I was watching My Life In Books last night with guests Russell Grant and Tim Rice. During the show Russell felt he needed to remind the audience that he was gay. “It might just have crossed your minds” he joked. Not at all, Russell. Perish the very thought . . . . and grass isn't green; shit isn't brown; bears don't shit in the woods; bankers are ragged-trousered paupers and never pay themselves exorbitant, unjustified bonuses; holocaust – what holocaust; it never rains in Scotland; and Scotland will win the World Cup.
Can I hear a pedantic peasant asking which World Cup. Take your pick: football, rugby, cricket. OK some scraggy team of Morags may have picked up the odd silver pot for chucking stones over a frozen loch, and a hairy Hamish might be a world beater at heaving haggises over a hedge. But the day Scotland wins the football World Cup is the day I will eat my head.
No, Russell, Britain and its dog knew you were gay when gay meant happy and you delightful fellows of homosexual persuasion were known by more unambiguous and colourful terms, all of which are far too un-PC for me to utter. You don't have to open your mouth dear, you don't even have to flounce into a chair; the side you are batting for is plainly evident as soon as you look into the camera.
By the by, Russell and Tim were having such a whale of a time slapping one another on the shoulder and having a good old boyish chinwag between themselves that poor Ann, bless her, could hardly get a word in edgeways. She ended the show by saying how delightful they both were. Code, I suspect, for “ a pair of limelight-hogging ba . . . . . bad boys”.
