TV highlight of the year
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A HEBRIDEAN churchman trying to put the former manager of the Sex Pistols on the straight and narrow was, for me, one of the TV highlights of the year.
On The Baron, the TV show that the good people of Gardenstown are trying hard to forget, was cool-as-a-refrigerated-cucumber the Reverend Donald Martin from the west and windy side of Lewis trying to prick the conscience of renowned rent-a-gob Malcolm McLaren.
The producers’ format was simple. Take three personalities; one well-known TV celeb, another who is controversial and potty-mouthed, and a little-known songstress. Mix them up with the church-going villagers. Stand back. It was all for a local title, the Baron of Troup, for the celeb who got the most villagers’ votes.
The late Mike Reid, sometime gravel-voiced Frank Butcher in EastEnders, was well-known. And polite.
Well-mannered Suzanne Shaw was in international music sensations Hear’Say (OK, so I exaggerate), sadly now defunct.
And Malcolm McLaren was the best-known malcontent until a Wimbledon umpire thought American loudmouth John McEnroe’s balls were out of play.
I phoned Reverend Donald, as McLaren called him. I wanted the inside track on how he actually got on with McLaren, who managed a notable punk combo in the 1970s. They were pretty unforgettable. The Sex Pistols were also pretty unmusical.
Martin, a Church of Scotland preacher, is committed and courteous, so unlike the parcel of raucous rogues who nowadays inhabit Shader, Barvas. But he had better things to do than bandy words with a hack, even a Lewis one, sniffing about for a scoop. He hadn’t even seen last week’s programme.
So was McLaren really outrageous all the time? I said. The rev seemed to indicate not. What? Are you really suggesting that the time-warped prancer only turned into a chump when the cameras were on? Goodbye Bernera man, said the man of the cloth. It was Saturday, after all, so there would have been sermons to draft, rewrite, tear up then start again. I understood. I do that with this column every Tuesday.
Other Gardenstownies were more forthcoming. “I was black affronted,” said one woman, darkly. Outrage was too mild a word, claimed another woman. You cannot describe their fury about McLaren without resorting to Anglo Saxon terms. “That’s another thing.
There are far too many swear words in the TV programme,” said another.
Despite his incessant mouthiness, his unerring oddness, and his supposed fondness for chaos, anarchy and unconventionality, McLaren was briefly in the running to be mayor of London in 1999.
He promised a free bike to every household in the capital. He could have blocked the rise of buffoon Boris. Too high a price, maybe. Whether you hail from Gardenstown or Shader, You can catch the last part of The Baron tomorrow night. I promised not to reveal who won. But it may not have been McLaren.
I had a chat with Andy Strangeway the other day. He’s the Yorkshireman who slept on 162 islands around Scotland in four years. Next week he is going for the biggie. On Lewis, mariner Angus Smith’s 67ft sleek racing yacht, the Elinca, Andy is taking an expedition to Rockall.
He is determined not only to clamber up the sheer rockface but may even kip down on a small ledge for a while. Although not more than 108 acres, like his other conquests, Rockall is the ultimate heart thumper. The swell is sudden, mighty and lethal. More people were on the moon than are recorded to have set foot on it. No pressure then, Andrew.
For the next reality TV show, Angus could take McLaren to Rockall. Shove him on the ledge, give him a wind-powered satellite TV camera, a fishing rod and, to keep him going until he catches something, a sausage. And then abandon him. Bet they would prefer to watch that in Gardenstown.
But no, I don’t believe that the Scottish industry is on the skids or that our drams should be reduced to merely an accompaniment to small portions of raw fish.
At least not until I get to judge the Yoichi 10 and 20-year-old malts for myself. (Tokyo newspapers please copy).
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