Anent � don�t groan! � my long campaign to have The Skating Minister, the nation�s favourite painting, unequivocally attributed to Sir Henry Raeburn, I have stirring news.
HAPPY 60th birthday, Boney Prince Charlie! Alas, I was unable to attend the miserable git's birthday bash at which his son, Prince William, told a side-splitting joke about the need to soon install a stairlift at Highgrove. Perhaps he should follow his uncle, Prince Edward, into showbiz. To commemorate the great occasion, the BBC offered a 90-minute documentary on Prince Boney's life and work. Remarkably, no mention was made of Princess Diana. Forget Bwussell Sprouts and Mogadon Dwoss, such editorial "oversights" are the real tragedy of that once-great institution.
The defining end of a slippery issue Anent - don't groan! - my long campaign to have The Skating Minister, the nation's favourite painting, unequivocally attributed to Sir Henry Raeburn, I have stirring news.
Loyal readers may recall that a couple of years ago my great friend Stephen Lloyd of the National Portrait Gallery, above, averred that Sir Henry did not paint the Rev Robert Walker gliding across Duddingston Loch and suggested instead that it was done by Henri-Pierre Danloux, a Frog.
Normally, such a ridiculous notion would have been laughed out of court. Not, alas, by our wee sister paper, The Herald, which gave big licks to Mr Lloyd's idea. This was picked up by the world's press, with the result that many twits came to believe Monsieur Danloux and not Sir Henry was the painting's rightful creator.
I could not let this injustice stand and set out to remedy it. Alas, my success was limited. Formerly reliable reference books, such as Chambers Biographical Dictionary, now query whether Sir Henry painted his chum and champion the cause of the Frog, for which there is no evidence, except circumstantial, to suggest he even knew the reverend, let alone painted him. Even the National Galleries of Scotland says on its caption beneath The Skating Minister that there are doubts over Sir Henry's authorship.
Now, however, I see light at the end of a long and murky tunnel. In the latest issue of RA, the magazine of the Royal Academy of the Arts, my dear chum, John Leighton, NGS top dog, says the one picture visitors to the gallery must not fail to see is "Rev Robert Walker Skating on Duddingston Loch, c1795, by Sir Henry Raeburn."
Thus the man who rules the NGS has no doubts as to who painted The Skating Minister. Nor ought anyone; it was Sir Henry Raeburn. So can that ruddy caption please be changed and I can get on with my life?
Bank party isn't over, just downsized
TO the Politician of the Year bash at Prestonfield House in Auld Reekie, the highlight of the PR year. Or not, in my case. Rancid wildebeest would not drive me to this shameful shindig which, of late, has only been worth holding because there was a chance, at least when Lord Watson of Tannadice was present, of the assembled hacks and politicians going up in smoke. How a nation would have cheered!
You might wonder what was worth celebrating. I'm afraid I cannot enlighten you. My chic pal, Nicola Sturgeon, was named Politician of the Year, because the judges were too embarrassed to give it to her boss, Alexei Salmonella. Another dear friend, Alastair Dahling, was named Best Scot at Westminster (sponsored by Bank of Scotland!) "for his quiet handling of unprecedented international financial and banking crisis". Do try not to laugh. The only justifiable award was given to my natty chum, Chris Harvie EmSpee, who was dubbed Free Spirit of the Year, because he wants to de-gum our high streets and rid them of chavs and charity shops. Whaur's yer Barack Bananaramas noo?
But, alas, we are in the season of prize-giving, when tumshies are plucked from obscurity and given gongs. There is, however, some hope that in a time of financial mince, sanity will prevail and sense will be seen. May I therefore congratulate the Royal Bwank of Scotland which, as it contemplates "letting go" 3000 staff and awaits £20 billion from you and me, has cancelled "a glitzy awards ceremony"
( Daily Mail).
Originally to have been held at Gleneagles, it was moved to its Gogarburn HQ and the dress code changed from suspenders (for men) and Wonderbras to lounge suits and cocktail dresses. A weaselly RBS spokesman claimed: "We are, as you would imagine, reassessing some planned events."
Nothing, then, to do with the fact the bwank was about to be exposed yet again for fleecing its long-suffering customers.
Playing away from home is only a game
SYMPATHETIC to a fault, I can understand why chubby couples would want virtual alternatives: it's so much easier than eating and drinking less and signing up for Pilates.
Two chubbies, David Pollard (40, 6ft and 25st) and Amy Taylor (28, 5ft 4in and 16st) married after "meeting" in an internet chatroom. Once wed they started playing a computer game called Second Life, in which they invented new identities for themselves. Mr Pollard became "Dave Barmy" (20-something, 6ft 4in, 13st, gold chain) and his wife became "Laura Syke" (20-something, 6ft, 8st, denim shirt). So far, so sad.
Things, however, took a distinct turn for the worse when Ms Taylor found Mr Pollard at the computer, on the screen of which Dave Barmy was having his evil way with a prostitute she'd never seen before.
Understandably, Ms Taylor was not amused. If Mr Barmy - not a real person, remember - was going to have it off with anyone it had to be Laura Syke. "I looked at the computer screen and could see his character having sex with a female character," said Ms Taylor (no relation), who sounds like a reasonable person. "It's cheating as far as I'm concerned."
Mr Pollard protested he'd only done it because he'd not been getting enough attention. All, then, seemed hunky-dory. But in April Ms Taylor caught Dave Barmy cuddling another woman on a sofa, albeit one on the internet. "Eneuch!" she cried. A day later she consulted her solicitor and shortly thereafter the couple were divorced. Ms Taylor is now ensconced with another chap she met on the internet. Mr Pollard only commented through his spokesman, Dave Barmy, who said: "I meaning, surely, Mr Pollard don't think I was really doing anything wrong."
I can't recall this sort of thing happening when we played Cluedo and Monopoly.
Conspiracy theory knows no bounds
JIM DEVINE, simply the best EmPee for Livingston, is a Rangers fan, a nasty condition with terrible side-effects for which there is still no known cure.
As such, Mr Devine, below, has of late been the recipient of a barrage of emails from a man - let's call him Stirling John - who believes we are in the grip of a Freemason conspiracy, which blights many facets of British life, from the Trooping of the Colour to the awarding of dubious penalties for Gers. Sounds plausible to me.
Noting his stalker was not a constituent, Mr Devine replied, telling him that enough was enough and attempting to palm him off on his local EmPee. Back pinged a reply from Mr John's wife, outraged on her spouse's behalf and drawing the perfectly obvious conclusion that Mr Devine is clearly part of the aforementioned conspiracy. Nuts is the word you're looking for.
My Sermon on the Mound
MY near neighbour Sir Plooter Berk obviously thinks he is a white knight, galloping with that other superannuated knight, Sir George Mathewson, to the rescue of the beleaguered bank HBOS.
Sir Plooter, who recently whined that he had lost more than a million quid in the banking crisis - get out your fiddles! - was of course the man who, when running the Bank of Scotland, allowed it to "merge" (ie, be taken over) by the Halifax Building Society, which was akin to the Bank of England being submerged by the Musselburgh Building Society.
At the time some of us thought this a bad idea and told Sir Plooter so. Not only was Scotland losing a bank with a stainless reputation that had been independent since 1695, it was merging with a building society from a place where the inhabitants drop their aitches and play rugby league. No, no and thrice no I cried in Sir Plooter's chambers on the Mound. Whereupon he looked at me as if I were a tube. I shall remind him of this the next time I bump into him at the cashpoint.
What's the word Down Under?
RELUCTANTLY I return to the vexed subject of Embra and its status as a World City of Literature, whose latest wheeze - underwritten by us - is to give away yet another free book. This time it's Conan Doyle's The Lost World, copies of which may be found mouldering on the shelves of public libraries across the land.
Meanwhile, my mole in Melbourne, which wants for some reason to emulate Embra, tells me representatives from the World City of Literature and other publicly funded, meretricious organisations have been there recently spreading the good word. Which is what? I would love to know.
