By Bill Heaney
Journalism is turning out to be more dangerous than ever. It always has been a stressful business, of course, and I have been in a few tight spots in my time in this trade. Northern Ireland and Africa come to mind, snipers and terrorists on a daily basis. I haven’t been in the new Burgh Hall in Church Street yet and I wondered from time to time why not. I knew the Council and the SNP didn’t like me to the extent that they banned me and cut me off from asking legitimate questions as a bona fide member of the press. I complained, of course, but when I got nowhere I raised the matter with my MSP, the National Union of Journalists, of which I am a Life Member, and the Society of Editors, of which I am an Editor Emeritus. I shook the trees, as they say, but no monkeys fell out. There was a concession, a small one. If I wanted their media releases then like everyone else I could pick them up from their website. But, if I wanted to ask any questions, I would have to go round to the back door with the plebs and ask my questions at the Inquiry Desk. Then, suddenly, they decided to put me back on their media list – but not to allow me to ask questions unless I made a Freedom of Information request. It was a slap on the wrist, a bit like being savaged by a dead sheep.. This week however came the terrible news that a journalist had disappeared (and is thought to have been murdered) in a Saudi Arabian Embassy where he went to collect marriage documents. Even President Donald Trump, who hates journalists and is constantly disparaging about “fake news” was concerned about this. Then, out of the blue, I received an invitation to attend the private viewing of the portraits of 100 men and women who have shown bravery and dedication in times of war and conflict which will go on public display to mark the end of the First World War. This major exhibition of portraits tells the story of the sitters, painted by acclaimed local artist Tom McKendrick, which will open to the public at Clydebank Town Hall on Tuesday, 6 November. I am wondering whether I should chance turning up. Will there be CCTV in Hall Street to catch a glimpse of me going in? And will I get out alive or be driven away in the back of one of those little white vans with the council logo on the side? If this matter concerns you, dear reader, then write to West Dunbartonshire Council and support my campaign for The Democrat to be given the same rights as other media outlets when dealing with the council. That would be only fair – and democratic, of course.
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The sculpture was supposed to be a statue of a mother and child. It was erected to project the image of Dunbartonshire County Council as a mother figure looking after the interests of the community. But it was a strange looking object, something which few people could not make head nor tail of. One councillor, I think it was Joe Cannon from Bonhill, said it looked “like a drunk man playing the bagpipes”. Pipe smoking Joe was near the mark – but he was too near the bone for some folk.
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The Flamingo Land row in Balloch rumbles on – and rightly so. Why wouldn’t there be concern about the fact that a major development such as this is taking place on the Bonnie Banks? There are reports that 26,000 objectors to the plan signed a petition against it in just one week. But there is a lot of scaremongering going on too, according to Scottish Enterprise, who are hand in glove with Flamingo Land. They are involved in the joint planning application for holiday lodges, a hotel, a brewery, a monorail and a leisure and water park centre to be created on the west bank of the Leven and at derelict Woodbank House, pictured left, an old hotel.
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You will no doubt remember that we told Democrat readers on October 4 that Mike Ashley, the new uber boss of Jenners at Lomond Shores was getting his feet under the table – and the staff were becoming twitchy. It comes as no surprise then to learn that Audrey Reid, who has been facilities and events manager at Lomond Shores for the past 14 months, has decided to quit her post. The news of her going reminded me of an old pal of mine, Gavin Docherty, who was the entertainments editor of the late, unlamented Sunday Scot, which was owned by Sir David Murray. Big Gav got up from his desk one day and left the building with the unforgettable words – “Cheers chaps. I think I am in the wrong movie.”
