Now, I’m as nationalistic as the next man (as long as he’s not Jean Marie Le Pen) but I do feel somewhat aggrieved that the genius of Still Game has been so shoddily treated by the BBC. If ever a show demanded a simultaneous transmission across the United Kingdom, then it’s this corker of a sitcom. In fact, the treatment of Still Game amply demonstrates the condescending, patronising, metrocentric attitude of the BBC to perfection. Given a derisory five episode run on BBC2 earlier this year, Still Game was, at last, finally scheduled nationwide. Despite being played alongside the far more heavily trailed Grass (which predictably had the darlings of the media creaming themselves) the antics of Jack, Victor and their egregious cronies – to be perfectly blunt – kicked the arse out of Grass. Taking the audience up from 1.2 million to 1.4 million, it became BBC2′s most-watched evening show. In simple terms, a humble Scottish offering wiped the floor with London’s great hope. Why the BBC continues to commission and heavily publicise Grass and the savagely bad Lenny Henry Show is beyond me, and also contempt.

The third series of the first genuinely great Scottish sitcom since the days of Para Handy returned to our screens neatly commencing where the second finished. Arriving in Canada, the opening line neatly underscored the entire episode and set the tone wonderfully for the next 30 minutes. On seeing her father arrive, Jack’s daughter stopped and muttered “My dad got old”. Delivered with enough nuance to convey shock, you realised once again that here we have two men who are not going gently into that good night. Too often, Still Game is dismissed as the antics of two grumpy old men. The reality is that it’s the tale of two men who, though sometimes grumpy, are happy in their ordered world and do so much more than merely live day to day, merely marking time until the Grim Reaper arrives. If anything, Jack and Victor are a wonderful representation of the modern day OAP, managing to portray the difficulties faced by the average pensioner in today’s society.

The only grouch that I had with this episode was that it really should have been a 60-minute special. For those of us who have witnessed the stage version of Still Game (which occurred before Jack and Victor popped up on Kiernan and Hemphill’s Chewin’ the Fat sketch show and embedded themselves in a nation’s consciousness) we have always longed to see the irascible duo visit Canada. The idea and the images were already there and there is certainly enough comedic gas in the tank to make an hour long special a workable possibility. Mind you, Kiernan and Hemphill have publicly stated that they’d love to take Jack and Victor to Las Vegas. That I’d love to see.

As ever, the joy of Still Game is both in the writing and the cast. The characters are all so well defined and the interaction between them is, more often than not, verging on the hysterical. This is always the case when Naveed’s shop comes into play. Arguably the scene of the best lines, the humble grocery store is, in effect, the nerve centre of Craiglang where gossip is traded and insults hurled. Tonight, we had Isa, Naveed and Winston (three superb performances incidentally) combining to perfection with a little sketch in which a level of coarse swearing that Gordon Ramsay would have blushed at was brilliantly achieved. In any other show, a white pensioner calling an Asian shopkeeper a prick would be met with a barrage of righteous indignation but here it makes for genuinely funny viewing. As does said Asian shopkeeper calling his customer a mad shagger. And all this is before we get to the resurrection of the word pie as a naughty word. Genius.

The beauty of Still Game is in its inherent ability to merge comedy with both farce and tragedy. The scene in which Jack’s daughter asked him to move to Canada to live with her was quite moving. Jack listened to her plea then rendered a little soliloquy in which he confessed that he couldn’t do without his late wife, and that he wanted to go home was beautiful. There was an air of poignancy that moved the viewer. Then, just as the scene was resting in a sea of serene solemnity, Jack opined that he had to go home anyway as he had £8 left on his powercard. Once again, genius. Likewise Jack throwing up on his grandchildren whilst visiting the CN Tower. The line, “Calm doon – it’ll wash aff”, seems certain to be reverberating around the bars of Glasgow for quite some time.

Every scene, every subplot was suffused with greatness. This was a genuinely brilliant episode of a genuinely brilliant sitcom. From the unsaid sadness of the opening line to the after-credit coda scene (the regulars in The Clansman comparing crap presents in a sweep – which Isa won with a gloriously tacky and risqué Big Beaver T-shirt) this was just a delight to watch. Apparently, audience research carried out in England after the five episodes were screened on BBC2 earlier this year showed that 80% of the audience thought so too. We can’t all be wrong.

Given the shrinking Jewish population in Scotland, this was a wonderful window of opportunity for EX-S to probe deeper into the roots of the community and frame it in the context of the Bar Mitzvah Boy. Whilst this was achieved on a quite superficial level, I would criticise (grudgingly) the makers for not having a broader remit and fleshing out the narrative considerably further. However, I take on board that this is asking the makers to completely revise the nature and central core of the programme, so perhaps I am being overly critical.

It is often said that Scotland is the only European country never to have shed Jewish blood. Indeed, it is claimed that Jews arrived in Scotland through a misunderstanding; East European Jews fleeing persecution disembarked on the East coast of Scotland believing, thanks to unscrupulous ship captains, that they had arrived the USA! Yet, despite this relatively benign relationship between Scotland and its Jewish population, the number of Jews living in Scotland has shrunk from around 14,000 to half that today. Indeed, there are fewer births of Jews in Scotland today than there were 100 years ago, when the community was smaller. Consequently, the small communities struggle to maintain their educational, cultural and religious identities. This aspect of everyday Jewish life was eloquently touched upon in the scenes featuring the charming Rabbi Mendel, a man whom the Jewish population of Glasgow should offer up their praise to God for. Watching him comb the telephone directory for Jewish sounding names was both winningly comical and slightly heartbreaking. Indeed, it recalled a memory of an old primary schoolmate whose family was visited by the local priest – who was thoroughly disappointed to learn that that, despite the surname Daly, his family was unblinkingly Protestant. Plus ça change.

Above all, Mendel’s enthusiasm to maintain the Jewish identity and tradition in his Glasgow flock was quite inspirational. Manifestly, he managed to transfer his love of his faith, his responsibilities and his way of life such that boys, such as Sean, were clearly enthused by his passion and commitment. Listening to Sean’s eldest brother proclaiming his loss of faith in the wake of his grandparents’ deaths was moving, as was his brave admission that he hoped Sean would not follow his example. But the overall joy of the programme was the manner in which Sean and his family clearly enjoyed being both Jewish and Scottish. This was a programme that clearly conveyed the nature and necessity of ethnicity and nationality and underscored that the two were not mutually exclusive. Indeed, another aspect that could, and should, have been touched upon during the show is the philo-Semetic bond between Calvinist Scotland and its Jewish immigrants. As Dr Kenneth Collins, chairman of the Scottish Council of Jewish Communities has stated, the experience of Jewish immigration to Scotland has been – for both parties – a fairly fruitful experience. As Collins said “Jews had relatively easy integration which, compared to modern asylum seekers, was positively idyllic.” Also, greater play (and explanation) could have been made of the difference in attitudes to their respective Jewish population between Calvinist Scotland and Episcopalian England – but once again, a minor grumble.

This was a family who knew where they were from and who they were. The mother, who came across as a more robust, feistier, Jewish version of Lorraine Kelly (now there’s an improvement!) was no stereotypical, Jewish dominatrix figure. She was the star of the show, holding all and sundry together, and, ultimately, evinced as a proud mum of a young boy stepping into manhood. This was a woman who seemed to be in perpetual motion. The fulcrum of family life she corralled her charges with irascible resolve and ran the show without being overly controlling. Unusually for an insight into an ordinary family, there were little or no histrionics, no mugging to camera and no playing up. This seemed only to underline the ordinariness of the family and further enshrine them in the viewers’ hearts. But what of the boy himself, the Bar Mitzvah laddie? Well, Sean sailed through his rite of passage barely batting an eyelid. Under the tutelage of the ubiquitous Rabbi Mendel, the wee man was calmness personified as he took his first, momentous steps into adulthood. This was a confident young man who showed no sign of being phased by the occasion or being confused by his identity. At times, his laid back style was verging on the comatose.

Another plus point for the programme was the commentary from Kaye Adams. For too long, this type of gig would automatically been offered to the sour faced, and equally sour voiced, Kirsty Wark. Adams has a gentler, more pleasing tone as well as naturally being more gifted in terms of being able to convey the bigger picture to the viewer. For me, Kaye Adams deserves more acclaim and gorgeously measured, laconic performances like this on her CV can only improve her reputation. And thumbs up to the editing team – as ever, quality stuff.

Hopefully, the success of this show will inspire the team to look at other figures from Glasgow’s Jewish community deserving of similar treatment – Hannah Frank, Susan Singerman and Michael Tobias spring to mind. As do several prominent members of Glasgow’s Sikh community. Beyond the pathetic playground nonsense of the Catholic/Protestant divide, Glasgow has, as a vibrant, dynamic city, much to recommend it in terms of cultural diversity and social inclusion. Programmes such as this serve to underline the positives and give hope for the future.

If future Glaswegians are as well balanced as Sean Winston and the city’s religious leaders as committed and empowering as Rabbi Mendel, then we can look forward with hope and certainty.

Sport can speak in a language that the whole world understands. Who better denounced and humiliated Nazism than Jessie Owens? Did the Black Power salute of the 1968 Olympics not reverberate around the world and alert the world to American racism? Was there ever a greater marriage of achievement and timing than Tensing and Hilary’s conquest of Everest (pronounced Eve-rest, fact fans!) on the eve of the Coronation? And did Jimmy Glass’ ultra-dramatic 95th minute Hail Mary winner for Carlisle United Football Club thus saving their Football League status not just rock your world? Oh yes. Sport is the greatest drama, comedy or farce that there is – pity then that these moments are so few and so fleeting.

That Scottish football managed to produce one of those unforgettable afternoons so soon after another is a credit to both the Glasgow giants. After the drama in Seville a mere 96 hours earlier, the events of Sunday 25 May will be indelibly etched onto the memory of anyone who had the pleasure to witness them. Oh sorry, what’s that you’re saying, you didn’t get coverage in England? Well, let me rub your nose in it then! Oh, how you missed out – this was the most exhilarating, exhausting, adrenaline fuelled hour and a half that it has been my pleasure to watch on screen. Ever. Corralled by a reporter seconds after the final whistle, Rangers’ Dutch master, Ronald De Boer opined that “it must have been mental for the viewers”. Oh Ronnie, how right you were. That the destination of the League Championship should be decided by almost the last kick of the ball of the last game on the last day of the season was the stuff of dreams (or nightmares depending on your viewpoint).

The decision made by BBC Scotland to simultaneously transmit the Rangers Dunfermline match on BBC1 and Kilmarnock versus Celtic on BBC2 was, palpably, the correct decision. It would have been churlish to opt for one and occasionally switch to the other, not to mention leave the Beeb open to accusation of bias from the more paranoid sections of Scottish football fans. With a resultant 80% audience share, this decision was more than vindicated. Indeed, what the hell were the other 20% watching – Thoroughly-bloody-Modern Millie? Yet despite the decision, and in spite of the ensuing drama the whole thing almost failed on television due to the insipid coverage. Undoubtedly, Dougie Donnelly is past his sell-by date. With more variations of hair colouring than a battalion of blue rinsed grannies, the Sterling Meister hogs the screen to the detriment of his co-summariser and guests. His banal, excitement free intonation betrayed the occasion and you could have been forgiven that Dougie was covering an Indoor Bowls game rather the most dramatic end to a domestic season ever.

And make no mistake, our erstwhile anchor is matched in the charisma free stakes by our match commentator, the singularly awful Rob McLean. Between them, they have not the slightest sense of occasion and a complete disregard for the English language. “It’s exciting, it’s engrossing, it’s riveting!” whimpered Rob at one point during the game. “And if you can think of anything else let me know!” Three adjectives – that’s all he could stretch to. No allegories, no metaphors, no wry asides. Just the overuse of the phrase “and so the pendulum swings” as word filtered through of events at Rugby Park. This was a dreadful commentary, one that insulted the game, the players and, most importantly, of all, the viewers. This has been a long running festering sore at the very heart of BBC Scotland’s football coverage. And, to be honest, it seems unlikely to get better in the future. Which is a sad, sad shame.

Nonetheless, the events on the field of play totally overshadowed the shortcomings of Rob, Douglas and company (indeed, most people I’ve since spoken to had the sound turned down and the radio commentary on) and we were treated to an afternoon that, in all honesty, we will never experience again. Within 150 seconds we had our first goal. Given that the Celtic game kicked off two minutes late, this only added to the sense of occasion. Less than a minute later and De Boer misses a golden opportunity to double Rangers lead. Flick to BBC2 and Celtic are battering the Killie defence into submission. 10 minutes gone and Dunfermline equalise, thus stunning the Ibrox hordes. This, dear reader continues on and on for 90 minutes. During the Rangers match, such is the frenetic pace of the game that we are unable to find the time to review two solid penalty claims that Rangers have. This is riveting stuff, with the League title changing hands as the Old Firm wrestle with destiny and toy with their opponents.

Then around the 63rd minute something happens that illuminates the entire day and underlines the wafer thin line that divides success and failure. Dunfermline break up field and produce a venomous shot that seems destined for the onion bag. Soaring through the air comes Stefan Klos, the Rangers keeper, to produce a magnificent save of unsurpassed athleticism. The ball is played up field and, seconds later De Boer scores to make it 4 – 1 for the home side. From 3 – 2 up and the Championship slipping away suddenly it’s 4 – 1 and game on. But, hold on! While the Dutch Master was nodding Rangers ahead at that exact moment in time, Henrik Larsson was striking the post and watching the rebound fall softly into the arms of the Kilmarnock keeper. In such moments the fecklessness of fate mocks mere mortals and tears our emotions to shreds. The sense of agonising ecstasy that I still feel re-watching that moment is beyond words, beyond description. I hope never to face such a moment again.

30 minutes later and with fulltime seconds away and the League Title on a knife edge, such a moment reoccurs. A penalty to Rangers. Not just the fate of the Championship but the history of missed penalty after missed penalty in recent weeks belongs in the now. This is it. A season decided in a heartbeat; a million dreams to be dashed or fulfilled in the blink of an eye. The commentary is supernumerary. We’re beyond time and place, football fans – the distillation of an entire season into one single kick of a football. Boca il lupo, indeed.

As Arteta struck home the spot kick and thus put one hand on the Championship for Rangers, the explosion of joy was a beauteous and voluminous sight to behold. When sport truly works, moments such as these are beyond measure. The heady mixture of joy, relief, ecstasy and primal scream is therapy enough for a hundred thousand foot soldiers of the jilted generation. All the pain and agony that has past is cleansed and all tomorrow’s parties begin. Was I lost in the moment? Of course I was. But it was no more than that. The shrill intrusion of the final whistle meant that one reality was punctured and another took centre stage. This was television of the highest order. The split screen delivered us the reality of the moment. Whilst the Rangers players and fans waited, the Celtic players chased for all their worth the two goals they oh so desperately needed. But Father Time, that old devil, has stacked his cards. And then there was one.

Never have I spent an afternoon like this. That television brought it to me made me appreciate the old goggle-box just that little bit more. I know that BBC Scotland will never be in the position to give this, should the incredible situation re-occur, to the viewer again. It is singularly unbelievable that Sky failed to nip in and take advantage of the massive advertising revenues they could have plundered. Their eye will not be taken off the ball again. BBC Scotland will, naturally, continue to inflict their team onto the viewing public.

What the hell though. I’ll leave all tomorrow’s parties until then and luxuriate in the intense glory of the moment. As Mr De Boer so appositely put it, it was mental. Mental as anything. And I lived the madness for 94 minutes, 94 minutes which I will never forget and re-live as often as possible. Morte il lupo!

The arrival of River City, pretty much unnoticed in the rest of the British Isles, has been a big event in Scotland, with a billboard campaign in city centres and blanket coverage in the Scottish press. If nothing else, its arrival has been an interesting demonstration of the full weight of the BBC’s publicity machines in these Greg Dyke days. Radio Scotland DJs have urged us to lend the programme our support, whilst Scottish personalities are keen for us to wish all at River City well. Although I didn’t catch it, I bet Reporting Scotland covered the new soap’s arrival too.

The television trailers have eschewed the piece to camera format that was used for both EastEnders and Crossroads and instead have attempted to reveal something about each of the characters by having them recite a verse from a pertinent song. The trailer featuring embittered Raymond Henderson coveting his ex-wife, has him reciting the words to the Police’s Every Breath You Take. As first exposure to this new soap, the omens are not good.

For those who know little about River City, it is set in a fictional West End area of Glasgow called “Shieldinch” that whilst looking authentically Glaswegian, follows the template of Albert Square, complete with local shop, café and pub. The cast contains the usual mixture of good and bad, young and old making it abundantly clear that there is to be nothing startlingly original about this soap. “Scotland has been crying out for a mainstream soap … that reflects the way we live in a multi-cultural, urban Scotland” assert Paul Samson (who plays the aforementioned Henderson). River City looks to be the most concerted effort yet by BBC Scotland to satisfy this requirement.

Without a significant quirk of its own, River City will have to stand or fall on whether or not Scotland actually needs a mainstream, primetime soap opera of its own; and whether it’s any good or not. It is far too early to answer the second question yet. One should not really expect anything out of a new soap until it’s had at least three months to bed in. The early indications though are not great. Colloquialisms appear regularly throughout the first episode, yet never sound truly accurate. It’s as if BBC Scotland have a big book of “Scottishisms” from which all representations of Scotland have to be drawn. Characters can never be allowed to tell another to “go away” when the expression “beat it” exists.

Language aside, both the direction and the acting need to be improved if River City is to gain the respectability of EastEnders fans. The first episode is slow and sparsely populated, the decision to include footage from the camcorder of one of the characters at the wedding is corny, one expects subsequent episodes to improve on this. The cast are made up largely of unknowns, and so below par acting is to be unexpected. However, in River City we get none of the freshness of performance that is usually associated with new blood. In fact there is something curiously outdated about most of the performances, particularly Libby McArthur (playing Gina Rossi) who in the space of 30 minutes reveals herself as the kind of good-time-girl-with-tragic-past-always-the-bridesmaid-never-the-bride that we have seen portrayed on television countless times before.

What the programme makers have got right though, is the plotline that opens episode one. The marriage of Tommy and Eileen (who look to be the series’ matriarch and patriarch figures) allows River City to make explicit the familial connections between each of the characters, as well as give them all a legitimate opportunity to talk of past events (imparting vital information to the viewer). The series opens nicely too, with a mock declaration that the wedding is to be abandoned – indication that the production team recognise the requirement to grab viewers’ attention quickly.

In case it isn’t obvious, BBC Scotland have put a lot of eggs into this particular basket, and one wonders what the ramifications will be should River City end up being a spectacular failure. Trailing the programme during the end credits of EastEnders and then cutting straight to it suggest that no one at Queen Margaret Drive is taking anything for granted right now.

The jury – quite rightly – has only just begun to hear the first pieces of evidence. It will be some time before the adjudication is made. For those of you, not yet exposed to River City, a word of warning: if the series makes the grade up North one can only assume that the residents of Shieldinch will soon be welcoming themselves into your lives too. Are you ready for another primetime soap opera?

Remember these names – you may be tested later; Firstly, the debit column – and remember folks, this is the abridged version - A Kick Up the Eighties, Laugh? I Nearly Paid My Licence Fee, City Lights, Pulp Video, Naked Video, All Along the Watchtower,Caledonian MacBrains and Elaine. Now, to counterbalance that horrendous litany of disastrous failures with the credit column (in its complete entirety); The Vital Spark,Scotch and Wry and… er… actually, that’s it.

In the last 20 or so years, aside from the ethereal, elderly magic of Rikki Fulton and the timeless tales of Para Handy, BBC Scotland has delivered one stunningly bad comedy programme after another. Their consistency is not in question – their ability to make the general public laugh is. There can be no greater sense of dread to be felt than the continuity announcer proudly proclaiming that “a new comedy from BBC Scotland is coming next”. Furthermore, living in Glasgow, there’s absolutely no escape from Snoddy. Posters proclaiming that it’s a “Hotel Oscar Oscar Tango of a show” seem to be filling every second billboard as you drive along, and there’s one staring at you from the back of what feels like every bus in town. When you saturate and bombard the public like this, then you’d better make damn sure that you’ve the goods to back the claims up with. So, does Snoddy sit in the credit or debit column?

Well, with all the inevitability of a Jimmy Krankie punchline (and none of the wit), the debit column grows larger. I should have realised this inescapable fact when last week, prior to the Scotland/France match being screened, a trailer for Snoddy was shown and met with a torrential hail of abuse from the assembled masses. I also recollected an article from The Sunday Times a few weeks back in which the writer referred to Snoddy as suffering from “himaff syndrome” – in the more robust atmosphere of a Glasgow public house this quickly translated as “prickfae syndrome”. As the trailer ran, the disinterested fans would point to whatever lame character filled the screen and blithely ask-cum-state, “that’s that prick fae …” – and that’s a rather cleaned up version. In the aftermath of Scotland’s footballing rape by France, the news that Snoddy was due on screen imminently was welcomed with language that was infinitely worse and, certainly, hallmarked with that dark, gallows humour so redolent of this fine city. Evidently, Snoddy has, thus far, singularly failed to capture the imagination of the jaikie in the boozer (forget your chap on the Clapham omnibus, we’ll take the bloke in the bar getting hammered).

After a few minutes of watching this dire slice of phenomenally awful television, I noticed that several people seemed to be frothing at the mouth, with veins fit to burst, eyes a-popping and, to a man, on the verge of a collective seizure. Let’s just say that asking them all to pipe down so that I could listen was a bad idea. That’ll teach me to try and review a programme in a busy pub in the aftermath of a Scotland humiliation. Common sense dictated that it surely couldn’t be as bad as the scene that engulfed me suggested. After all, it was the drink on the back of the aforementioned humiliation that was talking wasn’t it? Well, you might start off in a state of total sobriety when Snoddy starts but, as sure as eggs are eggs, you’ll be hitting the bottle pretty damn sharpish. In a week when I’ve sat down and had my senses assaulted and battered by the likes of Lenny Henry and French & Saunders, it comes as no surprise to deliver a damning verdict of total and utter shite upon this excuse for a comedy show. Our licence fee goes towards crap like this – think about it. In some small way, we each and every one of us bear some responsibility for this.

If one had any smugness in being Scottish, then a quick two scenes of this mince would bring you instantly back to reality with a shattering crash. This programme screams “we’re Scottish and we’re pure pish” and does so with what borders on a voluble pride. Like FR David, words don’t come easy. This is not a comedy – it is a catalogue of everyone and everything that is bad and inherently wrong with the incestuous world of comedy within BBC Scotland and its obviously depleted gene pool.

When I said earlier that there was nothing scarier than the continuity announcer informing the viewing public of an upcoming new comedy, I was tragically wrong. How horrible must it be for a BBC Scotland high heid yin to sidle up to you and mutter, “loved your comedy, darling. We’re going to commission it.” That, quite frankly folks, must be hell.