I quickly returned to the route and met a father and daughter enjoying a break on one of the benches located on the route. The man was in his sixties and had an infectious enthusiasm, having taken up photography after a hip operation and discovered the delights of walking the trails. 

I battered on through the native woodland on a twisting path towards the Balquidder junction, where the views to Loch Voil opened up. Stob Binnein was visible, its snow-white, flat-topped, distinctive profile reminding me of eight visits to one of the highest Munros in the South Highlands. The first time was in 1978, it was my first Munro after recovering from a broken leg and meeting Aileen. She dropped her two brothers and me at Crianlarich, and we walked over Ben More and Stob Binnein to Inverlochlarig. The most recent occasion was in August 2022; it was the last Munro I climbed before she passed away. Stob Binnein would now be a memorial to those 44 years.

There had been several cyclists on the route. Some on sturdy mountain bikes, quite a few on electric bikes and some on gravel bikes. A lone elderly female runner had passed with a smile that suggested she was oozing endorphins. I envied her; I had not run since last May, and even that was downhill.

Beyond the Balquidder road, I inadvertently continued on the cycle path rather than crossing the A85 on the Rob Roy Way, which took a route through the forestry plantations. It was an easy section passing alongside fields with horses and stables, others with sheep, but no lambs yet, and there were even some pigs. I arrived in Strathyre knowing that I had probably gone further than I should. I visited the local shop and post office that had been managed by a community activist who had been elected to serve on the Board of the National Park when I was the returning officer. The present owners of the shop had no knowledge of what had happened to him, despite his vigorous campaigning for many initiatives in the area. I eased my aching legs into the car, drove home and soaked in the bath. I have missed returning home at the end of long days on the hills to Aileen, a beer, bath and meal. The bonus today was being invited out for dinner by a neighbour. 

Entering the Rob Roy Way at Craggan

Its part of the National Cycle Route 7 as well

Replacement for the viaduct

Edinchip

Cycling nirvana

Stob Binnein, the white peak

Munro Hotel Strathyre, venue for drinks after Munro bashing

For Aileen

 

Rachel Reeves Spring Statement

 

Blue Labour at the despatch box

Today's YouGov poll, taken on 2 March 2026, puts Reform UK on 23%, the Greens on 21%, and Labour and Conservatives on 16%. Who would have thought it even 12 months ago, when the Tories were haemorrhaging votes to Reform UK and Labour were beginning to reap the anger following Rachel Reeves first budget. 

The spring statement had Chancellor Reeves facing Mel Stride, and they gave a performance reminiscent of Millwall versus Wimbledon in the 1990s. All pent-up anger and aggression with little finesse and no goals. Reeves was adamant that her plan for the economy was working. Strident said she had no plan. I switched off in despair. I had learnt nothing apart from the fact that 16% seemed a high bar for the Labour and Conservative parties. Their rampant tribalism, wound up by an ever bellicose Kemi Badenoch, is a major factor in their demise.

Mel Stride was a player in the economic decline foisted on the country during the Tory years, and his use of selected statistics to divert the blame to the Labour Government has all the authority of a toddler playing with an abacus. Reeves has no self-awareness that her tone and claims of righteousness are as much a turn-off as Trump's posts on Truth Social. Moreover, she continues to believe in controlling public finances, supporting big projects that will take decades to come to fruition and thinking she knows best. Her failure to trust localities and businesses to take responsibility for the parts of the economy they know best should prompt her early dismissal. 

There are some talented economists on the Labour benches with radical ideas to streamline taxation and devolve budgets. They would be far more adept at challenging treasury rules and setting a path for the future economy of the UK. If Starmer has any bottle after the Gorton debacle, he would bring on his bench.

Winter Olympics Milan,Cortina and Livigno

In the past, the Winter Olympics were for watching the skiing, with the elegance of Jean-Claude Killy or Bernard Russi, or the brutal determination of Franz Klammer. The bobsleigh was watching the Germans schuss their BMW-like bobsleigh with a precision that made the British ex-public schoolboys look like amateurs as they rattled down their faux Austin Allegro bobsleigh as it bounced off the walls. We had highlights such as Eddie the Eagle becoming the favourite plucky British loser, and a rare medal when Torville and Dean had chosen the best tune to dance to. Ice hockey was like watching a fight in the school playground, justifying the lyrics of Al Stewart's Russians and Americans. 

Times have changed; this year, it was the Canadians and Americans who went to war in the men's ice hockey. Trump invited the men's team to the White House, as they had won a gold medal for the third time in the 26 times it had been held. Meanwhile, he mused that he didn't want to invite the women's ice hockey team despite them retaining the gold medal and winning it for the third time in the 8 times it was held. The locker room celebrations were joined by the freeloading Director of the FBI, Kash Patel, who was seen spraying beer after the defeat of the Canadians, who had won the Ice Hockey Gold Medal 9 times, the same as Russia. It epitomised the American supposition that they are the greatest sporting nation. 

Despite having more winter resorts than any other country and a population of 350 million, that is 78% of that of the population of the EU countries (450 million). The USA won 12 gold medals and 33 medals in total compared to the 54 gold medals and 163 medals in total by the EU countries. That's 22% and 20%, barely of a a quarter of 78% of the EU total on a population basis.. Moreover, Norway, not in the EU and with a population of just 5 million, trounced the USA with 18 gold medals and 41 medals in total. It is time that Europe realised that, whilst America likes to boast of its greatness, Europe delivers through the diversity of its nations.

Leaving aside the competition between nations, the greatest joy was watching the new freestyle skiing and snowboarding events, where the obvious fraternity between outstanding athletes, or should that be gymnasts, from Japan, China, Korea, Europe, Canada, and America, epitomised the spirit of the Olympics. They gave us displays that defied our imagination as well as gravity.

Back to Lime Craig

Ben Lomond from Braeval

The first blue sky in February prompted me to make my first attempt on Lime Craig for nine months to test my new hip. I made it, although it took 45 minutes, about 15 minutes longer than it used to take on cold winter days. The shock was the devastation caused by recent felling operations; the planting had been carried out in the 1930s, so by now the steep slopes were smothered by giant spruce and pine trees. I suppose I have been lucky over the past 38 years to have enjoyed the protection of the trees on wet and windy days. I have made the best part of a thousand ascents during this time; the birdlife and red squirrels have made every excursion a treat. How they will fare in this coniferous holocaust is another matter.

The well-graded trails have been churned by tree harvester machines and lumber lorries, creating a veneer of undulating mud and timber debris across the logscape. On the ascent, I met a couple teaching their one-year-old daughter to walk; her smile was almost as wide as her parents' pride. On the descent, I met a lady dressed totally in pink with a nervous four-year-old greyhound. The lady was as desolate as I was about the felling, and her dog could no longer chase the squirrels, which were as elusive as electric hares.  I am now aching, but happy and celebrated with my first beer of the year.

Logscape

Pine Relief

Balquidder Munros

Ben Vane and Ben Ledi

 

River Ribble

Preston Docks

Another trip to Preston to visit my sister and a chance to explore old haunts alongside the River Ribble. I had spent most days when not at school going through the nearby Brockholes Woods to the river at Halfpenny Bridge to fish, swim or slide on the ice during the winter freeze-ups. When the M6 was being constructed in 1958, we used to see how fast we could freewheel down the steepish gradient of the unfinished carriageway to the new bridge over the Ribble. At secondary school, I had run cross-country races against the hundred or so boys in my year along what is now the Ribble Way on the weeks when rugby or football had been cancelled because of waterlogged pitches. As a teenager, I had cycled up the Ribble Valley to the Trough of Bowland to climb the hills or fish for trout in the Hodder, a tributary of the Ribble. 

The Ribble was the timeline of my childhood. What I had not revisited in decades were Preston's celebrated Miller and Avenham Parks, which provide glorious green space between the river and the city centre. I had also not visited the massive Preston Dock to the west of the then town centre, next to the British Aerospace factory. The Dock, which closed in 1981, was accessed by 16 miles of the Ribble estuary that was dredged daily but was unable to take the larger ships that became dominant. This was a chance to revisit sections of the Ribble and conjure up more memories.

We started our walk at Broadgate, next to Penwortham Holme, just across the river, where my primary school had entered me in the Lancashire Primary Schools Sprint Races. My Dad had taken the afternoon off work to watch. Despite the Elliman's Muscle Rub for horses and dogs that he had bought for me and insisted I rub into my legs. I did, but in my 3s 6d Woolworth's goloshes, I was no match for the boys in spikes. I made the final but only came fifth. 

Broadgate had benefited from some impressive flood-protection measures, with sturdy concrete walling topped by thick glass to prevent the Ribble from bursting its banks onto the low-lying houses of Broadgate. We entered the recently upgraded Miller Park under the main railway bridge. I had spent many hours here on Saturday afternoons and school holidays as a 10 and 11-year-old watching the magical procession of steam locomotives whilst playing football with other train-spotters on the asphalt footpaths below the magnificent offices of Lancashire County Council. Austerity has resulted in the offices being sold and then emptied by developers and subsequently vandalised. The developers planned to redevelop the offices into a hotel. The location adjacent to the railway station and splendid Miller and Avenham Parks, and proximity to Winckley Square, could not be better, but developers are notoriously fickle when it comes to delivering projects. I can envisage it being demolished to make way for luxury flats.

We walked along the banks of the river to the new Tramway Bridge, which provides a direct footpath/cycleway from Bamber Bridge and Walton-le-Dale to the City Centre. We wandered through Avenham Park, which the family had visited every Easter Monday for the pace egg racing down the slopes. In those days, before the commercialisation of Easter by the chocolate companies, easter eggs were boiled eggs that had been painted. Avenham Park is a natural amphitheatre below the city centre and, as well as being a popular park, also hosts outdoor concerts and the Preston Guild every 20 years. 

Preston's City Centre is built at the top of the scarp slope above the parks. It takes you into Winckley Square, a green space in the midst of Georgian buildings that host professional offices, numerous restaurants, the majority of Preston's blue plaques and an asylum centre. We reached Fishergate, the main shopping street that has been made pedestrian-friendly and traffic-calmed, allowing only one-way movement of buses and taxis. It worked well, and even on a dull Tuesday morning, there was a good footfall, interrupted only by the ubiquitous scourge of city centres, the Uber e-bikes that are ridden with little respect for pedestrians. We retreated to the 1950s for a coffee in Bruccianis, which has hardly changed since I was taken there as a toddler by my mother every Friday morning to meet my gran and be bought a hot milk and toasted teacake.

I had walked 4 kilometres by the time we returned to the car; my third-longest new hip walk. On the way back, we took a diversion to see the old Preston Dock, which had been the largest single dock basin in Europe before it closed in 1979. It was where cotton, bananas and wood had been imported. I had often visited it with my parents or with Uncle Jim, who was a lorry driver who would get access to the dockside, where I could watch the ships being unloaded. It was a busy port with twenty or so cargo ships docked in the basin, but the Ribble estuary could not take the larger ships, so it is now a massive marina, largely unused. My nephew has a flat in the residential development that overlooks the dock on the south side, whilst business units are on the north and east sides. Jaunt over, the next step was for only the second time in seven months to find an EV charger that was available and worked; range anxiety was real.

Avenham Park and River Ribble

New Tramway Bridge

Winckley Square

Fishergate

Brucciannis

Lancashire County Buildings in distress

 

Epstein's Entitled and Exploited Brits

Going

Going

Gone

Whilst we await the Epstein Files to unveil Trump's unredacted past, the latest batch has certainly nailed some worthy British scoundrels. Peter Mandelson, an ex-Lord, and Andrew, formerly known as Prince are both known knowns. In the past, I have had the misfortune to cross the paths of both of them, not directly but through their intermediaries. They both shared a sense of entitlement that semaphored their innate greed for wealth and ambitions for the highest office. 

Peter Mandelson had  been appointed the Director of Communications for the Labour Party in 1985. Along with a senior councillor, I had made a presentation of  Strathclyde's new Pre-Five policy at a large conference at the  School of Advanced Urban Studies (SAUS) at Bristol University. It had gone down well, and I was accosted afterwards by one of Mandelson's colleagues and asked if I could make the presentation to Mandelson in London. The next morning,  I caught a train to London on my return to Glasgow. Mandelson's stooge followed me onto the train, sat next to me and said that Mandelson would like me to go to see him. It would mean interrupting my journey back to Glasgow, but I had three young children, and I wanted to see them before bedtime. I suggested that if Mandelson wanted to come to Glasgow, we would be happy to brief him. It struck me at the time that Mandy was someone who took without giving, unlike Barry Manilow's Mandy, who gave without taking.

I watched his career oscillate, soaring and diving as he garnered friends in high places and exploited their friendship to satisfy and inflate his ego, wealth and influence. I cheered every time his reputation plummeted as he was caught breaking the rules and the bonds of friendship. His strong connection with the financial sector was evident when he championed the Private Finance Initiatives for schools, hospitals and the London Underground. His lack of concern for the underprivileged went under the radar; the $75,000 he received from Epstein in 2003, but has no recollection of, was two and a half times the UK average annual wage at the time. Mere loose change as his net worth climbed to £10m.

We now know from the Epstein Files that he attempted to safeguard his financial friends during the banking crisis. He managed to dupe Gordon Brown, but Alistair Darling was less willing to respond to Mandelson's lobbying and taxed the bankers' bonuses. After 2010, when he set up a corporate lobbying company and published his third man memoirs, he was criticised by the Labour Leadership contenders Ed Miliband, David Milliband and Andy Burnham. They got it right, unlike Starmer, who was easy prey for Mandelson, the whisperer to aspiring leaders.

Andrew Mountbatten Windsor was the wild child of the royal family and an unreliable business envoy who befriended a gaggle of unreliable contacts from rogue nations long before he was grounded by Emily Maitlis in his disastrous 2019 interview. His love of golf, uniforms and wealthy donors to maintain his lavish lifestyle, was exploited during his time as the trade and business envoy after leaving the Royal Navy in 2001. 

This involved making contact with UK companies. We were occasionally asked to arrange visits with local companies by his private secretary. Most companies were pleased to welcome Royal visits and would go to great trouble to make preparations that were costly in time and money for the visits. On at least two occasions, he pulled out of these visits, citing other engagements. When we discovered that one of these was to spend the day golfing at St Andrews, using the flights that had been booked for his visits, it told us all we needed to know about his commitment to his role as business envoy. Discussing this with other colleagues, including senior police officers involved in royal duties, confirmed that this was typical behaviour. He was widely regarded as the rotten apple of the royal family. and generated a deep resentment from most people who had any dealings with him. 

Add the incredibly pathetic emails from his former wife, Sarah Ferguson, who was begging for money from Epstein and together the former royals and the former politician have become the celebrity British victims of the Epstein Files. Meanwhile, Trump escapes scrutiny again, partly due to extensive redaction and partly by the hesitancy of the American fourth estate to challenge the peace-loving oligarch.

Labour isn't Working

Eighteen months ago, the UK dismissed the four failed Tory Governments led by 5 Prime Ministers that had overseen no growth, a massive decline in public services, austerity, a disastrous Brexit, and the worst response to Covid in Europe. The loss of world influence and respect, and spiralling immigration, simply added to the reasons to fumigate the lethal legacies of Johnson and Truss. The 2019 intake of Tory MPs had culminated in 24 being suspended or resigning amid corruption charges or failures to observe ministerial codes of practice. 

Keir Starmer was the beneficiary, gaining a massive 174 majority of MPs from only 33.7% of the vote. It was a tepid victory for a Prime Minister who was seen more as a steady hand than an inspiring leader. The subsequent collapse in support of the Labour Party to 20% has stemmed from poor financial management by the Chancellor, too many U-turns and a dictatorial centralising tendency by Number 10. Like many, I thought that Keir Starmer would provide some stability and begin to rebuild the UK's economy and public services. With his legal background, he would also bring justice to all those who had been let down by the previous governments, from the infected blood scandal, Hillborough disaster, the Post Office Horizon scandal and the Grenfell Tower fire, as well as restoring our relationship with Europe. 

He has made progress in foreign affairs, but has abandoned many Labour policies, reduced International Aid and made little progress on the cost of living and community care. Projects like the Heathrow expansion and the Oxford to Cambridge rail corridor suggest that there is still a London-centric bias in political decisions, whilst investment in rail modernisation in the north has been further delayed.

It's a Labour of Love to get any London government to support Manchester, even the train fares are designed to add friction to the relationship. There is only a curmudgeonly recognition by Starmer and his acolytes of Andy Burnham’s achievements in Greater Manchester.  Keir Starmer has plummeted down the popularity charts, aided by the rapacious right-wing press, social media and his own inability to inspire the electorate. His premiership is on a shoogly nail, and the prospect of the effervescent Andy Burnham returning to Parliament could not be entertained.

The vacancy created by Andrew Gwynn, the MP for Gorton and Denton, resigning, should have created the opportunity for the local constituency Labour Party to select who they thought would have the best chance of retaining a seat. It had a majority of 13,000, but is under serious threat from Nigel Farage and his plague of failed Tory MPs. Not so, the Labour Party showed once again that it is a centralising body. Its National Executive, including Keir Starmer, voted to prevent the Mayor of Greater Manchester from standing on the dubious grounds that it would cost too much to have an election for the Greater Manchester Mayor.  Since when has the cost of elections been a reason to ditch local democracy? Starmer's eyes narrowed as he tried to explain the reasons for the decision. He fooled no one; this was a blatant attack on a possible future rival.

The mendacity within the Labour Party had reached breaking point; London had stamped on Manchester's right to choose. Later in the day, there was some nemesis as Keir Starmer's beloved Arsenal were put to the sword by Manchester United. It was the first time I had cheered Manchester United since they won the European Cup in 1968. Starmer has rolled his last dice.

Walk Alone

 

Source of the River Forth

After 4 or 5 weeks of being housebound as I recovered from becoming bionic with a new hip, I have begun to take my legs for walks in familiar haunts. The occasional shopping trip started the comeback once I was able to ditch the crutches, and then I attended some exercise classes in the nearby community-run leisure centre. It was time for a walk on the wild side, so into the Trossachs forests, where I had run over 18.000 miles whilst wearing out my original hip. I did a couple of kilometres frolicking about on a dank winter's afternoon, taking photos of places I had run past on thousands of occasions. Walking alone seemed just right.

Loch Ard

Exit of Loch Ard

A couple of days later, I had met Gregor and Emily for a Sunday Lunch on an equally dull, drizzly day and decided to take a stroll around Flanders Moss on the way home. The chill wind and harsh, boggy, washed-out landscape had a bleak beauty. I ambled around with hands deep in the pockets of the insulated jacket and the hood up. This was reminiscent of hundreds of mountain walks, but with no gradient. That is what I am looking forward to next.

Flanders Moss Viewing Tower

Under the Boardwalk, having some fun

Carbon Capture

Flanders Moss below Thornhill

Trump's Dystopian Days - Series 2

Telling Journalists on Air Force One that he doesn't care about their safety

At this time of the year, the dark, damp days prompt a search for a TV series to binge-watch. You can relax in an armchair and sneak past Blue Monday. It started with The West Wing; in another year, the 62 episodes of Breaking Bad kept us going until February. We had Trump's first presidency - Series 1, the episodic ramblings of a real estate vendor, which culminated in the attack on the Capitol. We watched that episode live on a Saturday evening; it was compulsive viewing and far more violent and worrying than the pared-down Panorama version. 

In recent years, Ted Lasso. Slow Horses and This City is Ours have been the go-to series for January binge-watching. They are well-scripted and entertaining, but lack the random uncertainty and threat to global security that Trump's Dystopian Days - Series 2 provides. A pity that Hannah Waddingham, Gary Oldman or Sean Bean weren't in the cast of White House wannabes; they would have taken out Trump and his sycophantic numpties.

2026 has given us another series of The Traitors, but it is too contrived. It only partly captures the misguided vigour, braggardly behaviour and fleeting self-beliefs of President Trump's second coming. The series 2 episodes are released almost daily, aimed at creating as much chaos and conflict in the world as possible. Deflecting the media from issues he wants banished, like his relationship with Jeffrey Epstein, his failure to secure a peace deal for Ukraine, the genocides in Gaza, the cost of living crisis in America, the stagnant economy and the cuts in government programs. It has resulted in a growing disenchantment with his second term in office, with the most recent opinion polls finding that two-thirds of the electorate believe he has raised the cost of living and gone too far with weaponising the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agency in many cities.

On the world stage, his rogue interventions have caused chaos on tariffs, so-called peacekeeping initiatives and interference in foreign governments in the Middle East, South America, Europe and most recently in Greenland. Not that these interventions are either considered or likely to be sustained, they are here today, gone tomorrow threats or, at best, flimsy statements on Truth Social, his social media platform. Truth Social must be the most bigly oxymoron ever.  Empathy, like truth, was never one of Trump’s strong suits. As he said to the journalists on Air Force One on his return from his UK state visit in September, "Fly safely, you know why I say that? Because I'm on the flight, otherwise I wouldn't care." There was far more moral integrity in Breaking Bad than Dystopian Days - Series 2 has ever given us, and at least Skyler tried to keep Walter White respectable, something Melania knows is impossible with the Donald.

Hopefully, his second reign of dystopian democracy will fizzle out as the mid-term elections approach. His popularity is waning, his ever more crazed interventions are the musings of an adult mutant kleptomaniac. The problem for world leaders and institutions, American cities, the Federal Reserve, universities, journalists, and Wall Street is how to play Trump.  His popularity is waning, his health is wobbling, and his timescale for action will be finished after the mid-term elections. Is it better to ignore his threats or face him off? Either way, it is more than probable that his utterings may come to nothing. 

By next year, he may be gone, and there will be a multitude of TV and Streaming Platforms commissioning new series on the idiosyncrasies of President Trump. The real question will be how much damage he has done to world peace, international aid and institutions like the United Nations and NATO and whether his America First policy has finally ended the American Dream. He currently rates as the second worst President ever. His dreams of Mount Rushmore and a Nobel Peace Prize are also a figment of a warped imagination. The entry of the word 'Trumpism' in the Urban Dictionary should be worth waiting for. Five years ago, I called him a Cockwomble , it would be a good synonym for Trumpism.

The Nobel Peace Prize Medal gifted by Mario Coriba Machado

The Year that Got Away

I was looking forward to 2025. I had been fairly active in 2024. Gregor had got married, and I had watched him win a dozen races as he prepared to run the Tokyo and then the Berlin Marathons and also get selected to run for Scotland in an international event. I visited London on several occasions, and had a trip to Euro Disney and Paris with Eva and family. I had visited my brother and sister, and they had visited me on a couple of occasions. I had established regular lunch engagements with two sets of former work colleagues. I had written several papers and been involved in recorded video conversations for the Mercat Group and had been invited to give evidence at a Scottish Parliament Committee. 

I had kept up my regular morning exercise routine of climbing local hills and made good progress towards climbing a second round of Wainwright hills in the Lake District. I climbed more Munros and other hills in Scotland than at any time since 2018. Some of these were alone, some with trips with John and Keith, and I helped Anna climb some of the more remote Munros as she neared her completion. I even managed to keep the house and garden in reasonable shape, including building an entrance wall to the drive in local stone with a profile that was a facsimile of Laithach, my favourite Munro.

My plans for 2025 were evolving. I hoped to complete the Wainwrights, and having reached a 100 Munros on what I had promised would not be a sixth round of Munros, I began to think it might just be worth giving it a shot. John had 12 Munros to go to compleat his fourth round, and they included favourite areas Fisherfield and Glen Affric. Anna had 8 to go, including Glen Affric and Mullardoch, and Keith was charging on towards a sixth round and had suggested that we make a visit to Skye, where I still had 8 Munros to climb. Together with a couple of trips north - South Cluanie and the Fannaichs and finishing the more local Munros south of Fort William, I could get to 150 Munros by the end of 2025, the tipping point for what was not supposed to be another round.  I had also been hankering for a trip to Istanbul for several years and intended to buy a Gravel Bike to compensate for the fact that I was no longer running very regularly because of what turned out to be a failing hip.

I had a good January, when I was exercising most days, even when it was frozen during the first week. Things turned for the worse in February. I had what I thought was a cold at the start of the month and struggled when I went to the Lakes with Keith and John. We climbed 8 Wainwrights, but I was struggling to keep up; my breathing was difficult. The next week I spent in London, but could hardly raise the energy to go out and shivered in the cold, damp conditions, and all my muscles were aching. Returning home, I felt no better, and the GP thought I had a viral infection; he prescribed antibiotics for the first time since long before Covid. I had also started coughing blood in the morning, and he arranged blood tests for me to take with the nurse at the surgery. Unusually, because of how I was feeling, I had no plans for March, so immediately after my morning blood tests, I went to the travel agent and booked my long-promised trip to Istanbul. The timing was perfect, and I was there 3 days later in a spell of sunny weather before the crowds arrived.

It was a good trip, although it required walking 25,000 steps a day to take in all the mosques, ferries and settlements strung along the Bosphorus. I was following my standard approach on all holidays and trying to maximise activities on every day. On returning, I was referred to a respiratory consultant, who, after various scans and tests, concluded that I had inflammation of the lungs and prescribed steroids. If anything, my muscle problems were amplified, and my GP decided that I should ease off the steroids. I had to apologise to John for not being able to go to Glen Affric or Fisherfield during March and April during spells of remarkable weather. 

I decided to do some projects in the garden, like resetting the patio and chopping down some dead trees, but I seldom had the energy or the inclination to make much progress. I bought a robot lawnmower to reduce the need to spend 6 hours a week cutting the lawns, and got a local farmer to cut down th dead willow trees alongside the burn. I had slowed down and broken my lifelong obsession with being a doer, reluctant to bring in people to do jobs that I could tackle. I had virtually given up any attempt to walk/run up my local micro hills and even made my last attempt at Lime Craig. Shopping trips were my only source of exercise other than when the family came up in May, and I managed a cycle ride in Gravelfoyle. 

My respiratory consultant had become a friend after he discovered that I had run marathons and adventure races, and we had similar times for the marathon. He was keen to get me sorted and back on the hills. Alas, because a National Treatment Centre extension to Forth Valley Hospital, which would host an extra scanner and operating theatre for hips and knees, had fallen eighteen months behind. schedule, he had to send me to the Jubilee Hospital in Clydebank for my scans. This added another three months of waiting.  There had been an impasse between Forth Valley Hospital, NHS Scotland and the contractor over who pays for the additional costs resulting from a badly specified contract. In the meantime, patient flow at the hospital is as bad as ever, and as the year ends, I am still waiting for an appointment.

By June, my GP had concluded that my muscle problems were focused on a dodgy hip that meant I could no longer put on my left sock. I was sent for an X-ray, and it was found that the cartilage in my left hip was worn away. I was referred to the orthopaedics department; the consultant had no hesitation in putting me on the list for a new hip. I was given the impression that it would be 9 months or so, but I could go on the cancellation list, and that might save some time. Walking more than a mile was becoming difficult, probably made worse by climbing hills in the Lake District and Corfu in July, when my mantra had become 'mind over matter'when it came to exercise.

The deterioration was accelerating by August as I began to limp and cut out most activities. I was not going out, confined to the house apart from a visit to the theatre and a couple of lunchtime sessions with former colleagues. It gave me time to write a report on revitalising local democracy that got published by Enlighten, Scotland's think tank, and I was interviewed by Radio Scotland. By October, I was frustrated and phoned to get an estimate of my hip operation. I was 160th on the consultant's list, and it would probably be a year away. 

I spoke to my GP, who advised me to go private if I could afford it, as my muscle tone would further diminish over a year, and that could represent a significant proportion of my remaining active life. I asked if he could advise any names, and he gave me a couple whom he knew. I phoned King's Park Hospital the next day, got an appointment 3 days later, and was scheduled for an operation 6 weeks later. I could recuperate over Christmas and hopefully get going in the Spring. The consultant I had chosen had checked my records when I visited him, and he had discovered that I had an X-ray in 2019 for a lower back problem and that it showed my hip would have justified a replacement at that time had the X-ray been properly diagnosed.  It may explain why I have found running difficult in recent years.

Family and friends were pleased with my decision, although I felt I was cheating on the NHS, which I had barely used in my working life. Was I being selfish, and why did the Forth Valley Hospital seem incapable of operating efficiently or reducing waiting times? Aileen had suffered the same incompetence when she was admitted to hospital, and it took 5 weeks before she had a scan that revealed Type 4 cancer. 

In preparation for the operation, I converted a downstairs room into a recovery ward. You only spend 24 hours after the operation in the hospital before you are released. I asked John, my brother-in-law and retired GP and his wife, Bridget, if they would ferry me to the hospital and back and look after me for the first few days. The operation seemed to go well; the professionalism of the consultant surgeon and anaesthetist was exceptional, as was the care and attention to detail of the two Nepalese nurses. I was made to stand and put weight on my leg within 5 hours of the operation and had to walk a hundred metres on crutches and climb some steps the next morning before I was released. 

Arriving home, I was tired for the first few days; the painkillers helped, but sleeping on my back was a trial. I had several visitors, but my sleep-deprived brain fog did not let me enjoy their company. The swelling on my left buttock gave me an asymmetric bottom that made visiting the toilet a bit of a trial. Bridget stayed for 6 days, and then John stayed another week, when, to both our surprises, he discovered his latent culinary skills. Christmas brought my daughter and family for a week, and I was again dependent on others to prepare meals and do all the Christmassy things. I was off the crutches and walking up the stairs by the time they left, and taking a daily walk around the garden, even in the frosty conditions, although I was taking a walking pole to negotiate the path down to the burn. 

So  2025 is almost over, let it go.

24 hours after the operation