Soft rock balladeer Lionel Ritchie once had a song that went "I don't know much, but I know I love you, and that's all I need to know."
Leaving aside the dubious musical qualities of Lionel for a moment, I'd like to paraphrase the lyric: "I don't know much, but I know what gets right up my schneb. And that's all I need to know."
Take the Bauchle of Bathgate herself, wee Susan Boyle. Yes, that’s right, take her away, as far as possible from me. I know she has her fans and is worth 12 million quid or thereabouts, but that doesn't alter the fact that, as far as I'm concerned, Susan is pure mince.
I don't expect you all to agree. And that's the whole point. It's a matter of personal taste. If you like Susan's singing, you probably like Andrew Lloyd Webber's work too, which proves my point.
It's a matter of personal taste. And you don't have any.
But it's not just music. There are loads of other things I can't be doing with. This week in Oz, it seemed like the entire country was glued to their telly screens, watching the national swimming championships.
That's right, swimming. On the telly. Every night. I hate swimming. As a sport, I mean. I just can't see the point. When the competitors line up, prior to taking the plunge, it's hard enough to tell them apart, they're all young, hairless, muscular and rubber-capped.
But as soon as they hit the water, it's totally impossible to tell who's who – all you see is a glimpse of white hat, a few arms and legs flailing around and lots and lots of splashing. They don't even go very fast. Walking pace, at best.
Excitement? I'd sooner watch paint dry. But try telling the Aussies. They love it. A matter of personal taste. I seem to be in a minority of one, but I still think I'm right. Because for me, I am.
Someone berated me recently for highlighting crap Scottish entertainers whilst ignoring the fact that England, for example, has many more. Well, let me redress the balance.
So-called celebrities I wouldn't give you tuppence for include, in no particular order: Arthur Askey and Bernard Manning ( I know they're both dead but mortality doesn't seem to stop them from continuing to irritate me).
Jeremy Clarkson, Jeremy Kyle and in fact almost anyone called Jeremy. Simon Cowell, Piers Morgan, Russell Grant, Chris Moyles, Prince Edward and Camilla Parker Bowles. Victoria Beckham, Tony Blair, Anne Robinson, Frank Skinner, Ben Elton, Lenny Henry, Liam Gallagher and Elton John.
Jamie Oliver, Richard and Judy, Eamonn Holmes, John McCririck, Ainsley Harriot, Graham Norton, Jonathan Ross, Stephen Fry and David Baddiel.
(I could easily have included Gordon Ramsey, Frankie Boyle, Carol Smillie, Lulu and, of course, Lorraine Kelly as well, but I don't want to be accused of picking on the Scots. Oh all right, let's lump them in too.)
Now, I'd have to concede that all of the above – and many more I could name – effortlessly name - are almost certainly more successful and have tons more money than me.
In fact, you reading this blog right now almost certainly have a lot more money than me, unless you're a jaikie or a seller of the Big Issue. Or an employee of Glasgow Rangers Football Club.
So what? To paraphrase again, this time, Tina Turner – "What’s dough got to do with it?" (Incidentally, I think Tina is rank rotten too.)
Money, fame, success, so-called accomplishment, you can keep them, mate. Give me happiness, relative freedom and contentment any day of the week.
Waking up in the morning to the birds singing, riding my mountain bike down a hill, wind in the hair (well, if I had any), bugs in the teeth.
Cantering a horse up a hill, having a chinwag with some drouthy neighbours in a friendly hostelry, a laugh with my nearest and dearest, reading a good book, getting some walking in, living, breathing, being alive.
At the risk of sounding a teeny bit arrogant and self satisfied, I wouldn't change my life or my future for anyone else's. I truly wouldn't.
And I definitely wouldn't want to be Jeremy Clarkson, Susan Boyle or anyone else on the list. I mean, come on, who would?
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