IN this summer of a zillion highlights, nothing can eclipse the few hours I spent wallowing in the mud and other noxious substances at T in the Park at Balado. The news that the residents of that sylvan part of the planet are threatening the festival's future therefore comes as a shock.

Shrinking marigolds claim that they were trapped in their homes, that their gardens were used as loos and that loutish drunks bearing wheelie bins full of nasty lager intimidated them. Now they insist that if the organisers, Big Day Events, don't get their act together they will campaign to have the festival's licence revoked.

As ever, I share their pain, as I do everyone's. Frankly, it's what I do best. I do feel, though, that the aggrieved residents may have something of a point. My chauffeur, arriving to convey me to the civilised south, was greeted mid-afternoon by a man standing naked as Adam atop his car. Grass verges, meanwhile, were turned into running sewers.

When the festival ended, my youth correspondent relates, the site was abandoned like a teenager leaving his room of a morning, ie as if it had been burgled. Moreover, neds who couldn't be bothered to pack up their tents, sleeping bags, etc simply set fire to them - which, had the wind been blowing in the wrong direction, could have caused a catastrophe. As it was, the worst thing that happened to anyone was Pete Doherty.

ALAS, I was unable to join the throng at the Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh where my dear chum, Alexei Salmonella, Czar of the Gnats, announced that there shall be a Scottish Broadcasting Commission, charged with looking at why broadcasting in Scotland is crap. To this end, Czar Alexei appointed Blair Jenkins, formerly heidbummer in charge of Jackie Bird, to chair said commission.

Quoth Alexei: "There may indeed be those who lack confidence in Scotland's talent and creativity, but you won't find them in this government. We want to see Scottish-produced drama being successful nationally and internationally. We want agenda-setting documentaries and current affairs. We'd enjoy more great comedy - we could all do with more of that." Apropos the latter, he is believed to be wooing Nicole Stephen, the Larry David of the LibDumbs.

Needless to report that Mr Salmonella's words forced into the open a few of the usual numbskulls. I refer, principally, to one David Cairns who I am told is a Labour EmPee. Hands up who'd ever heard of him? I see from his biog that he was formerly a Father Ted, giving up the priesthood in favour of politics because he realised there was a limit to what he could achieve with a whiff of incense. It is Mr Cairns' considered view that a "Scottish Six", ie a nightly news programme minted in Scotland, would be the broadcasting equivalent of the Greenock Telegraph, ie parochial.

Others, such as my old dear friend, Jack Irvine, ex-editor of the Scottish Sun, have suggested that it would be garbage because, well, basically, err, everything is up here in the Frozen North. One shares Mr Jack's concerns but dismisses them as those of a fearty. If we were never to do nowt because we didn't think we could compete with the best, we'd be better off deid. If my memory serves me right that wasn't how he edited the McSun.

The bigger issue, of course, concerns broadcasting in general and its devolvement or what. Our above-mentioned Labour EmPee is against this because he realises that once the Beeb is devolved what is there about Britain that is truly pan-British? This, though, may be a red herring. What with the internet, email and all - I won't bore you with the technicalities - why can't Alexei, Blair et al not start their own channel in cyberspace and be done with it?

TO Edinreekie and its peedie festival. Last week in this gently throbbing organ my dear comrade Iain MacWhirter described it as the biggest and best arts festival in the world. This year, computed Mr MacWhirter, there are 2050 separate productions. In comparison, Manchester's festival, which aspires to usurp Edinreekie's famed gathering, had 10. The Fringe alone, apparently, sells 1.5 million tickets per annum, yet receives a direct subsidy of just £50,000. This, observed my esteemed colleague, is less than it costs to run the Lord Provost's limo.

I do hope I am not misrepresenting Mr MacWhirter but I read into that an implied criticism of the kind arty folk have been making for aeons. But why? Should we not instead be celebrating the phenomenal success of an event which - on a mere £50,000 - manages to stage 2050 productions and sell 1.5 million tickets? What better value for money?

Enter stage left Jonathan Mills, Aussie director of the grown-up festival, who, in common with several of his predecessors, bubbled recently that the festival will have to shrink if more dosh is not forthcoming. And they say the Poms are whingers! Mr Mills said that when he raised these issues inside government the response had been "surreal". Taking his text from Yes, Meenister, he added: "Sir Humphrey Appleby's statement, I have been given every assistance short of help' comes to mind. I am an Aussie who likes a lot of action. One doesn't see a lot of it here."

Throwing his rattle out of the pram for good measure, Mr Mill said he may resign before his five-year contract is up. Any more childish tantrums like this and that may not be necessary.

I am pleased to note that James Kelman, indisputably our greatest living writer, is scheduled to appear this week at the Edinburgh International Book Festival.

In an interview in yesterday's Herald Mr Kelman spoke cheerfully about his current impoverished state. "I'm on the broo," he said. As the Herald commented: "One doubts that Gunter Grass or Harold Pinter or Seamus Heaney - writers of equivalent stature in their own countries - are in similar straits." Of course, one knows for certain that they are not. On the contrary, they live in something approaching luxury.

Mr Kelman on the other hand - as he told me when our paths last collided - has had to move because he could not pay the mortgage on his house in Maryhill. This is shameful and makes a mockery of a nation that's fooled itself into believing it nurtures literature when what it really does is praise to the skies a few perfectly decent writers who have had the good fortune to become bestsellers. What really irks Mr Kelman, I guess, is the belief of some of those that they could - if they were inclined - write like him. That's preposterous. Mr Kelman, however, if he so chose could probably write like them.

Not that he would ever want to. As he writes in an afterword to An Old Pub Near The Angel, his debut collection of stories which Polygon is publishing here for the first time: "Nothing against worldly private eyes, except how f****** boring they are. Imagine having to write such s****. It doesn't even warrant an exclamation mark."