How England could decide Scotland's fate

ED Miliband has seized on "climate-change crisis" as a useful bash-the-Tories slogan. Labour were in power for 13 years until 2010. What exactly did they do? Miliband has yet to learn the difference between being a bold statesman and a contemptible opportunist.

NOW, imagine this. The Scots, furious at the bullying and browbeating from London and Brussels, defiantly vote for independence and then immediately apply to join the EU. This would require the approval of every single member of the Union, including what remained of the United Kingdom. So how would the UK vote? Thus, the fate of Scotland could depend entirely on the will of the English. William Wallace must be turning in his grave.

JEREMY Paxman did a fine job of condensing the four years of the First World War into four one-hour programmes in Britain's Great War (BBC1). But in the final episode he underplayed the significance of the post-war women who were unable to find husbands. Paxo reckoned that because "only" ten pcer cent of Great War soldiers were killed, there was no real shortage of partners. Yet in a country of only 40 million, hundreds of thousands of women either lost a sweetheart in battle or were unable to find a suitable partner when peace came. Thousands turned to the professions, particularly teaching. Many of you reading this will have been taught by that remarkable generation of widows and spinsters who, realising they would never have children of their own, devoted their lives to educating the children of strangers. Unkind people sometimes made fun of these "old maids" but most of us remember the Misses with admiration and fondness.

I DRAG my bloated body to the keyboard, belly groaning under the impact of an entire stuffed roast breast of duck. I am reminded of a song. Long ago, in the days when youth culture was not dominated by rap, hip-hop and lurve songs, there was room on an ancient papyrus scroll known as the Hit Parade for novelty songs. No-one thought it strange that a pop star would sing about a pink toothbrush, a doggie in a window, a little bubble-car or, in my post-dinner state, the sad fact that I Can't Do My Bally Bottom Button Up.

THIS tale of gluttony began the day after Valentine's Day when a pal rang to ask, how do they do it at the price? He was referring to those romantic three or four-course meals for two, complete with wine, produced by the major supermarkets at just £20 a time and wolfed down by romantic young things as the prelude to a night of romance, or possibly flatulence. Older, wiser, couples give it a few days until the supermarkets break up their unsold romantic dinner packages, pulling apart the separate items for their salvage value, just like some relationships. This I how I came to be wolfing down a whole stuffed roast breast of duck – reduced to 99p.

I CAN'T Do My Bally Bottom Button Up was composed by one J P Long in 1916 and recorded by several artists including the opera singer Ian Wallace, best known for The Hippopotamus Song, Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud. Every word of this is true. Ask your grandma.

THAT wonderful American expression "slap my ass and call me Judy," which appeared in yesterday's column, may not be a midwifery term, as I suggested. Some folk claim it was used years ago to get a mule to walk.

MULES, incidentally, are wonderful creatures. Like horses but with brains.

PS: When horsey people say: "Horses are very intelligent," what they usually mean is: "Horses are very intelligent compared to me."