Sisters, it would appear, are doing it for themselves. Or at least, taking a leaf out of the men’s somewhat naughty book and getting all lascivious (or las-vicious, as I once heard it described) about the physical attributes of attractive young men (ie ogling the shirt off Poldark’s Aidan Turner who has once more got his pecs out for the ladies).
“Babies are always a blessing”.
Gender equality has been transformed over the past century, giving women the right to vote, run for election, open a bank account and make decisions about their reproductive health, with many sexist norms falling out of favour.
Scottish health secretary Shona Robison writes for The Courier following a turbulent week at NHS Tayside.
In his latest Courier column, Alex Bell described Perth and North Perthshire MP Pete Wishart as "the kind of phoney nationalist that blights the independence cause." This is Mr Wishart's response.
You’ve got to love Gwyneth Paltrow, haven’t you? She always comes up with the goods. It’s not enough for her to be content with getting engaged again. Although in the phraseology of the woman who called her previous divorce a “conscious uncoupling”, she’s not just getting engaged again. She’s “pursuing the soul-stretching opportunities” offered by a second crack at wedded bliss. And this in a world where it’s often claimed that unattached 45-year-old women are more likely to be hit by an asteroid than hit on (in a good way) by a man with his own hair, teeth and a pulse.
The recent hooha over Irn-Bru being stockpiled by fans desperate to safeguard their favourite drink before a reduced-sugar version comes out has left me reviewing the items I could not live without.
My New Year’s resolutions this year? Not making any. Not even one. Not that I’ve made one for about the last decade or so, anyway, as the usual suspects keep cropping up on the to-do list and depressing the hell out of me by the second week in January.
It’s not often I find myself listening with close interest to any sporting story these days but my attention was captured good and proper recently when two worlds collided. It fairly brought me up short when a radio reporter referred to someone hurling milk, water and sundry liquid comestibles in the general direction of Manchester United manager Jose Mourinho, in what I was charmed to hear described as a “food-related fracas”.
Words, words, words, I’m so sick of words, as Eliza Doolittle memorably sang in My Fair Lady. And if I am, I can imagine how you lot are feeling, having been subjected to my wordy rants for yet another year, as 2017 thankfully limps towards the finishing line.