Rab McNeil

THIS column eschews controversy, unless it involves cyclists and baldies and, even then, it’s a bit tongue in cheek and motivated by the feeling that, after years of being right on politically, I needed to have a prejudice against something. I’m only human.

Accordingly, I am not going to get involved in arguments about the colour scheme for Boris Johnson’s jet. Legally, as things stand, he is the Prime Minister of All Britain, and so it is hardly surprising that he has chosen red, white and I forget the other one for the moment.

However, I am going to take the opportunity to belly-ache about the ludicrously inflated public cost. Regular readers (how are you both?) will know that this is a hobby horse of mine, drawing attention fearlessly, as I do, to the ridiculous round figures plucked from the ether that always, always end in a plethora of zeros.

Most recently this has involved, in particular, police estimates of patrolling demonstrations, which come out at the annual GDP of a medium-sized country with a healthy banana crop. They’re just mental, a complete scam.

And so, speaking of which, we come to the cost of painting Boris’s VIP plane: £900,000. Nine. Hundred. Thousand. Pounds. How is this remotely possible?

Let’s do the maths. Say it takes, at what I think is a generous estimate, 100 tins of paint at £30 a tin (surely an overestimate, as that’s what you and I would pay at B&Q, and we must assume the Government gets stuff like this at trade prices; but let’s assume it’s special paint for airy-planes). That’s £3,000.

You think that estimate too miserly? All right. Let’s double it all. Two hundred tins of paint at £60 a tin. That’s £12,000.

How long would it take a team of, say, three painters to paint a plane? A week? Let’s say that, as tradesmen, they’re on big fees; say £50 an hour. Multiply that by a 40-hour week for each tradesman. That’s £6,000. Too low again for you, given that it’s public money and, therefore, should be x times more expensive than the norm?

OK, let’s double it all again. Six tradesmen on £100 an hour taking two weeks. That’s £48,000. To paint a plane. We’re already in the realms of fantasy here, but let’s run with it. Total costs of materials and labour: £54,000.

Not ridiculous enough for you? OK, let’s add £10,000 for “sundries” (tradesmen’s fags, beer, cakes etc). That’s £64,000, and that’s as high as I’m willing to go. So, how do they get £900,000?

I never trust anything I read in the papers, so it could it be possible that the shock-horror figures don’t include other aspects of the makeover.

At the time of composing this article or lecture, none has been adduced (and, the way things are going, it’s possible the PM may by now have done a U-turn on the project) but, for the sake of argument, let’s say other features might include installing a new bar, some fancy cushions, complimentary peanuts, a big telly, and a subscription to Sky Sports.

It’s still nowhere near 900 grand. Even if it was half of that, where does the other £450,000 come from?

Public accountancy is a national fraud, probably in every country in the world, including Scotia the Fettered. In advocating that something should be done by somebody, I hope that I am not being controversial, and that even baldies and cyclists might join in a united campaign to right these fiscal infelicities.

Hair brained

THE sinister-sounding National Hair and Beauty Federation has advised crimpers and barbers against speaking when mangling the heids of customers.

This has been interpreted as a ban on gossip, but I don’t remember hairdressers indulging in such immorality. It was all holidays, weather, maybe diet and sometimes, shamefully, politics.

I speak from memory. I haven’t been to the barber for seven or eight years. I trim my own onion and have received no complaints, just some titters and, regrettably, guffaws.

The only time I went to a “salon” they all laughed when I stuck my heid in the sink the wrong way.

They also whipped my luxurious barnet into a kind of rococo wedding cake arrangement, layer upon layer.

I had to go to a normal barber straight afterwards to try to get it sorted. “Please rectify my onion!” I pleaded, pointing to my ornate bonce. They sat me down. We talked of football and manly things. I felt a fraud.

I’ve just been on yon internet and, consequently, am none the wiser about when hairdressers can resume tonsorial torturing. It’s all so confusing nowadays.

In the old days, they used to say: “Something for the weekend, sir?” By which they meant condoms. I’ve still got stacks of the things in a cupboard somewhere.