COLIN HOGG

COLIN FINDS EVERYONE’S A CRITIC, ESPECIALLY HIS MOTHER

You’re always a mother, my own mum is fond of saying to me. She has quite a few things she’s fond of saying to me. And it’s true – she is still my mother, even after all the trials and tribulations I’ve put her through. But we won’t talk about those now.

Because now she’s the one causing me the trials and tribulations, mainly because of the strength of her opinions on certain things. When I was younger and she was younger too, I don’t recall her having such strong opinions about things.

She much preferred to be agreeable, it seemed.

Even though she didn’t like cigarettes at all, she smoked them on social occasions because everyone else did back then. She used to suck little mints to kill the taste. Powerful opinions weren’t part of her deal in those days.

But Mother, God love her, seems to be getting more strong-minded in her later years. I’m not sure why. It’s not like she’s changed her diet or anything. She’s been eating the same sort of stuff for 90-odd years and she’s unlikely to change her ways now.

When I ring her for a chat every few days, she generally tells me what she’ll be cooking for dinner. “That’s an awful lot of vegetables, Mum,” I say to her. “You might do yourself an injury with all those veges.” She thinks I’m joking.

But it’s around this point that she comes over all strong-minded with me, recently about my column.

“I liked that latest one,” she says. “That was a good one.

The dry humour. But it’s about time you did a decent one.” “What do you mean?” I ask. “Well, there have been a few lame ones, haven’t there? Go on, admit it.”

“Not all the Beatles’ songs are great,” I tell her. “There’s always the occasional Yellow Submarine.” But she doesn’t buy any of that nonsense, least of all the Beatles reference. I’d have been better of with Bing Crosby.

“When’s the next column due?” she wants to know. “Wednesday,” I tell her.

“When will you write it?” “Probably next Wednesday.” “That’s not good enough,” she says. “You should get started now. Your readers deserve that. Don’t forget your readers.”

“I never forget my readers, Mum,” I tell her. “I think about them day and night.”

“Who are your readers?” she asks. This is getting intense. I feel like I’m under interrogation for something. Probably for not having a sensible job.

“I don’t know, Mum,” I tell her. “Who are my readers?”

“Old ladies,” she says.

“Like you?”

“Like me.”

I tell her, I don’t think of her as an old lady and, anyway, all sorts of people read the Weekly. Men, politicians, poets even.

And old ladies.

I actually tried to stop Mum getting a subscription to the Weekly. I might have had a premonition something like this would happen. But my brother got her one anyway. Now she reviews me with a lot of what

I can only describe as tough love.

Goodness knows what she’ll make of this one.