Wings Over Scotland

While we all wait for the thing we all really want to happen this week, try to pretend that the disastrous and pitiful “indy march and rally” at the weekend never took place, and do our best to ignore the fact that thanks to the weakness of Nicola Sturgeon and Humza Yousaf our country’s government is infested with lunatic extremist child-abuse apologists, let’s see if we can’t take some time out from all the doom and gloom to offer something constructive.

Not you, Patrick. This is for grown-ups, you can sit it out on your wee high chair.

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Alert readers may recall that it’s only three-and-a-bit years since the SNP somehow spent £386,000 of its members’ money fitting out its party HQ at Jackson’s Entry in Edinburgh, a pricey piece of prime real estate just yards from Holyrood, with shiny new furniture while it was sitting empty during COVID.

So it’s a little surprising that they’re suddenly doing a flit now.

We wonder if there might be a downsizing in the offing.

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We never got a response to our last job application, but we’re not easily dispirited here at Wings, so we’re trying again.

So little is happening in Scottish politics at the moment that we need SOMETHING to do all day. And let’s face it, the bar to improve on the previous incumbent isn’t high.

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While we’re not talking about politics, here’s something else. I’ve just returned from Bath’s fine Royal United Hospital, where I’ve been getting a test done. (So as to avoid unnecessary dramatic tension, as far as anyone knows everything’s fine.)

A while ago I was having some intermittent but rather alarming trouble with swallowing – behave yourselves at the back, there – as well as a bit of general alimentary-canal oddness and mild discomfort, and went to see my doctor. She thought it was probably acid reflux and gave me omeprazole (which fixed the swallowing thing straight away), but just for safety also scheduled me for a barium scan at the hospital.

I’m a bit of a Nervous Nelly when it comes to any sort of medical procedure – this was my first time in a hospital on my own account – and went Googling to see what to expect. I found about 14 different leaflets from various NHS trusts, no two of which said the same thing, which wasn’t exactly reassuring.

What I wanted was a first-hand account or two from actual people who’d had it done, and rather to my surprise I couldn’t find any anywhere on the internet. So since I have a moderately widely-read website, I’m going to write one here for the benefit of not only Wings readers, but anyone else who might find themselves searching for one.

Stand by for some HOT REPORTING. (The above is a genuine RUH sign.)

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There’s still nothing happening in Scottish politics, so inspired by the Hieland Coo from yesterday’s godawful Economist front-page story, and for those of you who don’t use Twitter, and by reader request, meet some of my new friends from the last couple of weeks of strolling around Bath, guarding against ursine incursion.

Because VIGILANCE MUST BE MAINTAINED AT ALL TIMES.

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Should disabled children be used as props to make men with sexual fetishes feel better? It doesn’t seem like a difficult question, does it?

“At no point, while I was coming to terms with how my [severely disabled] daughter’s future was set to unfold, did I expect to find myself in a position where I would be forced to remind my elected representatives about something as basic as my vulnerable daughter’s need for same-sex care.

Anxieties about her having to endure acts of negligence, or maybe even cruelty, at the hands of an unprofessional person, once I am gone, have haunted some of my sleepless nights. However, I have been consoled with the knowledge that regulations and safeguarding policies would be in place to offer her protection from bad actors.

But what happens when somewhere along the line the differences between the sexes become artificially blurred, and the safeguarding that was in place can no longer be relied upon because of proposed reforms to current law?”

The above quote is part of the heartfelt plea of a mother of a disabled daughter. We know that women and girls are vulnerable to male sexual violence, we know that men commit 98% of sex offences and we know that disabled children are three to four times more likely to experience abuse.

We just don’t seem to care.

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I made the mistake of reading this on the BBC website today.

And I don’t think I’ve ever hated humanity more than I do right now.

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This is the last piece of data from our recent Panelbase poll.

Click image to enlarge. Full data tables here.

We accidentally de-retired for a week last week because the outrage of Craig Murray’s imprisonment couldn’t be allowed to go unremarked. But we’re shutting back down again now, so here’s a fun challenge to occupy yourselves with in what’s left of what’s passed for the summer.

Because the feat described in that picture isn’t an easy one.

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Bath, readers – which some of you may be aware isn’t even in Scotland – is a pretty darn pleasant place to while away your days, all things considered. Packed from head to foot with gorgeous Georgian architecture the colour of set honey and nestling amid a clutch of lush green hills, it’s like a miniature version of Edinburgh in sandstone.

It’s big enough to be lively and have plenty of culture, with theatres and museums and venues and galleries and cinemas both multiplex and arthouse. Countless movies and TV shows have been shot here, from contemporary episodes of Roald Dahl’s Tales Of The Unexpected to a whole string of period costume dramas, and the “Little Theatre” cinema seen in Wes Anderson’s “Fantastic Mr Fox” is based on our real one.

It’s also very handily placed. Situated on or close to two main railway lines, you can hop on a train and ten minutes later be in Bristol, an ugly and unlikeable but still vibrant and eventful city. 30 minutes takes you to the classic English seaside resort of Weston-super-Mare, or the unfairly-maligned Swindon. Stretch it to an hour and you can be in a whole other country, in Barry Island or the impressive Welsh capital of Cardiff. 90 minutes gets you to London, and a couple of hours will see you in any of a bunch of places on the south coast (my personal favourite is Weymouth), all direct. You can even get straight to Edinburgh or Glasgow with only a single change of train at Bristol.

Having a car unlocks lots of other magical and fascinating places that are well within daytrip distance, like the ghost villages of Tyneham and Imber, the striking Cheddar Gorge, Longleat safari park and the world’s greatest museum ever, the batshit-mad Oakham Treasures, as well as Lacock, a quaint 13th-century townlet entirely owned by the National Trust, which gets invaded by Nazis every year.

(If you love a stately or historic home, you can join the Trust and visit somewhere new within 40 minutes’ drive just about every week for a year. Then you run out.)

In short, Bath is fab. But there’s a downside.

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I still don’t like JK Rowling, for reasons I set out earlier this week. I certainly never in a million years imagined I’d ever find myself in a position where I respected her 50 times more than I do Nicola Sturgeon.

And yet, here we are.

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