Coughing a ticklish subject since Logan dram disaster
POOR Theresa May. She keeps battling on, but she’ll probably go down in history as one of the unluckiest Prime Ministers.
I blame Banchory. Ever since she staged that ill-fated canvassing session up-by at the beginning of the General Election campaign, nothing’s gone right for her. Terza’s advisers must have thocht they were on to a sure thing when they wheeched her into the affluent Deeside toon, surrounded by TV cameras and snappers. Sadly, what looked like a prime photoopportunity to kick off her crusade – shaking hands with True-Blue supporters – ended in near farce when the PM kept on knockin’ at empty hoosies – apart from the gadgie in his gairden who actually waved her offski. After that, The Curse of Banchory seemed to haunt her. Flaky interviews. Ducking TV debates. And finally the debacle at the Tory conference last week, when what should have been a barn-storming speech became utter humiliation thanks to a prankster, an ‘f’ offing and that cough.
But oh, how my hairtie went oot to the peer quine with that hoast. There but for fortune went Mo. Been there. Done that. Black-affronted masellie so many times ower the years. I’m a martyr to the tickly cough. Fellow sufferers will agree there are few naisty sudden afflictions more embarrassing or impossible to control. Like Terza, mine always strikes a pucklie days after a raging cold. Just when yer schnozzle has de-stuffed and passed the stage of streamin’ greeners, comes The Fatal Tickle. Not a chesty barff. Merely an ickly irritation in the thrapple. But its consequences are little short of disastrous. With mine, once they start, they’re on a tsunami of a roll, occasional coughs gaithering momentum until they merge into one, eye-watering, gasping, cowking spasm. Aaaaach joy to behold!
Of course, as Terza discovered, the Terror of the Tickle strikes at the very worst times. Have you ever been annoyed by an incessant cougher at the theatre or cinema? That would have been me. Eventually suffering the humiliation of having to barge across the row of seats to the exit – there to indulge in the ecstasy of full throttle. Anywhere there’s supposed to be silence, it strikes. At the Crem, I aye try to sit near the door. Funerals are nightmares for the tickly-throated. To most public occasions I go armed with water bottles and Strepsils. I once crunched so many Extra Strong ones at a play in the Arts Centre, my quine was afeart I’d go into a coma. Well at least I’d be quiet!
Work was always worst. I’ve had to flee from covering court cases because jurors were more intent on my dynamics than the evidence. I’ve had to slam down the phone mid important interviews, much to my boss’ delight. I’ve had to excuse myself from news conferences. And once, actually chairing a vital meeting, I had the good fortune to enjoy a coughing fit simultaneous with a hot flush. Speak about charismatic leadership. Beat that, Theresa. And the day in the Dress Circle Bar at HMT many moons ago, interviewing the late (but not at that time) great Jimmy Logan. He said something that fair tickled me, but especially my post-cold throat. I lost it. Paroxysms of coughing, tears on my shorthand. Quick as a flash, he ordered a whisky and assured me it would do the trick. A whisky-hater, I was nevertheless open to a cure. Downed it but, minutes later, had to zoom oot to honk oot the whole lot in the lavvie. Meanwhile, Theresa, beware The Curse of Banchory!
Merge into one gasping, cowking spasm
dram simple solution: Jimmy Logan offered me a whisky to calm my paroxysms of coughing. `