THE Royal Museum in Edinburgh is a grand place, and has provided happy memories for many generations of Scots. As a boy, I remember queuing for approximately 300 years to catch sight of an Apollo spacecraft and some moon rocks which were on display there, feasting later on Astronaut Ice Cream. I also used to enjoy pressing the little buttons on the working models of traction engines, and have - over the years - consumed several scones in the canteen.

But the goldfish are a worry. Last week it was announced that one of the fish which populate the ponds on the museum's ground floor has endured cosmetic surgery, after visitors complained that it was too ugly.

The fish had what the BBC News website calls "a harmless but unsightly growth" removed, along with one of its eyes, after some visitors to the museum expressed concern.

Now, goldfish have a difficult life. They are given away at funfairs in polythene bags, and kept in glass bowls on top of the television, except in Rome, where such behaviour is against the law.

They are, by definition, a genetic mutation, bred for their ornamental qualities, which would have little chance of survival if returned to the wild. They are also subject to terrible discrimination, because of the false supposition that they have a memory of around three seconds. In fact, in some (unverified) experiments, goldfish have been able to memorise pi to the 100th decimal place and are capable of reciting 'The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner' from beginning to end.

In which case, you might expect the Royal Museum to be a little sturdier in its defence of these maligned and complex creatures. Have these people not seen Finding Nemo? Small fish have a tough enough time as it is without subjecting them to the warped values of the beauty parade.

But I fear there is a subtext. Is it just a coincidence that the fish ponds have become a matter of international interest at a time when their existence is threatened by the Royal Museum's planned revamp?

In 2004, when plans were announced to construct two new subterranean entrances to the museum, there was talk of the ponds being reconstructed with glass bottoms, to allow more light into the basement.

By July of this year, such sentiments had vanished, and the museum was said to be planning to get rid of the fish on the grounds that they got in the way of corporate functions (as if this was a bad thing).

But how should we read this fishy tale? Who, if anyone, complained about the ugly fish? Was the surgery performed as a way of drawing attention to the fact that these ponds are hardly a great environment? Or was the operation ordered by a faction of goldfish sympathisers, to remind everyone that a much-loved feature of a public building is under threat?

THE photograph of the Beatles on the zebra crossing at Abbey Road is one of the enduring images of rock. I recently visited the crossing, and spent half an hour watching tourists from around the world hold up the traffic so they might take a picture in which they looked slightly - which is to say not at all - like their heroes: a pointless but quite endearing gesture, as if the chemistry of the music had imprinted itself on the tarmacadam.

And now, U2 have done it. A picture of the Dublin supergroup has been issued to draw attention to the fact that they have been recording with Green Day for an album to benefit Hurricane Katrina charities. In the picture, they look - as U2 always do - like extras from the first series of Auf Wiedersehen Pet, with The Edge as Jimmy Nail, and Bono playing Timothy Spall.

But wait: the song they are recording is 'The Saints Are Coming', by the Skids. It has long been obvious that U2's sound was pinched from the 'bagpipe' guitar patented by the late Stuart Adamson, but we must hope that this revival of interest prompts a re-evaluation of the lyrics of Richard Jobson, which are amongst the most gnomic of any in the rock canon.

By Jobson's standards, 'The Saints Are Coming' is a fairly straightforward affair, and it's not hard to see why U2 decided to dust it down. The words have an apocalyptic feel - "a drowning sorrow floods the deepest grief" - and talk also of how "a weather change condemns belief". By Jobson's standards, they are almost comprehensible. The Punk77 website says of this song: "Mott the Hoople meets the Clash in mini-Armageddon scenario," which sounds painful, but is probably a compliment.

But what of the other tunes on the Skids' first album, Scared to Dance? What was going on in that fine single, 'Into The Valley', with its peculiar chorus of "Ahoy! Ahoy! Land, sea and sky/Ahoy! Ahoy! Boy, man and soldier"? Is that how they speak in Dunfermline, or had the young Jobson inhaled too heavily of the war poets?

The title track is fairly self-explanatory ("I can't jive, girl/I cannot twist"), and those of a sensitive disposition will appreciate the verse in 'Sweet Suburbia' which includes the couplet: "Living on the paper envelope/Hot dog life cold for the antelope". I would like to hear Bono try that line. Maybe.

It is encouraging then, to read that the health minister, Andy Kerr, has thrown the reflected light of his Pepsodent grin on something called the Childsmile (West) project, which will offer dental care to children in Greater Glasgow, Lanarkshire, Ayrshire and Arran.

But such an idea isn't new. One of my worst childhood traumas occurred at the age of five, when I was refused entry to the Happy Smile Club. This sinister organisation was part of a dental health programme which involved - if memory serves - instruction in the art of using a toothbrush, and the (quite erroneous) advice that eating an apple was good for your teeth.

It was at this point that my humiliation began. As an infant existentialist with a genetic streak of Calvinism, I preferred girning to grinning. I was of the opinion that a smile should be issued only when it was sincere, a rare occurrence in Primary One.

Reader, I failed. I was made to stand in front of the class and told that I was not going to be admitted to the club until I demonstrated a happy smile - a hard thing to do under pressure. I did try, but with each attempt, Mrs MacAllister moved the goalposts. Suddenly, an ordinary smile wasn't enough. I had to "smile with my eyes"; an impossibility to a literal-minded infant.

I hope the Childsmile kids have better luck, and are allowed to express the natural glumness that is a condition of Scottishness, while also enjoying healthy gums.

OVER the years, I have spent many happy minutes in Angus. I once saw a John Wayne film at the picture house in Brechin, and visited the same building years later when it had been turned into the Flicks nightclub. The entertainment was provided by Jive Bunny, a disc jockey wearing a giant rabbit-head, and this was years before Donnie Darko.

I have even attended a disco in Laurencekirk, at which I was threatened with violence by youths for a) asking a girl to dance, and b) being "a poof". In more logical environments these two accusations might be seen to contain the hint of a contradiction, but not in the more rural parts of Angus, where the novelty of opposable thumbs has not diminished the joy taken by the more sophisticated members of the local community in the ability of human beings to embrace contradictory impulses.

But I am greatly encouraged to hear that the Angus Drugs and Alcohol Action Team is taking steps to combat such antisocial tendencies. Drinkers in Montrose are to be given lollipops in an attempt to combat late-night rowdiness.

The lollies will be handed out at licensed premises on George Street, following the success of a similar scheme in Manchester. It's a lovely idea, but I can't help thinking that Kojak tried it in the 1970s, and he was never short of trouble.

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