FORGET what the song says. The sun doesn't always shine on Leith. It's bucketing and I'm there, summoned by Tom Ponton, who's showing off his new hostelry in Portland Place, opposite the old docks entrance.
Actually, not totally new. It was the Caley Inn until its recent revamp. Now The Sports Bar, unrecognisable from what was a boozer much patronised by the port's doughty dockers for a century or more.
"We've taken it right back to the wood – to bri
ck, stone and slate – in updating the place," said Mr Ponton, who is preparing to plunge back into politics. "The local community, having itself changed almost out of all recognition, expect an atmosphere and facilities far removed from sawdust on the floor. And we won't be entertaining under-25s.
"I'm Canongate-born and I've a pretty good idea of what the natives here expect. I'm only 58 myself."
Never believe a politician has always been my maxim, reinforced by Mr P, perpetually given to shedding the odd superflous pound or two, when he told me, straight-faced, that he'd been "pumping iron" that very morning.
Presumably he meant Irn-Bru? He wasn't amused. I left him, the sun shining, spouting about the "cheesy disco" he's having tomorrow and of his proposed revival of the pre-Festival Jazz 'n' Pies he organised for years in his Candlemaker Row Oz Bar with live music.
Indeed, he is for reintroducing the Leith Jazz Festival.
It's in the bag Message not in a bottle but in the goody bag at the Book Festival in the Signet Library. And it's Tony Benn informing me: "The Book Festival is a university for people of all ages who can come without any O levels or A levels and learn what they want to learn without any examinations at the end. That is what education is all about."
Tony, you're preaching to the uneducated. They'll let me in at Charlotte Square after all.
Jobsworths Jobsworths, the lot of them. Our law lords are for banning the use of secret evidence in pursuit of some two dozen of Britain's currently detained terror suspects. Heid bummer of the bewigged wallies, one Lord Phillips of Worth Matravers.
Beg pardon? Worth Mawhat? Maslavers? M'lud, you sound (and look) like a proper wally.
