I know it’s accepted wisdom – not to mention an easy and predictable target – to blame the writers, but in this instance that is where the blame fairly and squarely lies. The dialogue was beyond dire and served the cast (who managed a commendable job despite the paucity of the script) no good at all. This was, yet again, a fetid, rank appropriation of how working-class Glaswegians speak, behave and interact. Simply throwing in the word “fud” or “ride” is just pathetic. Also pathetic are the stereotyped characters – this particular lot make the inhabitants of Mind Your Language look like Ivy League sophisticates. It’s tragic. Or should that be pure tragic?

Even the concept is redundant. The jolly hostess on the National Express may be a part of English culture but she’s never been part of Scotland’s. If anything, the idea of charting the high jinks of a bus crew died a lingering death with the much lamented departure of the glorious On the Buses. Updating the concept via The High Life reeks of amateur desperation. And how it shows. From the opening overhead shot of Glasgow’s Buchanan Street bus station replete with unfunny tannoy announcement (well, it perhaps was funny circa 1978) to the slightly skewed, wacky end photo-montage with the corpse (my how we never laughed) this was a symphony of screaming mediocrity that scraped a barrel like a barrel has never been scraped before.

As an inveterate overnight traveller on Glasgow to London buses, the biggest joke is that had the writers carried out any research, then they would have discovered that their actually is a fairly rich seam of potential comedy to be mined. For instance, a proportion of passengers are refugees/asylum seekers and that alone constitutes a million possibilities. But, yet again, we’re forced to accept the conceit of let’s rip the Lillian Gish out of the thick as pigshit, uncultured working-class Glaswegians. More tired than the equally clichéd tramp’s vest and equally as predictable as the scene featuring the priest with the gay porn mag, this is the stuff of fools.

Like the bastard soap River City, another fundamental flaw of this show is the bizarre hybrid language that the characters parley in. Diction, dear boy, diction. By turns baleful and doleful, the words and sentences slip past in a middle class stream of consciousness. When the Chewin’ the Fat team coined the “gauny no dae that” phrase that swept across West Central Scotland like a forest fire, its success was rooted in the reality and accessibility of the language. Likewise phrases such as “geeza gonk ya dobber” and “he wants a skwatch a’ yer fanny.” On this programme it would seem that the writers see fit to throw in the odd out-of-date colloquialism like “soapy tit ride” and believe that that, in itself, is sufficiently funny. A word to the wise – it’s not.

The observational aspect is similarly bad. As I said, the priest with the gay porn mag was dreadful. Gratuitous and not in the least witty or insightful. A cheap shot at an easy target and remarkably wide of it too. Similarly second-rate was the juvenile eyeball scene. And like the little fleas with lesser fleas, so on ad infinitum. Not one observational aspect worked – they all failed miserably, every single one. Another palpably grim aspect of this show was the inherent failure of the secondary characters. Populating a bus with possibilities then playing the OAP card is risibly unforgivable. Another example of going for the cheap, easy target (and, once again, missing).

The main three players in the cast try their admirable best (especially Maureen Carr) but are hopelessly left to make a silk purse from a pig’s ear of a script. And it always comes back to the script. The characters are hopelessly one-dimensional, the storylines threadbare and entirely predictable and the whole thing stutters along with mind-numbing banality. This is a show that will never get out of fourth gear thanks to the third rate writers’ second class script. The only first it will ever achieve is in the all time list of Britain worst sitcom.

The greatest tragedy of my television life in the last few years is discovering this show on the last of its run.

Having ranted, raved and raged like a petulant adolescent at BBC Scotland and its inability to deliver halfway decent drama, it was with an incredulous sense of disbelief that I watched this stunning, beautiful programme. Put simply, this was the most exquisite piece of period drama that I’ve seen in a number of years. How regional programmers and schedulers can throw bucket loads of money at rubbish likeMonarch of the Glen and Rockface yet shunt this gem to the Gaelic strand on BBC2, is utterly beyond me. If this was Italian or French then television reviewers and film critics would heaping and showering praise upon it and making direct comparisons toCinema Paradiso and Il Postino - but as a mere piece of the BBC’s commitment to Gaelic programming, it is almost shamefully hidden away.

Gruth is Uachdar is, certainly, deserving of far better treatment and promotion. There is no element of this show that is not infinitely superior to Monarch, Rockface or 1000 Acres of Sky. The acting was faultless, the direction quite stunning and the photography verged on perfection. One scene, in which a cargo of oranges are washed up on a white sand beach and discovered by two local women, was easily – by some margin – the most beautiful, haunting and evocative scene I’ve witnessed on British television. Ever. The richness and texture of this scene was matched by the wonderful acting. It was a simple joyous communion between actors, scenery and wordless script. This was a sumptuous pleasure to watch and one that restored your faith in Scottish drama.

Another element of Gruth that elevates it to a higher level is its use of scenery. The temptation to overdose on long, lingering panoramic shots whilst filming in Scotland, as we know, is just too much. The dramas mentioned above tend to use the backdrops far too stiltedly, as if their mere inclusion should arrest the viewer’s eye and demand their attention instantly. Gruthbeautifully avoids this by taking an almost deconstructionist stance and using the natural beauty of the Western Isles as a backdrop to the action and dialogue between the characters. By utilising the stunning, inherent natural beauty of the background thus, the director breathes a wonderful sense of life that bonds the story to the land in a fashion that is sublimely captivating. The interaction between characters, dialogue and land is unique and gives the show an extra dimension that truly enriches it.

The concept of a period drama, especially one set in 1940s Harris, in Gaelic was one that I wrongly prejudged – this was nothing like my perceptions. A simple tale of a young boy’s passage through life, this was a story told with what, at first glance, looked like relative ease but on second viewing was evidently a story that had been treated with great care and thought. The fact that this was in a “foreign” language was neither here nor there. Personally, I’ve always found the lilting, rhythmic resonance of Gaelic perfect for television. It lends itself to drama far better than most languages and the writers almost always seem to have a greater reverence for the construction and poetry of words and the nuts and bolts of language.

There was a delightful degree of quality throughout. The child actors were stunningly natural and they conveyed their roles with a wonderful warmth and innate sense of conviction. The pace of the programme was presciently metronomic; time passed without dilution or concentration but as an absolute. The camerawork augmented this almost beatifically. The closing scenes of the father and son fishing on the rocky foreshore beneath the machair were unbelievably handsome both in frame and pace. As the father told an ancient, island tale and they shared a cigarette, the flitting in and out of the narrator (the boy as man) to the father and son was achingly exquisite. Backed by a quite beautiful score, which seemed to be imbued with shades of Craig Armstrong and hues of the Blue Nile, this was an incredibly amazing drama.

No climbers dramatically falling down a cliff or inbred incomers claiming baronial seats here. No tales of faux ingenues in a strange land or risible clubland sagas that mirror no reality either. Straightforwardly a period drama set in a far off corner of the world where the concept of island life is the one absolute that underpins a way of life, a way of thinking and offers both an escape and a dead end. This is a programme that deserves to be viewed by a wider audience as well as being recommissioned. Quite simply, Gruth is Uachdar is brilliant, breathtaking and beautiful. I feel privileged to have watched it.

Seems such a simple equation doesn’t it? Take some black and white archive footage and throw in some old dears to wistfully reminisce on their childhood.

Yet somehow, this strand of programming from BBC Scotland stands head and shoulders above anything else from their miserable output. Whilst the comedy department flog the dead horse that is Chewin’ the Fat and inveigle us to watch the alleged hotel oscar oscar tango that is Snoddy, and weightier (and disproportionate) time and resources are given to the stunningly average Monarch of the Glen and the middlingly mediocreRockface it is always – always – the factual output of BBC Scotland that is the cream of the crop.

The Ex-S series in recent times has given Scottish viewers some wonderful shows. The programme on the Orpheus Choir and the one on the psychic barber stand out as two of the best half-hour slices of factual TV that I’ve watched in recent years. The presentation style is imbued with an innate sense of love and affection, the subject matter is elegantly explored and the end result, for the viewer, is a sense of deep, deep satisfaction. This current series, in which archive footage is displayed on the screen and the talking heads are pensioners recollecting memories from their long ago childhoods, is a perfect marriage of film and interviewees and a stunning example of the medium working to full effect.

The BBC has always excelled at history but it is pleasing to see living history so lovingly cherished and presented. Last night’s 30 minutes concentrated on childhood and it was a fascinating insight into a world that I was partially a participator in and have fond memories of but one which my parents knew far better. Regaling us with tales from an age where children were sent out first thing in the morning and returned home at dusk, we entered a world where child safety was a given, a world where unflinching poverty existed also as a given and a world where the spirit of community positively lived and breathed. This may have been a stream of positive, warm and happy memories but almost always each little piece to camera was underlined with a nod to the reality of life as it was.

Tales of stunning beauty were told; children of the isles playing for what seemed their entire summer in the cool waters of the Atlantic (this backed by some quite beautiful footage of children at play on one of the Western Isles). This was counterbalanced by a man recalling how his father worked on the mainland and he only saw him when he returned to the island on his solitary break of the year – a two-week sojourn. Memories of doors being tied together and chapped were recollected, stories of playing in back court sewage ponds were surprisingly elegiac and the poverty (and relative wealth) of Christmas presents was recounted with a warmth and tenderness that was quite, quite captivating. One woman fondly relived the memory of her rich uncle from America returning home and, on hearing of how she had never been in a car before, promptly hired a Rolls Royce the following the day. Her admission that this was still the happiest day of her life was a moment that touched the soul and set the seal on a magnificent show.

Given the propensity for the bombastic from BBC Scotland, this was a simple, plain segment of television that delivered a sense of wonderment and awe to the viewer. Watching with my daughter she was fascinated by stories of children being barefoot until October, clothes being passed on from neighbour to neighbour and many other tales that never became homilies but always remained colourful, personal memories that you were privileged to share. The footage of the ABC Saturday Morning Club from the ’50s was bliss. This produced the wonderful observation from an old boy that the movies he watched as a mesmerised youngster was pretty much what was still on TV today! The soundtrack of songs to complement the images of children playing with things such as skipping ropes, balls and a cleek and girdle served only to further enhance the texture of the show. What chance a child today playing peever?

This was gentle, unassuming and utterly beguiling. I would thoroughly recommend it to anyone else who thrills at the sight of snottery street urchins wolfing down jeely pieces and raggedy siblings belting lumps out of each other. It is important that we recognise where we come from, what moulded us and how our parents and grandparents spent their halcyon days. This is especially true in an age when the last embers of the dying fire of socialism are being brutally stamped out by New Labour and in an era when gated housing developments underline the them and us mentality that has destroyed any sense of community and worth that we once had. This was not merely television but a valuable social document that gently, and poignantly, reminded us that perhaps in securing a better future there are many things our past can teach us.