Rab McNeil
Off the menu 11 June 2010  I LIKE a pie as much as the next man. Indeed, yesterday, I did something I do all too often: I ate a whole steak pie whose packaging advised “Feeds 3”. It’s not as if I didn’t have a choice: this brand of pie comes in two sizes. I’d tried the individual pie, which was square and considerably bigger than a round Scotch pie. But it wasn’t enough. So I returned to the larger pie. Then, feeling guilty, I thought: “Why not eat two of the smaller pies instead?” I checked the weight, and two smaller pies still came to less than one large. So, I’d two of the small pies. But it didn’t feel right. Even though it was less than the large pie, it still felt worse to be eating two pies (along with tatties and veg). Soon, my friends would be calling me Rab “Two Pies” McNeil. Not only that, but I discovered that, although it was exactly the same sort of pie, somehow the pastry didn’t taste as good when the pie was smaller. And there was something less satisfying about digging into them. With the big pie, you plunged straight into the middle, and gravy splurged all around and there was plenty of beef left, and all felt right with the world. I could leap off a diving board into one of these pies and come up swimming in gravy. With the smaller pies, you took a first forkful and felt that they were somewhat finite, as if this were not after all a world of plenty. Had I dived into one of these I would have been killed or maimed. I could see the headline: “Man hideously disfigured after pie plunge.” That wouldn’t do at all. So, yesterday, desperately in need of comfort food, I plumped for the big pie. And I ate it without hardly noticing. I’d had a few whiskies and there was a lot on my mind. Should I shift my socks and pants allegiance from Markies to John Lewis? It’s certainly something to consider. However, I do not intend addressing you today on the subject of socks and pants. Indeed, I hadn’t intended speaking to you for so long about pies. You are busy men and not-men, with more on your mind than pies. You’re wondering: “When is he going to get to the point?” And to you I say: “I will get to the point as soon as I think of one.” I jest, of course. To the right of my laptop sit the detailed outlines and architectural drawings for this piece. At the top of the papers is a note saying: “Start at the beginning. And don’t pick your nose.” So far, I have obeyed the second injunction, so I might as well adhere to the first which, strictly speaking, I should have done at the beginning. At last, then, the beginning, which runs as follows. I was quietly nibbling at my breakfast bridie when this headline caught my eyelobes: “Pie-loving MSPs may lose fancy restaurant.” This was grim news. I’ve only been to the Parliament restaurant once, in the company of the People’s Margo, and thoroughly enjoyed it. I’d never go back, of course. Too many MSPs. I got the feeling some of them wanted me on the menu: “Escalope de columnist, cooked rare so patrons can taste the blood. Enjoy!” But, otherwise, the ambience was lovely, and the food and service first class. Alas, it is subsidised. And that, particularly in today’s climate of fiscal gloom, is a no-no to that particularly mean specimen of curmudgeon known as the taxpayer. Even they might not have minded so much, but – while there was a scattering about on the day of my appearance – it seems that MSPs ain’t usin’ the bleedin’ facility enough (help, I’m starting to talk like a taxpayer, and a Cockney one at that), preferring, it says here, the “pie, beans and chips in the ‘works’ canteen”. No one has ever accused our MSPs of being classy, but that takes the biscuit, not to mention the beans and chips. Fair enough. You wouldn’t want linguine alle vongole and venison every day of the week. These vongoles can play hell with the digestion. But, all the same, you need a restaurant in a Parliament. A highlight of my journalistic career was lunching in the proper posh restaurant at the Hoose o’ Commons with my good friend, Angus MacNeil MP. I hadn’t expected it, and regret now wearing a baseball cap and trainers. It occurred to me afterwards that maybe I should have taken the baseball cap off. But I was well into the wine by then and forgetful of my millinery. But at least I was able to be entertained. Where is an MSP to take a guest? The “works” canteen? The idea is preposterous. I have the solution: MSPs must be made to eat in the restaurant, on a rota system. That way, they can hold up their hands to the taxpayer and say: “They made me do it.” The rota could be incorporated in a bill put forward by the Conservatives. Everybody hates them already, and it couldn’t do any further harm. In the meantime, I wonder what size the pies are in that so-called canteen? Related articles: Politics and principles 3 September 2010 Hello voters 25 June 2010 Life but not as we know it 28 May 2010 Magnetic result 17 May 2010 Of local interest 26 April 2010 See all articles in this category Submit a comment |
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