The Press and Journal (Aberdeen and Aberdeenshire)
What’s in a name? Catherines are commanding my attention
Whether it’s family snaps, hospitals or Gaelic schools, they are everywhere
What is it with ladies called Catherine? They are very plucky dames.
This week, I have to mention three of these Catherines, because they have all hit me as being very enterprising or brave in their own way, one of them riskily so. Whether they are known as Catherine, Kate, Katie, Kay, or Katag, they are all different in what they do.
By the way, I won’t be mentioning Katie Price after this because she is a habitual criminal who doesn’t need any more publicity. She was fined again last week for driving her Range Rover without a licence or insurance. No excuse. One MP now even wants her jailed.
Meanwhile, the Photoshopping storm around my Catherine Number One, Princess Kate, shows no sign of abating. I see that there is another image circulating online, this time including the late Queen. According to reports, a royal Photoshopper altered it.
Let us remember that it is not confirmed to be the work of the princess. I won’t believe it until we get something from their press office. Oh, wait...
Another great photo, which was taken at the weekend, had not been Photoshopped at all. This was Kate Number Two, parading with a placard in Fort William.
Yes, it was wee Katag Forbes MSP, taking to the streets to protest about delays to Belford Hospital’s replacement happening, yet again. Who’s to blame?
Yep, the SNP government she is temporarily excluded from by grumpy Humza Yousaf because she stood against him for the leadership. Get over it, ’Za.
Protesting about ’Za’s failures will do canny Kate no harm. What a shining example she is to rank and file members of both houses, who should be supporting constituents by protesting about our dire ferries and our neglected transport infrastructure throughout the north of Scotland.
Come on, Angus Brendan MacNeil. You’re not even part of that lot now. You’ve got no excuse not to create a fuss about the fiasco. Taking up the cudgels would elevate your profile in an election year.
A couple of smaller ferries being launched in Türkiye, as we now should call it to avoid confusion with the festive bird, is not going to fix the outer isles’ problems.
My own problem is I’m always trying to expand my own vocabulary. As a writer, you are expected to know some long words. A new one entered my lexicon last week.
My friend Catherine Afrin, who is Catherine Number Three, was researching the history of her home village of Portnaguran-by-the-Sea. She discovered a Gaelic school was set up there way back in 1800-and-something.
A document was found that said Westminster was trying to “extirpate” the Gaelic language. For some reason, Catherine thought I would know what that meant. Wrong. To my shame.
I had the idea extirpate didn’t mean providing financial support. Google Assistant didn’t answer as I’d been to the dentist. My face and tongue were numb and what came out was not extirpate, but eggshtirpaith.
Siri, however, understood I’d suffered trauma to the gums, cheeks and face. It told me extirpating was about destruction, extermination, and generally snuffing out. Just as some Tories are now, allegedly, trying to exterminate, destroy and snuff out any further political ambitions from Rishi Sunak.
As some are doing to our distant cousin, Donald John Trump, whose mother Mary Ann was from Tong, near Stornoway.
Court cases are causing him some awkwardness. In one civil case, he’s been told to fork out at least $464 million within a few weeks.
Trump says he can’t afford $464m, even though he claimed a few years ago he was worth about $10 billion.
If he does not have enough available spondulicks, the court may start taking his assets, like hotels and golf courses.
If it becomes criminal, the cops could take something else. His mugshot.
That reminds me of another Donald John. This one is from Lochs on Lewis.
He told me over a pint at the beginning of the year that he was excited, as he’d met a bonnie lass from Texas online. Her dad owned oil wells in the deep south.
His intended was “gorgeous” and had sent him a photo of herself every day. He was in love.
“Good for you, DJ,” I said, and wished them the best. Then I met him a few weeks ago. He looked devastated. He told me that he and the Texan were over. His dream girl was not gorgeous.
Her photos were fake, he told me. Poor DJ. How on earth did he know they were fake?
DJ said: “The first photos were amazing. So beautiful. Then I saw what she was really like.” What? How? DJ said: “Her free trial of Photoshop expired.”
Wee Katag Forbes MSP taking to the streets in protest