Books, Poetry & Prose

[73] Requiem for an Atheist

2009-09-22T13:30:00.006+10:00

Where'er you sleep,

Where'er you lie,

The love you left

Will never die.

Through us both

And those that follow,

Your memory shall live tomorrow.

[72] The Politics of Ignorance and Fear

2009-02-18T12:29:00.023+10:00

I consider myself to be very lucky to live in Australia. I believe I am even more fortunate to live and work on the Gold Coast. Australia is a beautiful and diverse country with a very small population compared with total land mass. The Gold Coast is an exciting and interesting place to live. The population of the city is constantly growing with a steady influx of both foreign migrants and interstate settlers. The population of the Gold Coast is also very diverse – a mixture of many nationalities and cultures. It is a fun place to live.

There is a growing problem on the Gold Coast however. I have long formed the view that a large proportion of white Australians are racist bigots. Not all white Australians, but a substantial and vocal percentage. I won’t call it a minority because it could be a majority. I will settle for a substantial percentage.

Carrara is a suburb on the northern side of the Gold Coast. It is a nice area with a lot of residential housing, from large multi-million dollar mansions to small 1 and 2 bedroom townhouses. It is also the home of the Gold Coast’s largest and busiest weekend market and a handful of shopping centres. The area hosts a number of schools – a mixture of faith schools (Catholic, Jewish and Anglican) and State Schools, both junior and senior. In common with the rest of the Gold Coast, many nationalities reside in Carrara. One only needs to visit the weekend market to witness the vast array of races and cultures which lend themselves to an interesting and colourful shopping experience.

Like any modern multi-cultural population, there is a number of Muslims living and working on the Gold Coast. The nearest Islamic faith school is in Brisbane and for some years now, Gold Coast Muslim families have been sending their younger children to Brisbane to be educated, a round trip of 150 kilometres each day. The Muslim community on the Gold Coast has decided it is time to set up their own Islamic school on the Gold Coast, and have chosen Carrara to be the site of the new building which will be known as The Australian International Islamic College.

The Muslim parents and clerics got together and drew up a proposal which was put before the Gold Coast City Council (GCCC) for outline planning permission. Everything seemed reasonable and above board. The school would house a maximum of 60 Islamic pupils between the ages of 4 and 11 and would be situated on vacant land not far from the existing Catholic school and a reasonable distance from local housing.

As is the normal practice, the Council communicated the proposal to interested parties – local residents and business people – and asked for any objections to be submitted in writing. So far, so good. With a maximum of 60 pupils, there would obviously be a minimum of traffic congestion in the area and there clearly would not be a large increase in the number of school children on the local streets during lunch breaks and after school etc. All very straightforward, one would think.

How wrong could one be?

As soon as the letters went out from GCCC headquarters, all hell broke loose. Local people demonstrated on the streets at the site of the proposed new school. Some even dragged their own small children along to carry placards which proclaimed:

No Muslims in Carrara.

No to Islamic School.

Not in my back yard.

The local newspaper – The Gold Coast Bulletin – ran with the story. The online version of the Bulletin carries a Comments Page on most stories in which readers can express their opinions. The story of the proposed Islamic School has resulted in the Bulletin’s busiest comments page for many years.

Here is an unedited sample of some of the comments placed:

disgusting... it’s always australians who have to bend over and cop these minorities... your here to assimilate not start up your own little school niche - why can’t they go to australian schools and assimilate into australian culture? and to think this is the crap our rates go toward supporting... bending over to support these minorities who wouldnt let us do anything against their religion in their countries... Posted by: jim

Is this what we want here. Taliban release video of beheading: PAKISTANI Taliban militants released a graphic video on Sunday showing the beheading of a Polish engineer whom they said was killed because Islamabad refused to free detained insurgents. Gold coast will soon be flooded with terrorists and suiside bommers. Send thes muslims back to there own country. You have been warned. Posted by: Peter of Carrara

Get real Cr. Grew, would we be able to go and open a Catholic school in a muslim country. Id think not. We need to start treating these people like they treat us. If they want to be Muslims send them to a islamic country. Posted by: JohnS

Now you may appreciate why I left these comments unedited.

Gold Coast Mayor Ron Clarke said that providing the school met planning requirements there should be no reason why it should not go ahead.

"I strongly believe Australia is a place where everybody can practise their religion, whatever it may be," he said.

"I've been to the Muslim temples and they practise religion the same as anybody else does.

"I think they have every right to put a church up and especially a school. We need education."

Not just content to report the story, the Gold Coast Bulletin decided to take sides and stoke the flames by running a clandestine campaign to stop the building of the Islamic school in Carrara.

A few days after the controversy broke, the Bulletin managed to locate a man who was once employed as a janitor in the Brisbane Islamic school. The janitor had been dismissed from his job at the school several months previously. The janitor claimed he had suggested to the school head that the pupils sing Advance Australia Fair – the Australian national anthem – at morning assembly. The school has an assembly evey morning for prayers. His request was refused and the janitor was now claiming that his suggestion was the sole reason for his subsequent dismissal, which took place no fewer than five months after his alleged offence. The Bulletin quoted the janitor extensively. The head of the Islamic school was also quoted. He asserted that the janitor was dismissed on a specific and completely unrelated disciplinary matter, the details of which he did not wish to disclose to the newspaper. Clearly he saw the reasons for the janitor’s dismissal as a private matter. In other words, he was protecting his former employee. Furthermore, the head explained that his morning assembly does sing the national anthem – on the last school day before Australia Day, which is a school holiday.

Firstly, there is not a school in the whole of Australia which has its pupils sing the national anthem every morning at assembly, so why should this one school be any different? In fact, like the Brisbane Islamic school, most Australian schools sing the anthem on the eve of Australia Day, and at no other time, other than on special occasions.

Secondly, despite the head of the school explaining that the janitor was dismissed for another reason, and the fact that his dismissal came five months after he made his national anthem request, the Bulletin article went on to ask its readers why this janitor should lose his job because he made the national anthem suggestion to his employers. In other words, according to the Bulletin, the disgruntled ex-janitor was telling the truth and the head of the school was lying through his teeth. If I know that the national anthem is not sung at every morning assembly at other schools, then presumably the Bulletin would know this too. So why didn’t they take this into account? Why wasn’t it mentioned?

The comments page that day was in meltdown. The bigots and racists had a field day. The Gold Coast Bulletin had clearly set its agenda. Mission accomplished.

What the protestors and the Gold Coast Bulletin fail to appreciate is that the Muslim children who will attend the new Islamic school already live on the Gold Coast with their families. They and their families are Australian. Why would the establishing of an Islamic school for a maximum of 60 children between the ages of 4 and 11, children who already live on the Gold Coast, result in the area becoming an "Islamic Ghetto" full of "terrorists" and "suicide bombers"?

Do the bigots seriously believe that Muslim adults, who already live in various parts of the Gold Coast with their families, and who have a child attending the Islamic school, are going to wake up one morning and say, “Hey, let’s sell our house and move to Carrara, so that we can be close to little Ali’s school. I know he’s only going to be there for another year, but let’s sell up and move to Carrara anyway.”

That’s not to mention the thousands of other Muslims on the Gold Coast and throughout Australia who don’t have a child at the school, but who will apparently sell up and move to Carrara to be near the Islamic school – if you believe the bigots.

What do these Islamic children and their families have to do with the Taliban?

How are they responsible for 911?

Should I ostracise my Irish grandmother because of IRA atrocities?

One Gold Coast radio presenter spoke out against the school in an utterly bizarre way.

When asked by one caller what he means by assimilate, he claimed that Muslim women in Australia should be banned by law from wearing the burkah because it is un-Australian. Furthermore, he went on, it can be used to hide weapons. So immediately this idiot is equating ordinary Muslims with guns and killing. But why stop there? Why not ban Catholic nuns from wearing their habits? These can also conceal weapons. Do armed robbers on their way to the bank wear burkahs to hide their guns? Oh, and according to this radio presenter, the burkah frightens children. In that case, let’s ban Santa Claus, because I have seen lots of young children flee in terror at the sight of the old man in a red suit with white hair and long white beard.

Whenever bigoted Australians face the issue of brown, black or south-east Asians migrating to their country, they invariable claim that they “refuse to assimilate/integrate (delete as appropriate)” and “If they come to our country they should embrace our culture”. I for one would love to know what this “Australian culture” really is. And when these same morons talk about people or things being “un-Australian” I would also love to know what they define as “Australian”. Also, you will note that I speak of “brown, black or south-east Asian immigrants”. That is because white European migrants like yours truly are fair dinkum. We don’t have to integrate or assimilate.

A few weeks ago, the Gold Coast Bulletin – yes them again – ran a front-page story about a village to the south of Brisbane. The community is comprised mainly of English immigrants, or Poms as the Aussies like to call them. Apparently the village is swarming with Poms and they have their very own English style pub and their own English-only village cricket team. The story was written in a positive vein. The community was held up by the Bulletin as a shining example of how the English migrants had pulled together and built a vibrant community. So when Muslims “stick together” they are refusing to assimilate and are being un-Australian, but when white English settlers do it, it’s all fair dinkum.

What completely amazes me is that the entire population of Australia, with the exception of the Aboriginals, is based around immigration. That fact would appear to be lost on today’s Aussie racists. Now why is that not a surprise?

When Australians shout from the rooftops that “these immigrants” refuse to “integrate/assimilate”, what they really mean is that they refuse to:

a) Give up practising their Muslim faith.

b) Refrain from attending the Mosque.

c) Stop speaking their native language.

d) Cease wearing their Islamic clothes.

e) Shave off their “Muslim-looking” beards.

These people don’t know the meaning of the words they spout so often in defence of their bigotry and racism.

Recently an acquaintance of mine complained that he had heard a group of Asians in a restaurant speaking their own language. Actually he called them slopeheads. Yet another lovely word used by the bigots to describe natives of and descendants from south-east Asia and Japan. Apparently they were a family – Mum, Dad and 3 children. When I asked why he found a family speaking in their native language, a family who may very well have been on holiday in Australia, something to be abhorred, his response was, “It was embarrassing. They should integrate and speak Australian (sic).”

Assimilate. Integrate. You just cannot escape those two words in everyday Australian life when the bigots are on their soap boxes. And why such a situation should have left him feeling embarrassed is way beyond me.

I’d love to know how many Australians who visit or migrate to Japan, Spain or Brazil immediately launch into fluent Japanese, Spanish or Portuguese so as not to offend or embarrass their hosts.

I have come to the conclusion that anti-Islam and anti-Asian bigotry, and the fear that every Muslim is a terrorist, and that every follower of Islam is a danger to our safety and the safety of our children – this fear has now become something of a fashion accessory here in Australia. It is something to be carried with pride and, if you do not hold such views, you are un-Australian and indeed, a threat in your own right. For simply questioning people like the man who saw the Asians in the restaurant, or speaking up for the rights of Muslims to build their own Islamic school, I have been called a Muslim-lover, by which term my accusers do not have the intellectual capacity to realise that they are openly admitting to be Muslim-haters.

Happily, the Councillors of Gold Coast City Council voted unanimously to grant planning permission for the new Islamic primary school in Carrara, presumably because in all honesty, there simply was no sane and valid reason not to do so, other than to pander to the wishes of the racists and bigots, who are by the way, now calling on the electorate to vote every last one of them off the council at the next election. Apparently these Councillors are guilty of not supporting the view of “the majority of voters”. They are un-Australian.

Just how these Neanderthals know they are a majority in Carrara is anyone’s guess.

Sanity, reason, common sense and fair play has prevailed in the end, while the bigots lick their wounds and wait for the next opportunity to vent their spleens by demanding that certain types of Australians “go back to where they came from”.

I leave you with a comment from a Gold Coast Bulletin reader posted on the morning after the Council’s decision was announced.

I hope this will be one of the last stupid actions that Ron Clark does before he is kicked out of office. The trouble is that next election he will be booted out but this 'school' will still be here. It will be a legacy that will be a blight on the Gold Coast for decades.It is another perfect example of not listening to the locals and the majority that dont want this 'school'. Remember, next council election, make sure the councillors who voted for this 'school' are kicked out of office. Posted by: Al of Gold Coast

The politics of ignorance and fear.

[71] What Celtic Means To Me

2008-12-12T15:30:00.007+10:00

FIRST GAME
My father took me to Celtic Park on Saturday 16th December 1961 for my first Celtic match. It was a Scottish League Division One game against Hibernian. I was only 8 and had scored a hat-trick for my school team the day before, for which my father told me he would take me to see the Celtic as a reward. I couldn’t sleep that night and my mother laughed hysterically as I arrived at the breakfast table at 7am, fully dressed and wearing my woolly Celtic hat and scarf. My little heart was pounding as, for the first time, I saw the four huge floodlight pylons towering proudly into the grey skies as we walked along London Road. My father delivered me to the front of the old enclosure below the stand and I watched the players warm up. The top of the wall was on a level with the pitch and I was only just able to see the grass. From that vantage point the Celtic players looked like giants, and I remember being awestruck by the colour of the turf and the magic of the gleaming green and white hoops. At half-time I was in tears because Celtic were trailing 1-2. My father gave me my first macaroon bar and reassured me, “Don’t worry son. The Bhoys will do it.” He wasn’t wrong. Celtic ran out 4-3 winners and I slept easily that night, still wearing my hat and scarf and dreaming of many more trips to Paradise and beyond.

FAVOURITE GAME
Less than 4 years later, Celtic faced Dunfermline in the 1965 Scottish Cup Final. Jock Stein was the recently-appointed manager and the club had gone through a long barren spell without a trophy. On the Friday, my father came home from work with 3 tickets for the match –
my own and my younger brother Brian’s first ever Cup Final. After yet another fitful night’s sleep, we headed for Hampden on a big double-decker bus carrying what seemed like a hundred singing and cheering fans. Once again the colours and the carnival atmosphere inside the packed stadium filled me with breathless anticipation. The pipes and drums of the Cameronians added to the spectacle on a sunny April afternoon. Celtic came from behind twice to win 3-2 with a Billy McNeill header clinching it near the end. History shows that this was the win that opened the door to many years of success for the club under the managership of the late, great Mr Stein. The significance of that and the fact that it was the first time I had witnessed the large Celtic support celebrating triumphantly, make it my favourite game.

ALL-TIME CELTIC HERO
As a 9 year-old I was taken to Rugby Park for what was Jimmy Johnstone’s first game for Celtic. I grew up following the club and throughout those years, boy and man, Jinky was and always will be my all-time Celtic hero. I was truly mesmerised by his skill and ability and, as a boy and youth footballer myself, I modelled my game on the wee man. If only I had the merest fraction of his ability. Jimmy Johnstone was a true football entertainer and genius, whose sad passing has left a void in the Celtic family, and whose life as a Bhoy and ultimately the greatest ever Celt, touched the heart of every member of that global family.

ONE CELT I WISH I COULD HAVE WATCHED LIVE
My father used to regale me with fireside stories of Charlie Tully, Bobby Evans, Bertie Peacock and Willie Fernie. At the same time my grandfather would fire my imagination with similar tales about the likes of Jimmy McMenemy, Jimmy McGrory, Jimmy Delaney, Johnny Thompson and the legend that is Patsy Gallacher. No history of Celtic, whether it be in video or literary form, is complete without a chapter on Peerless Patsy. If he was half as good as my grandfather described, he must have been quite a player. If it were at all possible, Patsy Gallacher would be the one Celtic star I would love to have watched live.

CELTIC-SUPPORTING HIGHLIGHT
It has to be Lisbon 67. The whole day will live with me till I draw my last breath. At 13 I was too young to travel to Lisbon but remember watching the game on a black and white television with my family in Motherwell. The streets were virtually deserted as we watched Celtic pummel the Inter defence with wave after wave of relentless all-out attack. I will never forget the feelings of joy and unbridled emotion as we hugged each other and danced around the room at the 2 goals and then at the final whistle. The streets came to life again as Celtic fans danced and sang in celebration. Our house was soon packed with cousins, aunties, uncles and family friends and by the end of the mother of all Celtic parties, Brian and I had pockets full of tanners, shillings and ten-bob notes, gifted by happy, exuberant and benevolent revellers. All in all, a day made in heaven.

MOST DISAPPOINTING MOMENT
The defeat against Feyenoord in the 1970 European Cup Final in Milan still rankles, but the only time I have ever cried as a grown-up following a Celtic defeat was when we lost the European Cup semi-final at Celtic Park to Inter Milan on penalties a couple of years later. Dixie Deans was inconsolable as he watched his spot-kick – the first in the shoot-out – soar high over the bar, giving the Italians an initiative which they grabbed with both hands. I was equally inconsolable when the realisation hit that we would not after all, be going to another European Cup Final. It took me a long time to get over that one.

WHAT CELTIC MEANS TO ME
Ever since that cold December day in 1961, Celtic has been a huge part of my life and the lives of my extended family, including my own two sons who are season-book holders and continue a legacy that has been handed down through four generations and, God willing, through many more generations to come. I have now settled in Australia and, thanks to technology, am able to watch more or less every Celtic match live on cable television or via the internet courtesy of the club’s very own Channel 67, and usually at the most ungodly of hours. For the bigger games, I sometimes travel to the Brisbane CSC and enjoy the atmosphere in the company of a large number of ex-pat members of the Celtic family. As I celebrated Celtic’s latest SPL title in May with a champagne breakfast, I indulged in a moment of quiet reflection and imagined a small 8-year old boy standing at the front of the Parkhead enclosure, looking up at the giants in green and white, and contemplated how that little boy had grown up through the highs and the lows, the laughter and the tears, the joy and the sorrow that go hand in hand with life as a Celtic Supporter. I also remembered a telephone call to my father back in Scotland after we had lost to Rangers and then Motherwell in March. I suggested that the title was now lost. My father’s words echoed down through the years as once again he said, “Don’t worry son. The Bhoys will do it.” He wasn’t wrong.

[70] Aussie Cave Man

2008-10-03T13:45:00.001+10:00

Friday 5th September was my birthday.

I had a great day – or should I say weekend – which started off in customary fashion. I work in a great office among great people – for the most part. Every staff member’s birthday is celebrated with large slices of cake, courtesy of the company coffers, during the morning tea/coffee break, or smoko as it is known in my adopted country. The birthday boy or girl gets to choose which two cakes to purchase. I went for the Continental Apple Cake and a scrumptious Strawberry Fields Torte. I love strawberries and I happily cut off a slice and placed it on my paper plate as my mouth began to water.

The torte was adorned with juicy half-strawberries and covered in a delicious strawberry cream that gave it a colouring that was closer to pink than red, which prompted at least two of my male colleagues to utter in mock horror: “Oh no. Pink. I can’t eat pink.” – no sniggering at the back there.

“Oh sorry,” I replied. “I completely forgot about the Australian male’s obsession with avoiding anything that might challenge his machismo.”

A couple of my female colleagues sniggered their approval.

It appears to me that the average Australian male is so tied-up in constantly maintaining, strengthening and displaying his he-man persona to such an extent that I now just smile knowingly when faced with each new preening of the Aussie male plumage.

It even dictates that they must not, will not, ever be seen driving a car which is not big and powerful. I have often heard women back in the UK talk about a man’s car being an extension of his penis. This expression is never more a truism than when it is applied to the Aussie male. I have been openly ridiculed for driving, not a small car, but a mid-range car. The worst thing is – when that happens, all the other big he-men within earshot join in the fun with comments like: “I wouldn’t be seen dead driving a small car” and “I wouldn’t go near a girlie car”.

At the moment, there is a world-wide oil crisis. Petrol in Australia has never been so expensive. I would wager that I spend at least half as much per week on petrol as my male colleagues, but they don’t care about that, because they are great big macho-men with big penises and I am just a sad wimp who drives a “girlie” car.

The irony of it all is that Australia has a problem with Hoons – young men and teenagers who drive around town in cars, racing each other and performing all manner of noisy and dangerous manoeuvres such as hand-brake turns and worse. The Australian media and its readers constantly bemoan the activities of these anti-social idiots. Perhaps if the Aussie male society dispensed with the notion that unless you drive a fast and powerful car you cannot call yourself a real man, the Hoons would not be such a problem in years to come.

Having travelled extensively, it is my avowed opinion that Australians are the worst drivers in the modern world. The road accident statistics are at a shocking level and would certainly support my assertion. I have witnessed many times the totally irresponsible and positively dangerous antics of predominantly male drivers in Australia, and I am sure that this is yet another manifestation of the ubiquitous big-car-equals-big-man syndrome that dominates the Aussie-male psyche.

Recently in my local club, there was a discussion on Heath Ledger, an Australian actor who died in New York of an accidental (allegedly) overdose of prescribed (allegedly) drugs. There were five males and two females in the company and when a couple of the males could not place the actor, one of the females mentioned that his last role was as the Joker in the recently-released Batman movie. Another female opined that his most famous role was in Brokeback Mountain. My wife Kerrianne and I watched Brokeback Mountain on cable television one wet and windy Sunday night about a year ago. It was a decent enough movie and I do recall that the acting was pretty good, but overall it was not a movie I would go out of my way to see again.

However, three of the five males present went into a state of feigned apoplexy as they told the rest of us that under no circumstances would they even contemplate watching such a movie. In fact I am sure they deepened their voices, intentionally or otherwise, as they shifted uncomfortably in their seats and uttered words like poofters, perverts and disgusting. Tellingly, the only two males in the company who did not deem it necessary to tell everyone that they found the whole subject of homosexuality something to be derided and preferably avoided, were myself and Dennis – the only attached males in the company.

I recalled years previously being told that men who openly and vociferously condemn gay men were probably gay themselves, or at least feared that they might be. For the first time since hearing that assertion, I now began to believe it as I watched these three macho he-men go through their pathetic and completely unnecessary ritual.

I thoroughly enjoyed my pink Strawberry Fields Torte and to hell what Mister He-Man says.

I have fathered two children and have parked my car in many varied and interesting places and to date, have never once been told that I need a bigger and more powerful vehicle.

[69] No Shit

2008-08-05T13:36:00.009+10:00

Last night I was talking to my 17 year-old grand-daughter. She was bemoaning the fact that her mother – my daughter-in-law – smokes cigarettes. Susan wondered out loud why we adults are so stupid as to risk our health and indeed our lives in the pursuit of such a “filthy and disgusting habit”. I resisted the urge to point out to her that it is not just we older people who smoke, while I wondered what kind of school she attends where none of her peers inhale the dreaded weed. Or perhaps they do it in secret, behind the bicycle sheds – do they still have bicycle sheds in modern day schools? – away from the prying eyes and sensitive noses of non-smokers like Susan, and more urgently, prowling teachers intent on catching them red, or nicotine-stain, handed.

Susan was on a mission as she mocked the world at large for allowing the sale of cigarettes in the first place.

“It’s all about profit and greed,” she said, turning up her little nose as if she had just caught a whiff of tobacco smoke. “Why should the big capitalist tobacco conglomerates care about people’s health when there are millions to be made?”

I began to wonder if she had been reading my weekly copy of Socialist Worker again.

“I understand where you are coming from girl,” I replied in an empathetic tone. “But it isn’t as bad as it used to be. The authorities have done a lot over the years to make smokers feel unwanted and unwelcome in most public places.”

“But it should be banned everywhere. Made totally illegal.”

“Even in the comfort of one’s own home?” I asked, playing devil’s advocate.

“Yes. All smokers should be transported to an island somewhere and left to smoke themselves and each other to death.”

I began to wonder where my grand-daughter was getting all this pent-up anger. As a non-smoker myself, I would not object to a total ban on smoking, but at the same time I realise it would be utterly impractical and unworkable.

“When I was your age, smokers were allowed to smoke anywhere and everywhere.”

“Where exactly?”

“Well, anywhere really. In restaurants. In the cinema. In the theatre.”

“No way.”

“Seriously,” I put my book down and gave her my full attention. “Ask your mum and dad. Believe it or not, people smoked in the waiting room at the doctor’s surgery.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“In fact, when you got in to see the doctor, sometimes he was puffing away as he examined you.”

“Now I know you are kidding me.”

“Seriously Susan, there was no restriction on smoking. Very few at least.”

She tilted her head slightly and looked at me for a few moments, deep in thought, rather like an attentive puppy dog.

“What about on an aircraft?”

“Yes, even there,” I confirmed, warming to the subject. “You were allowed to smoke on the plane. Well at least after take-off. When the plane had taken off, the no-smoking light went out and people would instantly light up.”

“But wasn’t it dangerous?”

“Of course it was – looking back. But in those days, as I have said, you could smoke anywhere. It was only through time that society woke up to the dangers of allowing people to smoke anywhere and everywhere.”

“They really smoked in the surgery?”

“Yes they did. In fact, as a teenager I remember my father being rushed to hospital with a hernia. When I went to visit him, patients were smoking in their beds.”

“Bullshit!”

“No shit. In fact, when the doctor came round to look at my father, he examined his stitched wound with a cigarette dangling from his mouth.”

“Oh my God that is so gross.”

“It gets better. When my first son was born – your uncle Tony – your grandmother, God rest her soul, was lying there, legs akimbo, and the midwife delivered the baby with a cigarette in her mouth.”

“Urgh!”

“Several times she had to brush away ash from your grandmother’s thighs.”

“No.”

“When I was at school I had to visit the dentist to have a tooth pulled.”

“No. Don’t tell me.”

“The dentist looked down into my wide open mouth with a burning cigarette hanging from between his lips. The dental nurse stood there with an ashtray which, at his signal, she would place under the cigarette and allow him to drop the ash into it with a clever flick of his tongue. A couple of times I coughed and spluttered as ash fell into my mouth.”

“Oh no. I swear I would have thrown up.”

“It was common for surgeons to perform brain surgery and open-heart surgery with a cigarette dangling from his mouth.”

“Stop it or I really will throw up.”

“Many a patient was sown-up after surgery with cigarette ash, and even the occasional stubbed-out cigarette end still in their bodies.”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear any more . . .”

“Some surgeons believed in cauterising internal bleeding by stubbing their cigarette out on the offending wound.”

Susan ran to the toilet and as I returned to my book, I could hear her retching as her stomach reacted to the images I had implanted in her over-active brain.

“Happened all the time,” I shouted above the sound of more retching.

NB - I do not have a grand-daughter called Susan and I do not have a daughter-in-law. This is purely a work of fiction and I am not the narrator.

[68] Smoking Damages Your Brain

2008-06-03T15:06:00.003+10:00

The Scottish Parliament is currently discussing a proposal to place a ban on brand names being displayed on cigarette packs. There is also a strong possibility that retail outlets will be forced to hide cigarettes away from the public eye – in other words, stock them ‘under the counter’.

The aim of removing brand names from cigarette packs is to take away the last vestige of advertising and marketing from the tobacco companies. All tobacco advertising in the UK has been banned for many years and this is seen as the final nail in the coffin of the advertising and branding of tobacco products.

Forcing tobacco products under the counter is a measure aimed at reducing the number of new smokers taking up the habit, particularly among young people.

What the Scottish Parliament is actually saying is – we are not in the business of banning the sale of tobacco products outright, but we are going to make sure that the tobacco companies will not be able to display, market and advertise their products to children and other non-smokers.

The Australian Government is also looking at the idea of introducing similar measures to discourage smoking. Just a few days ago a TV crew was filming outside a shop which sells tobacco products, soliciting the views of customers who had just purchased a pack of cigarettes.

“How do you feel about the possibility of cigarettes being forced under the counter and having no brand names on the packs?” was the general crux of the question put to smokers.

“It’s just another attack on freedom of choice.”

“They’re taking away my right to smoke.”

“They won’t stop me from smoking.”

These are just a sample of the responses aired by the poor down-trodden smoker.

It is well documented and utterly indisputable that cigarettes seriously damage your health, from lung and heart diseases to losing limbs and contracting all manner of cancers. However, every time I hear smokers defending their habit, or responding to questions about proposed or actual sanctions against smoking, I become more and more convinced that smoking cigarettes also severely damages the brain.

If and when cigarettes are hidden away from general view, smokers will still be able to buy their cigarettes and indeed, their favourite brand. The tobacco products will still be on sale. Hiding them from the public does not constitute a ban on smoking, but try telling that to the brain-damaged smoker.

Smokers are forever shouting from the rooftops about their right to indulge in their filthy and nefarious habit. When the UK banned smoking in bars and clubs, smokers up and down the country were up in arms, proclaiming their right to freedom of choice, conveniently forgetting the freedom of choice of the non-smoker to be allowed to socialise in a public place without being forced to inhale tobacco fumes –
not to mention the smell of nicotine attaching itself to their clothes and hair and so on.

“I can get knocked down by a bus.”

This is another oft-heard claim offered up by smokers in defence of smoking. Yet another reason for my belief that smoking cigarettes severely damages the brain.

I have news for smokers. I too could be killed in a road traffic accident, as could anyone who goes anywhere near a road in their normal day to day lives. I could also be flattened by an asteroid. I could be struck by lightning. I could be stampeded by a herd of marauding elephants. I could spontaneously combust. The chances of any of these things happening to me are astronomical, the same odds that apply to the smoker. Do I then say to myself – Well, I could be run over by a bus tomorrow, or I could be struck by lightning the day after tomorrow, so I may as well go ahead and stick my head in that blazing fire just to see what happens.

“If everyone stopped smoking tomorrow, your taxes would increase dramatically.”

Again, the much vaunted claim of the smokers who are so deluded they think they are doing me a great service by keeping my taxes to a minimum. Yes, more proof that smoking severely damages the brain.

Tobacco related illnesses are a massive drain on health services the world over. Whatever a country loses in terms of revenue from tobacco duty would be recovered tenfold as a result of reduced demand on health service resources. Furthermore, if diminished revenue from tobacco duty is a headache for Governments, why are they spending so many millions trying to get people to stop smoking?

I am an ex-smoker. I know how difficult it is to kick the habit and I am aware how addictive nicotine can be.

I have every sympathy for smokers who say – I’d love to stop smoking but I can’t.

But when I hear smokers proclaiming their right to inflict their filthy habit on me, and insisting that putting cigarettes out of sight of children in shops and stores is somehow an abuse of their human rights, I just can’t help coming to the conclusion that . . .

SMOKING DAMAGES YOUR BRAIN.

[67] Whatever Happened To Private Grief?

2008-04-22T16:09:00.004+10:00

I suppose it had to happen some time. In the county of Angus, in Scotland, a 21 year-old woman was killed on the main Dundee to Aberdeen road. What made this incident particularly tragic was the fact that the woman was killed while attempting to lay flowers at a roadside shrine dedicated to her late husband who had lost his life a few months earlier when his car left the same stretch of road and slammed into a tree. The shrine had been built by the woman in memory of her husband and she drove there regularly to lay fresh flowers at the foot of the makeshift wooden cross.

Whilst I have every sympathy with those who lose friends and family in such tragic circumstances, I really think the time has come for these roadside shrines to be made illegal, if only to avoid further danger to family members who regularly stop to pay their respects, only yards from speeding cars and trucks.

Australia has a large number of these roadside tributes. Some of them are beautifully built with crosses adorned with flowers and hand-written messages from grieving family and friends. When I first came to Australia and shared the driving with my wife and we travelled for days on end, I must have counted at least fifty such roadside shrines.

Apart from the obvious dangers, as evidenced by the double-tragedy in Scotland, I actually began to find myself resenting the fact that I was, as a road user, being unwittingly forced to share in the grief of people I do not know and will never meet. To my mind, grief should be a private affair. Again, as a road user, I do not want to be constantly reminded that someone has lost his or her life on a part of the road where I am passing. Of course people do die on our roads, but I fail to see why I and other drivers and passengers should have the fact that someone died at a particular spot constantly rammed down our throats by people who really should grieve in private.

Back in Scotland, I walked my daily ten minutes to the train station only to find it had been closed due to a dead body having been discovered overnight in the gents toilet. Of course I was sympathetic and considered the inconvenience of my having to find an alternative route to work as nothing compared to someone’s tragic death and a family’s grief. Later I was told that the young man had died of a heroin overdose after he had locked himself in one of the cubicles in order to shoot-up in peace. Again, I was entirely sympathetic. What I certainly did not like was that for the next week or so, the station entrance was adorned with all manner of wreaths and floral tributes, as well as football shirts and scarves and sundry personal items. To get to our trains we, as commuters, were forced to endure this sickening display of public grief, as if we were all partly to blame and were thereby condemned to partake of the grieving process, without having any choice in the matter.

In Glasgow, I have seen newspaper reports and photographs of similar colourful tributes erected in memory of young men who have been killed in gang fights.

It is surely time for the general public to be spared from having to witness these cloying displays. Too many people nowadays think they have a right to force their grief on the world at large, as if to show the rest of us how much they are suffering. Whether it be a road accident, a drugs overdose, or a gangland slaying, let them grieve in private and in peace. It was enough for me to know that a poor, unfortunate young man had died of a drugs overdose. I did not require to see his picture on my way to work for the next two weeks and be told by people I do not know how much they loved and missed their son, friend, brother, whom I never met.

If I know the deceased, I will know about his/her demise and will decide whether or not to pay my respects. If I see a funeral cortege passing in the street on the way to a burial or cremation, I will silently pay my respects in my own way. I do not expect to have to pay my respects every day for the next week or two while trying to go about my normal daily business.

[66] A Lucrative Enterprise?

2008-03-28T15:13:00.008+10:00

If I were going into business here in Australia, and if I knew anything about cars, I would go into the business of supplying and fitting brake pads to Australia’s millions of drivers.

I would be a millionaire in no time.

I have been studying the habits of Aussie drivers very closely, especially at traffic lights and in traffic jams. You see, there are two motor vehicle accessories that Aussie drivers do not know exist. One is the blinker – indicator to my UK readers – and the other is, the hand-brake.

The problems surrounding the misuse, or non-use of blinkers are self-explanatory, so I shall concentrate on the hand-brake.

When Australian drivers, male and female, stop at traffic lights or in a heavy traffic jam, they always insist on sitting there with their foot on the brake, rather than engaging the hand-brake. I could see the point if the driver knows he or she is going to be stationary for only a few seconds, but no, they do it for minutes on end.

What is even more absurd is that they leave their foot on the foot-brake even when they are on a flat surface and there is no possibility of the vehicle rolling, forward or backward. What all this unnecessary use of the foot-brake does to the wear and tear of the brake pads is anybody’s guess, but I am sure that Australian drivers must spend more on brake pads than any other drivers on the planet, hence my lucrative business idea.

Another annoying thing about Australian drivers is, why do they always insist on using the brakes to slow themselves down on a long stretch of road when they see a speed reduction sign about a hundred metres ahead? Have you Australian drivers never heard of the simple practice of reducing your speed gradually over a reasonable distance by simply . . . er . . . wait for it . . . taking your foot off the gas?

I am travelling along behind an Australian driver in the morning on my way to the office. There is a slip road exiting the motorway to the left. The slip road runs for a full kilometre before it hits traffic lights. About half a kilometre in, there is a bend which is fronted by a sign advising a safe speed limit of 60kph. I exit the Motorway on or just under the 100kph limit. I know there is a bend about half a kilometre in, so I take my foot off the gas and allow my car to gradually slow down naturally and, well bless my soul – when I reach the bend, I am travelling at 60kph without having troubled the brakes. That is all well and good, except when there is another driver not too far in front of me on the slip road. He or she, as soon as they cross the dotted line into the slip road, without using the blinker I might add, immediately apply their brakes – and there is no other car in front of them – to bring their car from 100kph to 60kph over a distance of 50 metres, forcing me to apply my brakes to stop from crashing into them.

Even driving along the busy motorway in the morning or evening rush hour, I maintain a safe distance and, when I need to slow the car to maintain a safe distance, I simply take my foot off the gas, and apply it again when it is safe to increase my speed. When I look at other drivers around me though, all I see is vehicles travelling at 110kph and more, constantly braking to avoid hitting the car in front. I have seen cars whose red brake lights flash on and off constantly over many kilometres.

All of which are adequate reasons for believing that the supply and fitting of brake pads would be a money-spinning enterprise here in Australia.

[65] To A Fart

2008-03-04T23:23:00.002+10:00

Once I met a lovely lass
A Sheila from Down Under
Sexy legs and a gorgeous ass
And hair like rolling thunder

Kezza quickly won my heart
And let me share her bed
Until I dropped a rasping fart
And almost knocked her dead

The stench enough to kill a yak
And put you off your dinner
She shouted as she turned her back
Dogs wouldn’t roll in yer

Every minute of every day
My arse had Kezza weeping
And no escape it’s sad to say
It worked while I was sleeping

In a lift or crowded stores
To Kerry it was no laugh
For even as she washed her pores
I exploded in the bath

So here I am alone again
Saddened at our parting
Cos Kezza could not stand the pain
And divorced me for my farting

Thomas (sniff)

[64] Scotland's Shame

2008-02-11T16:58:00.000+10:00

Scotland, the nation of my birth, is blighted by religious sectarianism. For more than 300 years, Scotland has been predominantly a Presbyterian country. In the earlier part of the 19th century there were fewer than 50 Catholics living in the more populace Glasgow and West of Scotland areas, while parts of the Hebridean Islands were still predominantly Catholic at that time, and are still to this day, due to the Reformation failing to touch such far flung and isolated areas.

During and after the Irish Potato Famine (1845-1852) millions of impoverished men, women and children fled the Emerald Isle, landing in places like America, Canada, Liverpool and Glasgow. The more fortunate, who had something to barter with, were able to flee to North America, while the most impoverished and wretched had to settle for the relatively short sailing across the Irish Sea to the famous port on the mouth of the River Clyde. Tens of thousands of penniless and hungry Irish refugees sailed into the Clyde in the years following the terrible famine.

Ireland’s detritus were not welcome in Protestant Scotland and were faced with even more deprivation and squalor. They were forced to live several families in one room in run-down, damp and cold tenement buildings. There were no jobs for the men and certainly no social security benefits to assist the “invaders”. They were required to queue for hours to receive bread and soup provided by Protestant clergymen and volunteers, and in some cases were forced to denounce their Catholic faith as a condition of being granted the life-saving sustenance. Those Irish immigrants who made the effort to better their lot through hard work and enterprise were met with resistance from anti-Irish and anti-Catholic bigots who resented their presence among them.

Eventually, the lot of the Irish immigrants improved as they slowly integrated into Scottish society and gradually moved further afield to places like Greenock, Croy, Carfin, and Dundee. From the less than 50 Catholics in the middle of the nineteenth century, Scotland is now home to over a quarter of a million Catholics. Despite this, as recently as the 1970s there was a number of major employers throughout Scotland who advertised for workers with the rider “Catholics need not apply”.

Today, religious sectarianism and bigotry in Scotland still exists, although it is much less prevalent than it once was and, it has to be said, it is a two-way problem. Since the early 20th century, there has been a backlash of the more rebellious Catholics against the Protestant “enemy”. In recent decades however, the problem has manifested itself mainly around the bitter sectarian rivalry between the two big Glasgow Football Clubs, namely Celtic – supported predominantly by Catholics, and Rangers – followed mainly by Protestants. Indeed, Rangers Football Club adopted a sectarian employment policy. Founded in 1878, Rangers did not sign a mainstream Roman Catholic football player until 1989 – more than 110 years later.

In the early part of the 20th century, the growing flock of Scottish Catholics led the leadership to negotiate with the Education Department to incorporate Catholic faith schools and the right of Catholics to send their children to be educated in Catholic schools was laid down in the statute book to become the law of the land. In view of the high level of anti-Catholic bigotry at that time, especially within the establishment, it is perhaps surprising that the Catholic Church was granted the freedom to establish faith schools in Scotland, especially with the protection of the law of the land and, more significantly, financed within the Scottish Education System itself. However, the truth is that the establishment was so eager not to have its own Protestant children sitting in the same classrooms as Catholic children, that the people were prepared to meet the cost of Catholic schools, an irony which is lost on today’s anti-Catholic bigots.

Now, in the 21st century, hardly a week goes by without a letter appearing in a Scottish newspaper calling for the abolition of Catholic faith schools. It is a very emotive subject and as such, it attracts very emotive language, to say the least. “It is divisive” they claim. “It encourages bigotry” they cry.

Strangely, there are Catholic faith schools in England, France, Germany, the United States and Australia, to name but a few countries. They don’t appear to have a problem with Catholic schools promoting bigotry and divisiveness. Could it be because these countries have a very low percentage of anti-Catholic bigots? Let me take this argument one step further.

When I grew up in the industrial heartland of Lanarkshire, I played in the streets and on the football fields with my neighbours and friends. Some of us were Catholics and some were Protestants. We went to separate schools each day, but that did not stop us from meeting up in the streets in the evening and having fun and playing together. We accepted that we were of a different religion and that was that.

If little Johnny says to his mother, “Why can’t I go to the same school as Peter?” what on earth is wrong with Johnny’s mother replying, “Because Peter is a Protestant and you are a Catholic, but you can still be friends.”? Peter and Johnny going to the same school does not invalidate the fact that they have different religious backgrounds, so how does them going to different schools cause division and bigotry? The answer is, when there are more sinister forces at work, ie bigoted and sectarian parents. The father who resents the existence of Catholic schools is the same father who will resent the fact that his son is sitting in the same class as a Catholic. Only sectarian bigots believe Catholic faith schools are divisive and the cause of bigotry and sectarianism.

Some 5 years ago, Celtic Football Club won the Scottish Championship on a Saturday afternoon. Rangers had lost out and as the Celtic fans celebrated in the pubs and bars, a crowd of Rangers fans in my home town of Motherwell went out to cause mischief. As the priest held evening mass at St Luke’s Catholic Church, attended by around 50 parishioners, mainly elderly ladies, the church was attacked as bricks and stones were thrown through the windows and anti-Catholic slogans were sprayed on the walls. Witnesses from nearby houses that overlooked the church told police and the press that the perpetrators were young and old and some were wearing Rangers colours. As the shaken priest was being interviewed by the police during the aftermath, he was heard to say, “I don’t know what school these thugs went to, but it must be a Catholic school, because everyone keeps telling us Catholic schools breed sectarianism.”

I lived in New York a few years ago and can recall how men and women who were born and bred in the United States, but who were of Irish, Italian or Greek descent, were happy to label themselves, and indeed were known by their peers as Irish, Italian and Greek. Yet in Scotland, if a man or woman who was born and raised in Scotland, but has Irish parents or grandparents or even great grandparents, calls him or herself Irish, he or she is regarded as a sectarian bigot, because only in Scotland is it considered an act of bigotry to claim yourself to be Irish.

In New York, the city holds an annual St Patrick’s Day parade on 17th March. It is a public holiday and the parade lasts several hours and is celebrated by hundreds of thousand of New Yorkers and visitors from all over the world. Other cities like Chicago, Washington DC, New Orleans and Seattle have their own St Patrick’s Day parades. Yet in Scotland, where 85% of the country’s quarter of a million Catholics are of Irish descent, any celebration of St Patrick’s Day is done in private; in Irish bars and clubs and dwelling houses. Try and organise a St Patrick’s Day parade in Scotland and you will have the full force of the law down on you, not to mention the violent bigots who would certainly not allow such an event to take place, even if the police saw fit to let it happen.

Yet in July each year, the Orange Order marches through the streets of Scotland’s towns and cities in a drunken rabble of a display of Protestant supremacy as they celebrate a battle which took place in Ireland in 1690.

Anyone who knows me will know that I am an atheist. I certainly have no love for any religion and subscribe to the Richard Dawkins camp which believes that religiosity is a nonsense and something to be abhorred; but that does not preclude me from standing up for the rights of a sizeable minority of Scottish people to celebrate their Irishness as and how they see fit, and to send their children to Catholic faith schools, without being physically attacked and accused of being divisive and bigoted.

Scotland is a great country with a lot going for it, but anti-Catholic and anti-Irish bigotry is Scotland’s shame. It used to be Scotland’s secret shame, but not any more. The days of the bigots are numbered.

[63] Bank Aid

2008-01-25T15:54:00.000+10:00

I feel sorry for the banks, I really do. Especially the ones who send out millions of credit cards to customers. It must cost a fair bit of money to process credit card applications and to produce and mail the cards to the successful applicants. Then there is the cost of sending out monthly statements and maintaining the accounts. The banks do not make any money from credit cards, which is why I feel sorry for them.

How do I know the banks don’t make money from credit cards? I’ll tell you. In all my years of working life and socialising – I believe they call it social networking in this microchip age – in offices, factories, pubs and clubs, occasionally the subject of credit cards is the topic of conversation. I have listened to and taken part in many discussions on credit cards and, to my amazement, I have yet to meet one solitary credit card holder who pays a penny in interest on purchases.

I use my credit card to pay for all manner of purchases, from flights to theatre tickets. I pay interest each month for the right to spread my payments conveniently, all of which is the undoubted purpose and benefit of credit cards. However, listening to the discussions over the decades, it appears that I am the only credit card holder in the universe who does pay interest, because everyone else settles the entire outstanding balance on receipt of their monthly statement, thereby invalidating the need to pay interest.

“I always pay my full balance every month so I don’t need to pay interest,” is the oft-heard comment during these discussions.

If it wasn’t for me, the banks would go out of business pretty damn quickly.

Kerrianne tells me all these people are lying, but she is such a cynic, while I believe everything everyone tells me. Honest.

[62] It's A Girl Thing

2007-11-23T15:29:00.000+10:00

This morning I decided to forego the usual packed lunch and, as it was Friday, I would break with tradition and treat myself to a lunch away from the office.

“Where will you go?” asked Kerrianne.

“I fancy a Subway,” I replied after some consideration.

When lunchtime arrived, I had finally decided to gorge myself, not on a healthy Subway meal, but a good old-fashioned helping of Fish and Chips. I know, I know. But it is only once in a blue moon. So I jumped in the car and, within fifteen or twenty minutes, I was enjoying my greasy, fat-inducing lunch. My telephone rang.

“Are you at lunch?” said Kerrianne, obviously aware that I was chewing while I was talking.

“Yes,” I replied. “I am sitting here enjoying a nice Fish and Chips.”

“I thought you were having a Subway?”

Why do women do that? And in my experience, it is only women who do that. Not all women, let me add, but most women. Or a lot of women. Ok, some women. At least we men, when talking about female traits, talk about “some women” or “a lot of women”. We seldom say “all women”. Whenever women get together and discuss men, they always talk about “it’s a man thing” or “it’s a boy thing”. You never hear a woman say, “Some men are like that.”

But I digress.

Why do women always – sorry, often – question men whenever they do a simple little thing like, er, changing their minds?

Now I could understand if the question was, “I thought you said you were never going to stick pins in your eyes ever again.” But invariably, the question surrounds the most trivial of matters. If your wife or girlfriend, or even your mother or sister, asks you, “Which tie are you wearing to the wedding tomorrow?” and you reply, “The red one with the grey spots” and you finally decide on the blue silk tie with the yellow pattern, rest assured your wife, girlfriend, mother, sister will say, “I thought you were going to wear the red one with the grey spots.”

In fact, it isn’t even a question. It’s a statement. She is telling you what she thought. Ok, what she really means is “Why did you change your mind?” But that is not what she said. So why do women find it such a big issue when we men change our minds about little things? I have a theory. I believe it is because women generally like to have everything planned and laid out in their minds well in advance, like tie selection and type of lunch. As a result, we men, who are more spontaneous and are happy to decide when the time comes, are forced into giving an answer long before we have even thought about it. So when lunchtime arrives, or the morning of the family wedding is upon us, we make our choice, and the womenfolk demand an explanation for the apparent change of mind.

Recently, Kerrianne said to me, “I thought you were having the steak.”

I just smiled and carried on eating.

“Ok just ignore me,” she protested.

“I am not ignoring you. I heard what you said.”

“But you didn’t answer.”

“You didn’t ask me a question. You told me you thought I was having the steak, but as you can see, I am having the Veal Cutlet. So I think it is fair to say, I changed my mind.”

Well, it was her fault for asking me what I was having long before we had even entered the restaurant.

Anyway, I thought you said you weren’t going to read my blog any more.

[61] The Kids Are Alright

2007-11-16T14:28:00.000+10:00

Last night in my club, a few of us were deep in conversation about the youths of today. It began with someone bemoaning the fact that the previous night, he and his wife were kept awake by hoons careering around the neighbourhood.

To the uninitiated, ie non-Australians, hoons drive their souped-up cars through deserted residential streets in the early hours and noisily perform suicidal hand-brake turns and various death-defying stunts which frighten the lieges and keep them awake.

The conversation progressed from hoons to vandals. Apparently the youths of today are intent on destroying all that is good, with senseless vandalism and an abundance of graffiti appearing to soil the landscape with each new dawn.

Then it was selfishness and general disrespect. One woman complained that she could no longer enjoy her Saturday afternoon visits to the shopping mall because, “There is a cinema there and it attracts hundreds of youngsters who hang around and make lots of noise.”

“What do they do when they’re hanging around?” I asked, wondering what it was that I had missed on my many visits to the same shopping mall.

“Oh, they just walk around making a noise and having fun,” she replied, “They just have no respect for other people.” She screwed up her face as if she were describing some bloodthirsty satanic ritual. I imagined that this “lack of respect” manifested itself in the youngsters not making themselves scarce and leaving the entire shopping mall to their elders and betters.

“When I was a boy,” began another. “We respected our elders. We would never dream of being cheeky and if we did, our parents would beat us black and blue.”

“That’s right,” agreed yet another. “We were terrified of our fathers in those days. Nowadays the kids get away with whatever they like.”

Yeah, I thought. Like going to the shopping mall and spending their pocket-money and terrorising older people by being alive and having fun. Even loud fun, damn them.

First of all, I am well aware that hoons are a problem and a danger, albeit mainly to each other. I am also conscious of the vandalism and graffiti that can be seen on a daily basis, and on that score, Australia is no different to the United Kingdom. But we older people need to get this into some sort of perspective. Only a very small proportion of Australian youths are, or ever have been hoons. Only a very, very miniscule minority of youngsters are vandals and graffiteurs. And more importantly – and I have noticed this in the UK too – far too many of us are very quick to criticise and demonise youngsters just for being there. Regardless of the fact that they are not committing any crime and are not terrorising people, some of us tend to see a group of youngsters merely going about their lawful business, as a threat to our well-being and safety.

“When we were young, we were out and about doing all sorts of things,” said Bob. “Today’s youngsters sit in their rooms all the time playing with computers and play-stations and watching DVDs and stuff.”

“Hold on a minute there Bob,” I interjected. “How can they be in their rooms all the time playing with computers AND be out hooning and vandalising and terrorising you and me in shopping malls?”

I think my point was lost in the general hubbub of agreement with Bob.

“Where will this technology end?” Bob asked me, almost accusingly.

“Technology will never end,” I replied. “Why should it? Why would you want it to?”

“But when I was a boy all we had was the wireless. Then eventually the television.”

If you are under 40 and reading this. A wireless is what we old-timers used to call a radio.

“Yes,” I agreed. “But when I was a boy watching TV, my gran used to say – we didn’t sit watching TV when we were young.”

I am sure that upon the introduction of the domestic wireless, grans and grandads up and down the country condemned this “new technology” which was keeping youngsters indoors all day long.

Back in Scotland, youths would regularly hang around in groups on street corners. Of course, a few would abuse alcohol and end up causing vandalism and worse, but for the most part, they caused no trouble. It was a common occurrence though for the police to be called to attend to a group of youths who were simply hanging around. They may have been a bit boisterous and at times noisy, but I have witnessed instances where the police were called to a group of youngsters at seven o’clock on a warm Saturday evening in the middle of Summer.

My wife and I were on our way to visit my brother and as we walked along the street, about a dozen youngsters were standing around talking and laughing. As we approached, they were blocking the pavement and we were happy to step onto the road to get round them. Before we could make such a manoeuvre, one of the youths spotted our approach and ushered his friends in, away from the road, allowing us safe passage without having to step onto the road. One of the youngsters, who had his back to us, turned and apologised as he stepped aside to allow us to pass. My wife and I offered up a quick “Thank you” which was met with a polite “No problem mate.”

After about ten minutes in my brother’s house, we noticed the police had arrived and were telling the youths to move on. My brother informed me that it happens all the time.

“They’re standing around doing no harm,” he said. “Then some sad bastard phones the cops to get them moved away.”

When I was a teenager back in Motherwell, there was a large school campus in the neighbourhood. The campus included two full-size football pitches with proper goals and nets. One Sunday afternoon when the school was obviously closed and the gates securely locked, about twenty or so football-mad boys, myself included, climbed over the perimeter fence and began to enjoy a game of good old-fashioned football – soccer to my Antipodean readers. Within ten minutes, a police car arrived and a couple of policemen emerged and called us over to the fence. A few of the footballers, obviously with reason to fear such a request, scarpered in the opposite direction. A couple of my friends and I approached nervously.

“Sorry lads,” said one of the coppers. “But we have had a complaint from local residents about the noise.”

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” I protested.

“Of course you’re not sonny. Believe me when I say we’d rather you were all in here playing football than out in the streets.”

“Here’s what we’ll do,” said the other copper. “Make yourselves scarce for a few minutes and as soon as we drive off, come back and continue with your game.”

“Seriously?” I said, half suspecting some sort of trap.

“Seriously. It’s a bloody shame you can’t be allowed to use a big football pitch on a Sunday afternoon without some idiot complaining to us. But we have to be seen to be following up, because officially the school is closed.”

So we climbed the fence and pretended to trundle off home until the police car disappeared over the horizon. We climbed back over the fence and continued our game.

So it seems that we, the older generation are the same the world over, and always have been. Some of us are too quick to forget that we were young once.

It really is time we took the real bad guys to task, and left the vast majority of our law-abiding youngsters to get on with living, instead of tarring them all with the same brush – a brush of convenience.

They’re not all bad. Just like not all of us are moaning old gits.

[60] Return to Sender

2007-11-13T16:11:00.000+10:00

Why oh why do people insist on forwarding so-called chain-letter emails to all their email contacts? Do they really expect me – and I speak only for myself – to believe that if I take the trouble to “send this to 6/10/20 (delete as appropriate) email contacts/friends” I will receive “wonderful news within 6 hours”; or if I do NOT send it on, I will be struck by lightning at exactly 2:47 tomorrow afternoon?

These emails are invariably, by their very nature, forwarded to me by friends and acquaintances and even relatives. Do they really know me so little that they actually expect me to fall for their pathetic threats and promises of what horrible fate will befall me should I break the chain; or what piece of great fortune I will encounter should I contribute to this on-going madness?

In fact, do the people who have included me as one of their chosen contacts actually believe in this insanity? Obviously they must do, or why on earth would they keep it going? I begin to question my own lifestyle that I have such people as friends and acquaintances, although I remind myself of the oft-heard adage, “You can choose your friends, but you cannot choose your relatives” as I excuse myself on that score at least.

Someone, somewhere – some very sad individual – has to start each one of these irritating pieces of invasive junk. What sort of cretin has the time and, more worryingly, the inclination to set in motion a puerile pyramid of exponentially nauseating garbage?

I once received one which originated from a woman who claimed to be a bona fide Angel. Yes, a real Angel with wings and a magic wand. Down the cyber-chain she assured me that if I passed her message on to 6 contacts, I would receive news of a financial windfall that very evening. The email also included a series of glowing testimonials from people further up the chain, telling of how they had indeed received news of a windfall only hours after passing on the message. In Glasgow there is a great saying that is just perfect for such situations: “Aye right!”

I received another only a few days ago which was the catalyst for my writing this article. It was nothing more than a cloying, monotonous and protracted homily to “our brave boys in Iraq”. The instigator had actually, with breathtaking arrogance, added the comment, “I don’t want to hear of anyone refusing to pass this on”. It will be no surprise to anyone who really does know me and is familiar with my views on the illegal war in Iraq, that I consigned this piece of jingoistic trash to the cyber dustbin, but not before I sent the instigator an email with pictures of burning Iraqi babies and invited her to start a new chain. I even told her that if she breaks the chain, she will be run over by a steamroller within two hours.

I expect it to reach my inbox within two weeks.

[59] Gender Poetry

2007-10-13T10:42:00.000+10:00

A WOMAN'S POEM

Before I lay me down to sleep,
I pray for a man, who's not a creep,
One who's handsome, smart and strong.
One who loves to listen long.
One who thinks before he speaks.
One who'll call, not wait for weeks.
I pray he's gainfully employed.
When I spend his cash, won't be annoyed.
Pulls out my chair and opens my door.
Massages my back and begs to do more.
Oh! Send me a man, who'll make love to my mind.
Knows what to answer to, "how big is my behind?"
I pray that this man will love me to no end.
And always be my very best friend.

A MAN'S POEM

I pray for a deaf-mute nymphomaniac
with huge boobs who owns a
liquor store and a golf course.
This doesn't rhyme and I don't care.

[58] Humour for Wordsmiths

2007-10-11T16:35:00.000+10:00

I wondered why the baseball was getting bigger. Then it hit me!
Police were called to a day care where a three-year-old was resisting a rest.

Did you hear about the guy whose whole left side was cut off? He's all right now.

The roundest knight at King Arthur's round table was Sir Cumference.

The butcher backed up into the meat grinder and got a little behind in his Work.

To write with a broken pencil is pointless.

When fish are in schools they sometimes take debate.

The short fortune teller who escaped from prison was a small medium at Large.

A thief who stole a calendar got twelve months.

A thief fell and broke his leg in wet cement. He became a hardened Criminal.

Thieves who steal corn from a garden could be charged with stalking.

We'll never run out of math teachers because they always multiply.

When the smog lifts in Los Angeles, U.C.L.A .

The math professor went crazy with the blackboard. He did a number on it.

The professor discovered that her theory of earthquakes was on shaky Ground.

The dead batteries were given out free of charge.

If you take a laptop computer for a run, you could jog your memory.

A dentist and a manicurist fought tooth and nail.

A bicycle can't stand alone; it is two tired.

A will is a dead giveaway.

Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.

A backward poet writes inverse.

In a democracy it's your vote that counts; in feudalism, it's your Count that votes.

A chicken crossing the road: poultry in motion.

If you don't pay your exorcist you can be repossessed.

With her marriage she got a new name and a dress.

Show me a piano falling down a mine shaft and I'll show you A-flat miner.

When a clock is hungry it goes back four seconds.

The guy who fell onto an upholstery machine has fully recovered.

A grenade fell onto a kitchen floor in France, resulted in Linoleum Blownapart.

You are stuck with your debt if you can't budge it.

Local Area Network in Australia : The LAN down under.

He broke into song because he couldn't find the key.

A calendar's days are numbered.

A lot of money is tainted: 'Taint yours, and 'taint mine.

A boiled egg is hard to beat.

He had a photographic memory which was never developed.

A plateau is a high form of flattery.

Those who get too big for their britches will be exposed in the end.

When you've seen one shopping centre, you've seen the mall.

If you jump off a Paris bridge, you are in Seine.

When she saw her first strands of gray hair, she thought she'd dye.

Bakers trade bread recipes on a knead to know basis.

Santa's helpers are subordinate clauses.

Acupuncture: a jab well done.

[57] The Gold Coast

2007-06-29T17:51:00.000+10:00

Q1 from above Surfers Paradise

Recently I had the pleasure of visiting Q1 - the world's tallest residential building. Q1 is situated in Surfers Paradise in the heart of the Gold Coast, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Kerrianne, my brother Philip and I ventured to the observation deck on the 77th floor and took in the breathtaking views. Here is a sample of the snaps we took, starting with me trying to appear calm.

Kerrianne was very brave as she is scared of heights

Philip takes it all in his stride

[56] A Glasgow Dynasty : Part 6 - Erchie's First Sale

2007-06-17T10:38:00.000+10:00

Malky lay spread-eagled on the couch. He wore a red Liverpool football top and a pair of shiny blue shell suit bottoms. On the floor beside him lay three empty cans of lager and an ashtray which was overflowing with cigarette ends and ash, some of which had spilled onto the thick shagpile.

In his left hand he held a magazine while his right hand was buried down the front of his shell suit bottoms, busily exercising his wrist with frantic downward motions. In his state of blissful concentration he failed to hear the entrance of his mother. Brenda grabbed the magazine and smacked him forcefully across the head with it.

“Ah ya!” cried Malky, using his arms to shield any further blows. “Whit the fuck . . .”

“Put that away ya filthy wee sod that ye are. We’ve got visitors.”

Brenda pushed the magazine under the sofa and stood back to welcome her guests.

“Come on in Jinty. In ye come Erchie.”

“Ma bliddy heid,” said Malky.

“Whit did ah tell you about wipin yer nose on ma new shagpile? Ah’ll deal wi you later ya dirty wee pervert ye,” she told Malky as he rushed past her, rubbing the pain on the side of his head.

The couple entered the brightly decorated living room and removed their coats.

“Aw Brenda yer livin room’s smashin,” said Jinty.

“Aye that’s right. Ah forgot ye’d no seen it since it was done.”

“Did Tam and the boys do it then?” asked Archie who had sat down on the couch beside his wife.

“Whit that lot? Ye must be jokin. Naw me and oor Peter done it ower wan weekend. Ye’ve met ma brother Peter haven’t ye. Och he’s great wi his hauns like ye know. He’s got him’n thon stuck up wife o his livin in a palace. Honestly Jinty ye should see it.”

“Where’s Tam the noo. Is he no in then?” said Jinty.

“He’s away doon the bookies,” said Malky who had returned with a couple of cans of lager.

“Fancy a wee swally Erchie?”

Archie hesitated as Jinty glared at him in silent reproach.

“If it’s all the same to you son, I’d better not.”

“Are ye still spendin aw yer time doon at the library?” said Malky.

“Not so much now since I started work again.”

“Ah see thon Salman Rushdie’s brought out a follow up tae Satanic Verses.”

“Really. I hadn’t heard. What’s it called?”

“Buddha’s a fat bastard”.

“By the way Malcolm,” said Brenda. “Who were thon two men ah met at the gate?”

“Two men?” replied Malky.

“Aye. The two men wi the overalls and the wee blue van.”

“Och them. Ah’ll tell ye later.”

He nodded in the direction of Jinty and Archie. Brenda got the message and quickly changed the subject.

“Awright Erchie. Let’s have a look at this vacuum cleaner then.”

Archie got to his feet and moved out into the hallway. In a few seconds he returned with a large cardboard box which he placed on the couch and began to open carefully.

“Aw ye’ll jist love this Brenda,” enthused Jinty. “Ah’ve got wan o ma ain. It’s a dawdle so it is.”

All three looked on intently as Archie patiently put the pieces together and placed the machine gently on to the floor. With a contented smile he held the flex and handed the plug to Brenda.

“If you would do the necessary Mrs Mitchell.”

Jinty took the plug and carefully pushed it into the socket behind the television.

“Ma. Ah better have a word wi ye,” said Malky.

“No the noo son. Can ye no see ah’m busy.”

Brenda stood facing Archie, the shiny new vacuum cleaner standing proudly between them.

“How do ah switch it on then?”

“First things first Mrs Mitchell.”

Archie checked her eagerness with the raise of a finger. He calmly bent down, picked up the ashtray and poured the contents all over the new carpet.

“Ma!”

“Haud yer weesht the noo wid ye?”

Next Archie moved across to the fireplace, picked up the shovel, swept up a pile of coal ash and soot and emptied it all over the floor beside the contents of the ashtray. Jinty’s heart raced as she watched in silent admiration. In her excitement she did not notice Malky quietly rise from his chair and move towards the door.

“Have no fear Mrs Mitchell. This brand new deluxe model will very quickly swallow up every last piece of dirt,” said Archie. “It is indeed a wonderful machine.”

“It bliddy well better be,” exclaimed Malky as he opened the door to leave. “Thon two men wi the overalls were fae the electricity board.”

Archie was now puzzled as to why the machine would not come to life when he switched it on.

“We’ve jist had our electricity cut aff,” declared Malky before he raced upstairs followed by his frantic mother.

“Why’n God’s name did ye no tell me?” she cried as she ran after him. “Malcolm! Come oot here tae ah speak tae ye.”

[55] I Haven't Lived

2007-05-22T15:30:00.000+10:00

It is a strange phenomenon that 80% of the Australian population live by the sea. I say strange because of the enormous size of the country. Despite the fact that 80% of the Australian population live by the sea, a disproportionate number of them claim to be real Bush folk. This is also very strange. It is as though they really want to live in the Bush, but are forced by circumstance to eke out an existence in the densely-populated coastal areas. I don’t have a problem with that, except when they look down their noses at us so-called city folk.

I have listened to Aussies wax lyrical about Bush tucker and Billy tea. I have lost count of the number of times I have been told how wonderful and self-fulfilling it is to luxuriate in a man-made Bush shower. I have been told how exciting it is to camp in the Bush, surrounded by poisonous spiders and venomous snakes and all manner of man-eating creatures. I do not doubt that it is exciting. I am sure it is all extremely exhilarating. I just wish they wouldn’t presume to assail me with patronising put-downs like: “You wouldn’t survive a night in the Bush” and, the one that really makes my blood boil: “You haven’t lived”.

I spent some time in the United States, and came away from those shores convinced that the vast majority of the population believes that America, and the American way of life, is the only way. The average Australian could teach our American cousins a thing or two about being narrow-minded, parochial and insular.

It all came to a head recently when my wife’s nephew, a big, hard-drinking bruiser of a man mountain, decided to spend almost a whole day lecturing me on why I had missed out on so much of what real life has to offer. He described how his Range Rover got stuck in a mud bank a hundred miles from civilisation, and how he spent many hours negotiating his way out of a perilous situation. Apparently, as I had never let my vehicle become stuck in a mud bank a hundred miles from civilisation, I hadn’t lived. I tried to redeem myself by recounting how I once drove my Cadillac onto a remote Pacific beach in Washington USA, and had to pay an extortionate fee to a human shark who towed me to safety, but that didn’t qualify.

It finally got hilarious when he grew all misty-eyed and nostalgic about how, as an eight year-old kid, he rode on the back of a cow. Yes, a cow. On a farm. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that in itself, considering the fact that he was only a boy at the time, except that, when he proceeded to ask me if I had ever ridden on the back of a cow, it was one of those rhetorical questions, delivered with a tone of voice that suggested he already knew the answer. Nonetheless, I replied that no, not only had I never had occasion to ride on the back of a cow, but worse still, the very thought of riding on the back of a cow had never once crossed my mind, until now this is.

“You haven’t lived,” he told me.

I haven’t lived. A thirty-eight year-old man who had never left Australia delivered to me the earth-shattering and unpalatable truth that I had never lived. Me? Never lived?

I have travelled all over Europe and North America. I have touched the walls of the Sistine Chapel and marvelled at the artistic treasures and architectural splendour of Rome, Florence, Vienna and Paris. I have been to the top of the Empire State Building, the Seattle Space Needle and the Eiffel Tower. I have climbed mountains in the Austrian and Swiss Alps; eaten a packed lunch on the banks of the Grand Canal in Venice; sailed along the Blue Danube; cruised the Mediterranean; shared a Venetian gondola with a beautiful Spanish Gypsy lady; jumped out of a plane at ten thousand feet; attended Grand Opera in Prague, Salzburg, Munich and New York; camped in the Rocky Mountains; been white water rafting in British Columbia; worked in a bar in the heart of Broadway; published short stories, poetry and one novel; fathered two wonderful children; and run two Marathons.

But alas, I have never ridden on the back of a cow, therefore, I haven’t lived.

How sad is that?

[54] A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 5 - Slappin' a Polis

2007-05-20T20:54:00.000+10:00

Tam stood at the bar of the Railway Tavern and ordered a double whisky and a half pint of heavy. Henry the barman stood with his back to him as he pushed the glass under the optic. Tam felt his mouth begin to water as he watched the golden liquid drop down into the glass.

“Howzit gaun the day wee man?”

“Och no bad Henry. Ye cannae complain can ye?”

Henry placed the glass in front of Tam and moved along the bar to pour the heavy. Tam lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed a large mouthful. He stood for some moments letting the strong spirit warm his insides. He grabbed the glass of heavy from the barman before he could place it on the bar. Tam gulped down the lot and pushed the empty glass towards the barman and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Another hauf pint please Henry.”

The barman started to pour another half pint.

“Christ Tam. Yer fair knockin them back the day are ye no?”

“Had rough night last night so ah did,” said Tam.

He swallowed a mouthful of the second glass of beer and leaned with his elbows on the bar as Henry stood waiting.

“Ah take it ye want them pit oan the slate then?”

“Aye if ye don’t mind Henry. Ah’ve got a bit of a cash flow problem like. Ma missus spends aw the cash an ah go wi the flow.”

The toilet door opened and a young man emerged, adjusting his zip and carrying a rolled up newspaper under his arm.

“Aw it’s yersel Tam.”

“Aye awright Geordie,” replied Tam, half turning round to look at him. “Have you been in there pullin yer plonker ower page three again ya cunt?”

“Aye very good y’aul bastart. At least ah still know how tae use mine.”

Geordie stood at the bar next to Tam where a pint of lager was standing. He took a sip and opened a brand new packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Tam.

“Aw cheers pal.”

“How’s Malky?” said Geordie. “Ah’ve no seen’m fur donkeys.”

“Och ye know whit he’s like. Ayewiz full o big ideas.”

“Is e no workin the noo?”

“Naw, he cannae work. He’s sufferin fae yon SM.”

“SM?” said Henry. “Whit the fuck’s that when it’s at hame?”

“Sticky mattress!”

Geordie let out a sardonic laugh and opened the racing section of his newspaper. Henry turned away groaning, his hands on his head.

“Ah don’t believe it,” he cried. “Ah faw fur it every time.”

Tam screwed up his face and held his stomach.

“Are you still sufferin fae last night?” said Geordie.

“Ach it wiz thon Chinese cairry oot. It wiz too much efter the bevvy like.”

“Ah widnae eat wan o them if ye paid me,” said Geordie.

“Whit’r ye on aboot noo?”

“Ma sister’n law Rosie . . .”

“Aw here we go . . .”

“Naw, naw listen. Her pal went tae a Chinky’s furra night oot wi the lassies fae the work like.”

“Aw aye, it’s ayewiz a friend of a friend of a friend innit.”

“Naw listen. She ordered chicken sumfin or other. When she tried tae eat it it tasted funny. So she took a bit hame in a bit o napkin or sumfin.”

“An she knew this scientist,” said Tam in a low voice.

“Anyways, her boyfriend jist happened tae work in a laboratory. He got the thing analysed an ye know whit it wiz?”

“A dug?”

“A fuckin dug it wiz.”

“Naw,” said Tam acidly.

“Are ye callin me a liar?”

“Naw, naw. Ah widnae dae that son,” replied Tam with a smile. “But wan thing puzzles me.”

“Whit’s that?”

“Ah’ve heard that yin aboot a hundred times an ye know, these Chinky’s must be really bad business men.”

“Howd’ye mean?” said Henry.

“Well, chicken. It’s cheap, it’s easy tae git, ye can buy it doon the road by the ton an sell it at a great big bliddy profit.”

“So,” said Geordie.

“Well, why is it that the Chinkies cannae be ersed goin doon tae wherever the fuck it is ye go, tae buy in a van load o chickens? Naw, they’d raither go oot durin the night an hunt doon stray dugs, capture them, get them back tae the shoap, kill them, skin them, cut them up’n cook them, kiddin us oan it’s really chicken. Now that’s much merr fun innit?”

“Well ah’m only tellin ye whit a wiz telt.”

The door opened and in walked two young men wearing green and white football scarves. Tam and Goerdie looked round automatically as Henry moved to serve them.

“Ye’ll hiv tae take yer scarfs aff lads. Nae fitba colours allowed.”

“Aye nae bother mate,” said the taller of the two. “Two pints o lager please.”

The two men removed their scarves and rolled them up before pushing them into the back pocket of their jeans.

“Celtic’n Rangers the day innit?” said Henry as he poured the first pint.

“Aye,” said the shorter of the two.

“Should be three easy points then eh?” said Henry.

“Aye ah hope sae. Ye can never tell wi these games but.”

The two men picked up their pints and moved away from the bar and sat at a table in the corner.

“Ah’m sure the wan wi the white shirt’s Davie Blackadder’s son,” said Tam, rubbing his chin as his eyes followed the pair back to their seats.

Geordie was engrossed in the Racing Section as he meticulously studied the form and marked selections with a short wooden bookie’s pencil.

“Are you still throwin yer money away on they donkeys?” said Tam.

“Och aye. Ye know whit it’s like bit.”

“Too fuckin right ah dae. It’s a crook’s gemme nooadays. There wance wiz a time ye knew ye were gittin a fair run fur yer money. Even if ye loast like. But no noo. The bookies’ve got it aw sown up atween them. The ordinary punter hasnae got a cat in hell’s chance these days. They’re aw fuckin bent the cunts.”

“Ye’re talkin shite Tam.”

“Ah’m fuckin tellin ye.”

“Jist cos you couldnae pick a winner.”

“Jesus son are ye blin? Can ye no see ye’re bein taken furra ride? Christ they’re fuckin quotin the favourite fur the National at five tae fuckin wan. Whit the fuck diz that tell ye?”

Geordie continued to study form as Tam shook his head and muttered to himself.

After a few seconds Geordie raised his head from the newspaper and screwed up his face as the horrible stench reached his nostrils. He stood for a couple of seconds and sniffed, then quickly grabbed his pint and moved along the bar, away from Tam.

“Aw fucksake Tam that’s fuckin gowpin.”

“Ah telt ye. It’s the fuckin curry.”

“Jesus sufferin fuck!” cried Henry as the dreadful pong reached him and he too retreated to the other side of the bar.

“Aw that’s fuckin awful,” said Geordie.

“Christ Tam,” said Henry.

“Ach,” muttered Tam. “Ah’ll away furra shite then.”

They watched him scurry into the toilet and shook their heads as they laughed.

“E’s some fuckin man aul Tam,” said Henry.

“Aye fuck,” said Geordie. “Wan o the best right enough.”

Geordie winced as an icy blast hit the back of his neck. He turned to see the sillhouette of a man against the bright spring sunlight of the doorway. It wasn’t until the door was closed that he regocnised him.

“Aw fucksake look whit the wind blew in.”

“The usual Balf?” said Henry, holding a pint glass in his hand as he waited for confirmation.

“Aye geeza pint,” said Balf in his customary loud, clear voice. “Fuckit ah’ll hiv a rum’n pep anaw.”

“Whit’s wrang wi the bowlin club the day then Balf?” said Geordie.

“Ach a jist fancied a wee change. Fuckin quiet the day is it no?”

“It’s early yit,” said Henry as he placed a pint of heavy in front of him and proceded to pour a dark rum.

“Aye’n ah’m here fur the fuckin day, ah’ll tell ye that.”

Balf swallowed a few mouthfuls of beer which left a white coating of foam on his ginger moustache.

“Is wee Tam no been in yit?”

“Aye,” said Henry.

“E’s away furra shite,” said Geordie.

“Aw fuck me. That means the bog’ll be oot o bounds fur six fuckin weeks ya cunt. Who’s the fuckin Tims?”

Balf nodded in the direction of the two Celtic Supporters.

“We think wan o them’s Davie Blackadder’s boy,” said Henry, handing him his change.

“Yer fuckin jokin,” said Balf, looking intently at the two men. “They baith look quite normal anaw.”

“Watch whit yer sayin Balf. Ye never know the minute,” said Henry, who now stood at the bar, facing Balf and Geordie, his hands inside his apron.

After a few minutes Tam returned.

“Ah widnae go near that bog fur another six fuckin weeks bay fuck,” he declared.

“Aye ah can imagine,” replied Balf.

“Aw jeezo look who it is,” said Tam, holding out a hand which Balf shook warmly.

“Aye’n you’re a fuckin sight fur sore eyes,” said Balf.

“So whit brings ye doon here then? Barred fae the bowlin club again?”

“Naw, naw. The wife’s away tae visit her sister ower at Greenock. Ah’ve got a few readies in ma back pocket so a thought...an speakin o which.”

He took out his wallet and counted four crisp ten pound notes.

“This is fur yersel wee man.”

Balf stuffed the notes into the top pocket of Tam’s blazer.

“Whit’s this fur?” said Tam, removing the notes and holding them in front of him.

“Remember thon last time a took ye tae the club.”

“No really, but on ye go.”

“D’ye no remember buyin the tote tickets?”

“Naw. Ye don’t mean...”

“Aye, ye won the tote. Forty fuckin smackeroos.”

Tam laughed and did a little childish skip as he counted out the four notes.

“That’s whit a like tae hear. Well done Tam,” said Henry.

“Fucksake,” said Geordie.

“Right Henry,” said Tam, slamming a ten pound note on to the bar. “The drinks are on me.”

One of the Celtic supporters approached the bar and Henry moved to meet him.

“Same again?” said Henry.

“Aye please. And two bags o crisps. Wan cheese’n onion’n wan salt’n vinegar.”

“Are you Davie Blackadder’s boy?” said Tam to the youngster.

“Aye.”

“Used tae work doon the docks?”

“Aye, that’s right.”

“Och ah knew it. Ye’re awfy like’m ye know.”

“Don’t fuckin tell’m that,” said Balf.

The youngster laughed.

“Wiz yer aul man no a bluenose?” said Geordie.

“Aye. Still is.”

“Fuck me, it must be a bundle o laughs in your hoose on a Setterday night,” said Balf.

The man picked up the two pints and returned to his friend.

“Tell yer auld man ye were talkin tae Tam Mitchell fae Partick.”

“Aye.”

“Is that Blackadder that used tae drink in here?” said Geordie.

“Aye, e’s barred noo but.” replied Tam. “Nice enough bloke like. But he couldnae handle the vino. Wan minute he wiz nice as ninepence, the nixt e’s staunin on some poor cunt’s napper.”

“Fucksake,” said Geordie.

“Aye ye couldnae have that in the pub,” said Henry. “E’s barred oot o jist aboot every boozer in Glesca.”

“Ah wiz walkin doon Dumbarton Road wan Friday night aboot six o’clock,” said Tam. “Ah wiz oan ma way oot furra jar like. Then ah sees Blackadder. He’s got this polis by the scruff o the neck against the waw. E’s fuckin slappin the polis across the face an callin’m aw the cunts under the sun.”

“Fucksake,” said Geordie.

“Aye. As ah walked past he stopped hittin the man. He keeps haudin’m by the throat like against the waw. He stops hittin’m an says, howzit gaun Tam, no bad Davie says I, zat’ye gaun furra wee swally, he says, aye, says I, see ye later then Tam, he says, aye see ye, says I, then he turns roon’n starts slappin the polis again. Ah couldnae believe ma eyes.”

“Aye that’s Davie awright,” said Balf.

“Fucksake.” said Geordie.

“Will you stoap sayin that?” cried Tam.

“Whit?”

“Fucksake.”

“Whit’n you don’t swear like?”

“Course ah dae. Ah gae it a bit o fuckin variety bit.”

“Talkin aboot swearin Tam,” said Henry. “Gordon McVittie wiz in the other night. E wiz staunin at the bar wi a couple of mates. Apparently e’s workin as a proof reader wi Collins the publishers.”

“A proof reader?” said Balf.

“Aye. E spends aw day checkin ower manuscripts’n stuff like that. Lookin fur mistakes like, afore they go in fur printin.”

“Sound like a cushey wee number tae me,” said Geordie.

“Forget it wee man,” said Tam. “Ye need tae be able tae read furst.”

“Awe aye, funny fuckin funny.” replied Geordie.

“Aye, but wait tae hear this,” said Henry. “E wiz tellin e’s mates aw aboot it an how e spends aw day readin. So ah says tae’m, ye must find that improves yer vocabulary eh? D’ye know whit e says? E says, aw fuck aye.”

All four men went into fits of laughter.

“Aw Christ Henry, that says it aw, diz it no?” said Tam.

“Ah wiz in a cafe a couple’a Sundays ago doon in Govan,” said Balf. “It wiz early mornin efter an aw night party like. Me an Patsy O’Flynn went in for a coffee while waitin furra bus. The wee wummin handed ower the coffees an we sat doon. Patsy took a sip o e’s coffee and says, aw that’s fuckin nectar. The wee wummin looked across and shoutit, if ye don’t bliddy like it ye don’t hiv tae drink it.”

This time Tam’s fit of laughter turned into a fit of coughing.

“Aw Christ Balf,” he spluttered. “That’s fuckin priceless so it is.”

“Tell ye whit Tam,” said Balf. “They fags’ll be the death o ye wan o these days.”

“Och don’t geezat patter. Ye can jist as easy git kil’t croassin the road.”

“How’s that then?”

“Ah’m sayin ye could walk oot here the night an be flattened by a bus or a truck or whitever.”

“Can ah let ye into a wee secret Tam?” said Balf.

“If ye must.”

“Well pal, the secret is, ye croass the road when it’s clear an there’s nay fuckin buses or lorries or whitever.”

“Bit see when ye’re talking aboot bein barred fae pubs,” said Geordie. “Did ye hear your Malky’s barred oot the White Swan?”

“Naw,” replied Tam. “The wee cunt never telt me. Whit’s e been up tae noo?”

“Och Tam it was hilarious. E hid the hale pub in an uproar. The place wiz rockin wi laughter. It wiz priceless so it wiz.”

“Well are ye gonnae fuckin share it wi us or whit?” said Balf.

“Aye,” said Geordie. “We were aw staunin at the bar, me an Charlie Dempsey an Barney McFarlane an wan or two others. Who else wiz it again?”

“Aw fur fucksake,” said Tam in exasperation. “Spare us the minor details wull ye?”

“Anyway, Angie, the owner’s wife wiz behind the bar. We were aw dain wee tricks n’that an Malky says tae Angie, ah bet ye ah can make yer tits wobble withoot touchin them. So everybody sits up an takes notice like, well ye’ve seen the size o big Angie’s knockers. Anyway, she looks at him. We’re aw lookin at him, wonderin whit wiz comin next like.”

“So am ah,” said Tam.

“Fuckin me tae.” said Balf.

“Well, Angie says, ye’re sayin ye can make ma tits wobble withoot touchin them. Aye, says Malky. Whit’s the bet, says Angie. Dunno, says Tam. Angie says make it a double Vodka then. So Malky tells her tae stand in front o im wi er chest stickin oot. So she does an Malky waves his hands in front of her tits, bit no touchin them. Then aw a sudden he grabs them both in his hands an shakes them up an doon and side tae side. Angie lets oot a scream an backs away sharpish. Malky puts his hand in his pocket’n pulls oot his wallet an says, will Smirnoff dae ye?”

Balf and Geordie and Henry were doubled up in laughter an Tam just shook his head and sipped his pint.

“The cheeky wee bugger. Wait tae ah see im.”

The telephone rang. Henry moved to the other side of the bar and picked it up.

“Tam? Aye e’s here.”

Tam looked up.

“Don’t tell me that’s fur me.”

“D’ye want tae speak tae’m?” said Henry. “Aye, aye ah’ll tell’m.”

Henry replaced the receiver and called Tam across. Tam quickly moved to meet Henry who was leaning against the bar.

“That was Wullie Dunn,” he bagan, his voice almost a whisper. “Hiv you still goat that thing on yer electric meter?”

“Whit? Yon magnet thing that fuck’s up the readin?”

“Aye. Only Wullie says tae tell ye the electric boys are oan tae ye.”

“Ye’re fuckin jokin.”

“Ah’m no Tam. E says ye better git yer arse hame fast and get shot o the thing. The boys are on the way right noo.”

“Aw Christ ah knew ah shouldnae’ve listened tae that cunt.”

Tam turned and walked quickly out of the pub.

“Whit’s up Henry?” said Geordie.

“Where the fuck’re ye gaun?” cried Balf.

“Ah’ll tell yous later guys.”

[53] A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 4 - Pissin' up a Close

2006-10-01T18:53:00.000+10:00

Ringo sat impassively in the waiting room at Glasgow Sheriff Court. All around him were an assortment of individuals. Opposite sat a respectable looking woman. Ringo guessed her to be in her late fifties. She had been rummaging through her handbag for about ten minutes, her head lowered, her hands trembling. Ringo put her strange behaviour down to nerves. She was probably new to this situation, he thought, the shame of her predicament eating away at her sanity.

He began to wonder what her crime was. Shoplifting, he told himself. The great equaliser. The one indiscretion that can befall the most respectable of people. Then they find themselves sitting in places like this. Cold, dark, unfriendly. In the company of muggers, rapists, murderers...and shoplifters.

“Hullo Richard.”

He hadn’t noticed the girl enter the waiting room. He looked up at her for some moments before jumping to his feet and, taking her by the arm, he led her abruptly out into the corridor.

“What are ye doin here Sarah? Ah thought ah said ah’d meet ye later.”

“I know but, well, I just thought you could do with some moral support.”

“But ah told ye. It’s only a minor offence. Ah’ll probably get off wi a ten pound fine.”

“I know that but still. It can’t be nice for you having to come to a place like this.”

Ringo was not inclined to tell her that he had been in places like this many times before, and he found her innocence rather touching.

“I know.”

His tone was calmer now.

“And ah do appreciate it. C’mere.”

He planted a kiss on her lips and they embraced.

“Look, ah’ll need to go now. You go over to the cafeteria and have yersel a cup of tea. Ah’ll join ye jist as soon as ah’m free.”

“You haven’t changed your mind have you?”

She held his hand and looked deep into his eyes.

“About the mortgage I mean.”

“Aw no of course not,” he reassured her. “Ah can’t stand it in that house any mair. Two o’clock the appointment’s at. We’ve got bags of time. On ye go. Ah’ll be with ye shortly.”

Ringo smiled as he walked back to the waiting room. He had taken little convincing that he and Sarah should buy their own flat. After all, he told himself, they were both in steady jobs and together they could easily afford a modest property. Today they would see the bank manager and get things moving, he reminded himself, then he would take great pleasure in announcing it to his folks.

“Richard Mitchell.”

His dreams were interrupted by the voice of the court usher which seemed to reverberate throughout the building. Ringo paused momentarily and instinctively straightened his tie before calmly strolling into the courtroom.

He was led to the dock where he stood in silence for several minutes while the court officials whispered amongst themselves. He looked towards the public gallery which was almost filled to capacity. All eyes were on him and he began to imagine himself as the condemned man.

“Richard Mitchell.”

The clerk of the court looked at him over half moon spectacles.

“You are charged with urinating in a public place. How do you plead?”

“Well it wasnae really a public place . . .”

“Please just answer the question,” said the bewigged and berobed Sheriff. “You’ll have ample opportunity to speak up.”

“How do you plead?” the clerk of the court repeated his request.

“Guilty,” replied Ringo.

Some more whispered conversations ensued before the clerk of the court called out for Constable McCallum. Ringo watched as the police officer entered the court and walked stiffly towards the stand. He picked up a card and read out some sort of oath which Ringo could not hear. Then the Procurator Fiscal began to speak.

“Constable McCallum. You are the arresting officer in this case are you not?”

“That is correct,” said Constable McCallum in a gruff, rehearsed voice.

“Could you please tell the court what happened on the night in question.”

“May I consult my notebook your honour?”

“By all means.”

Constable McCallum already had his notebook in his hand, opened at the right page. He let out a cough and scratched the tip of his nose before proceeding.

“I was mobile with my colleague Constable Smith in Dumbarton Road at approximately twenty-three fifty hours when I observed the accused, who had been walking with a group of youths, break off from the group and enter a close which led to a number of occupied dwelling houses.”

He paused and coughed once again as he turned the page.

“Suspecting that the accused was possibly about to commit an offence, Constable Smith and I walked over to the building and entered the close. I went first and at the back of the close, which was dimly lit, I observed the accused urinating against the wall. I approached the accused, placed my hand on his shoulder and, thinking that I might let him off with a warning on this occasion, said ‘Do you realise that could cost you a fiver?’ whereupon the accused put his hand in his pocket, pulled out his wallet and replied ‘How much for a crap then?’”

At this point pandemonium broke out in the court. The public benches were in an uproar as hysterical laughter filled the court room. Even the court officials were at great pains to suppress their laughter. The sheriff was clearly trying his best not to join in the merriment and after composing himself he called for silence in the court. All the while Ringo stayed calm, not wishing to incur the wrath of the court.

“Thank you Constable McCallum. That will be all,” said the Procurator Fiscal.

The policeman’s face was bright red as he turned to leave the witness box.

“Stay where you are for now constable,” said the Sheriff with some urgency. “We shan’t detain you much longer.”

Constable McCallum resumed his former position and glanced nervously at the Fiscal, who merely coughed and sat down once again.

“Mr Mitchell.” He removed his glasses before continuing.

“You have a record of petty offences and normally I would have no hesitation in fining you accordingly. However, on this occasion I am prepared, in view of the welcome degree of levity you have brought to the proceedings this morning.”

At that the court officials laughed momentarily in a gesture of agreement while, to Ringo’s utter astonishment, the sheriff was actually smiling broadly.

“I am prepared to fine you the modest sum of five pounds.”

“Do you require time to pay?”

It was the Clerk of the Court’s turn to speak.

“Yes. I mean no,” said Ringo, reaching for his wallet.

“Can you change a twenty?” he said, looking at the sheriff as he held the note in his hand.

More laughter reverberated through the public gallery.

The Sheriff glowered at him.

A court official handed him a note and gestured that he should leave the dock.

“You may pay the fine at the cash office Mr Mitchell.”

He walked through the body of the court, past the members of the public and as he did so, groups of people burst into fits of laughter. As he walked through the exit door he heard the sheriff call for order.

“Silence in court. The fun is over, now may we take the next case?”

[52] The God Delusion

2006-10-01T12:29:00.000+10:00

In The God Delusion, the scientist Richard Dawkins sets out to attack God "in all his forms". He argues that the rise of religious fundamentalism is dividing people around the world, while the dispute between "intelligent design" and Darwinism "is seriously undermining and restricting the teaching of science".

The following is an extract from sections of the book.

FROM CHAPTER 7: The "Good" Book and the changing moral Zeitgeist

There are two ways in which scripture might be a source of morals or rules for living. One is by direct instruction, for example through the Ten Commandments, which are the subject of such bitter contention in the culture wars of America's boondocks. The other is by example: God, or some other biblical character, might serve as - to use the contemporary jargon - a role model. Both scriptural routes, if followed through religiously (the adverb is used in its metaphoric sense but with an eye to its origin), encourage a system of morals which any civilized modern person, whether religious or not, would find - I can put it no more gently - obnoxious.

To be fair, much of the Bible is not systematically evil but just plain weird, as you would expect of a chaotically cobbled-together anthology of disjointed documents, composed, revised, translated, distorted and 'improved' by hundreds of anonymous authors, editors and copyists, unknown to us and mostly unknown to each other, spanning nine centuries. This may explain some of the sheer strangeness of the Bible. But unfortunately it is this same weird volume that religious zealots hold up to us as the inerrant source of our morals and rules for living. Those who wish to base their morality literally on the Bible have either not read it or not understood it, as Bishop John Shelby Spong, in The Sins of Scripture, rightly observed. Bishop Spong, by the way, is a nice example of a liberal bishop whose beliefs are so advanced as to be almost unrecognizable to the majority of those who call themselves Christians. A British counterpart is Richard Holloway, recently retired as Bishop of Edinburgh. Bishop Holloway even describes himself as a 'recovering Christian'. I had a public discussion with him in Edinburgh, which was one of the most stimulating and interesting encounters I have had.

THE OLD TESTAMENT

Begin in Genesis with the well-loved story of Noah, derived from the Babylonian myth of Uta-Napisthim and known from the older mythologies of several cultures. The legend of the animals going into the ark two by two is charming, but the moral of the story of Noah is appalling. God took a dim view of humans, so he (with the exception of one family) drowned the lot of them including children and also, for good measure, the rest of the (presumably blameless) animals as well.

Of course, irritated theologians will protest that we don't take the book of Genesis literally any more. But that is my whole point! We pick and choose which bits of scripture to believe, which bits to write off as symbols or allegories. Such picking and choosing is a matter of personal decision, just as much, or as little, as the atheist's decision to follow this moral precept or that was a personal decision, without an absolute foundation. If one of these is 'morality flying by the seat of its pants', so is the other. In any case, despite the good intentions of the sophisticated theologian, a frighteningly large number of people still do take their scriptures, including the story of Noah, literally. According to Gallup, they include approximately 50 per cent of the US electorate. Also, no doubt, many of those Asian holy men who blamed the 2004 tsunami not on a plate tectonic shift but on human sins, ranging from drinking and dancing in bars to breaking some footling sabbath rule. Steeped in the story of Noah, and ignorant of all except biblical learning, who can blame them? Their whole education has led them to view natural disasters as bound up with human affairs, paybacks for human misdemeanours rather than anything so impersonal as plate tectonics. By the way, what presumptuous egocentricity to believe that earth-shaking events, on the scale at which a god (or a tectonic plate) might operate, must always have a human connection. Why should a divine being, with creation and eternity on his mind, care a fig for petty human malefactions? We humans give ourselves such airs, even aggrandizing our poky little 'sins' to the level of cosmic significance!

When I interviewed for television the Reverend Michael Bray, a prominent American anti-abortion activist, I asked him why evangelical Christians were so obsessed with private sexual inclinations such as homosexuality, which didn't interfere with anybody else's life. His reply invoked something like self-defence. Innocent citizens are at risk of becoming collateral damage when God chooses to strike a town with a natural disaster because it houses sinners. In 2005, the fine city of New Orleans was catastrophically flooded in the aftermath of a hurricane, Katrina. The Reverend Pat Robertson, one of America's best-known televangelists and a former presidential candidate, was reported as blaming the hurricane on a lesbian comedian who happened to live in New Orleans.* You'd think an omnipotent God would adopt a slightly more targeted approach to zapping sinners: a judicious heart attack, perhaps, rather than the wholesale destruction of an entire city just because it happened to be the domicile of one lesbian comedian.

In November 2005, the citizens of Dover, Pennsylvania voted off their local school board the entire slate of fundamentalists who had brought the town notoriety, not to say ridicule, by attempting to enforce the teaching of 'intelligent design'. When Pat Robertson heard that the fundamentalists had been democratically defeated at the ballot, he offered a stern warning to Dover:

I'd like to say to the good citizens of Dover, if there is a disaster in your area, don't turn to God. You just rejected him from your city, and don't wonder why he hasn't helped you when problems begin, if they begin, and I'm not saying they will. But if they do, just remember you just voted God out of your city. And if that's the case, then don't ask for his help, because he might not be there.

Pat Robertson would be harmless comedy, were he less typical of those who today hold power and influence in the United States. In the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the Noah equivalent, chosen to be spared with his family because he was uniquely righteous, was Abraham's nephew Lot. Two male angels were sent to Sodom to warn Lot to leave the city before the brimstone arrived. Lot hospitably welcomed the angels into his house, whereupon all the men of Sodom gathered around and demanded that Lot should hand the angels over so that they could (what else?) sodomize them: 'Where are the men which came in to thee this night? Bring them out unto us, that we may know them' (Genesis 19: 5).

Yes, 'know' has the Authorized Version's usual euphemistic meaning, which is very funny in the context. Lot's gallantry in refusing the demand suggests that God might have been onto something when he singled him out as the only good man in Sodom. But Lot's halo is tarnished by the terms of his refusal: 'I pray you, brethren, do not so wickedly. Behold now, I have two daughters which have not known man; let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you, and do ye to them as is good in your eyes: only unto these men do nothing; for therefore came they under the shadow of my roof' (Genesis 19: 7-8).

Whatever else this strange story might mean, it surely tells us something about the respect accorded to women in this intensely religious culture. As it happened, Lot's bargaining away of his daughters' virginity proved unnecessary, for the angels succeeded in repelling the marauders by miraculously striking them blind. They then warned Lot to decamp immediately with his family and his animals, because the city was about to be destroyed. The whole household escaped, with the exception of Lot's unfortunate wife, whom the Lord turned into a pillar of salt because she committed the offence - comparatively mild, one might have thought - of looking over her shoulder at the fireworks display.

Lot's two daughters make a brief reappearance in the story. After their mother was turned into a pillar of salt, they lived with their father in a cave up a mountain. Starved of male company, they decided to make their father drunk and copulate with him. Lot was beyond noticing when his elder daughter arrived in his bed or when she left, but he was not too drunk to impregnate her. The next night the two daughters agreed it was the younger one's turn. Again Lot was too drunk to notice, and he impregnated her too (Genesis 19: 31-6). If this dysfunctional family was the best Sodom had to offer by way of morals, some might begin to feel a certain sympathy with God and his judicial brimstone.

FROM CHAPTER EIGHT: What's wrong with religion? Why be so hostile?

In July 2005, London was the victim of a concerted suicide bomb attack: three bombs in the subway and one in a bus. Not as bad as the 2001 attack on the World Trade Center, and certainly not as unexpected (indeed, London had been braced for just such an event ever since Blair volunteered us as unwilling side-kicks in Bush's invasion of Iraq), nevertheless the London explosions horrified Britain. The newspapers were filled with agonized appraisals of what drove four young men to blow themselves up and take a lot of innocent people with them. The murderers were British citizens, cricket-loving, well-mannered, just the sort of young men whose company one might have enjoyed.

Why did these cricket-loving young men do it? Unlike their Palestinian counterparts, or their kamikaze counterparts in Japan, or their Tamil Tiger counterparts in Sri Lanka, these human bombs had no expectation that their bereaved families would be lionized, looked after or supported on martyrs' pensions. On the contrary, their relatives in some cases had to go into hiding. One of the men wantonly widowed his pregnant wife and orphaned his toddler. The action of these four young men has been nothing short of a disaster not just for themselves and their victims, but for their families and for the whole Muslim community in Britain, which now faces a backlash. Only religious faith is a strong enough force to motivate such utter madness in otherwise sane and decent people. Once again, Sam Harris put the point with percipient bluntness, taking the example of the Al-Qaida leader Osama bin Laden (who had nothing to do with the London bombings, by the way). Why would anyone want to destroy the World Trade Center and everybody in it? To call bin Laden 'evil' is to evade our responsibility to give a proper answer to such an important question.

The answer to this question is obvious - if only because it has been patiently articulated ad nauseam by bin Laden himself. The answer is that men like bin Laden actually believe what they say they believe. They believe in the literal truth of the Koran. Why did nineteen well-educated middle-class men trade their lives in this world for the privilege of killing thousands of our neighbors? Because they believed that they would go straight to paradise for doing so. It is rare to find the behavior of humans so fully and satisfactorily explained. Why have we been so reluctant to accept this explanation?"

The respected journalist Muriel Gray, writing in the (Glasgow) Herald on 24 July 2005, made a similar point, in this case with reference to the London bombings.

Everyone is being blamed, from the obvious villainous duo of George W. Bush and Tony Blair, to the inaction of Muslim 'communities'. But it has never been clearer that there is only one place to lay the blame and it has ever been thus. The cause of all this misery, mayhem, violence, terror and ignorance is of course religion itself, and if it seems ludicrous to have to state such an obvious reality, the fact is that the government and the media are doing a pretty good job of pretending that it isn't so.

Our Western politicians avoid mentioning the R word (religion), and instead characterize their battle as a war against 'terror', as though terror were a kind of spirit or force, with a will and a mind of its own. Or they characterize terrorists as motivated by pure 'evil'. But they are not motivated by evil. However misguided we may think them, they are motivated, like the Christian murderers of abortion doctors, by what they perceive to be righteousness, faithfully pursuing what their religion tells them. They are not psychotic; they are religious idealists who, by their own lights, are rational. They perceive their acts to be good, not because of some warped personal idiosyncrasy, and not because they have been possessed by Satan, but because they have been brought up, from the cradle, to have total and unquestioning faith.

[51] Maternal Advice

2006-10-01T11:49:00.000+10:00

[50] A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 3 - Broken Biscuits

2006-08-27T20:58:00.000+10:00

Brenda sat behind the checkout at the Woolworth store in Dumbarton Road. The shop had only been open a few minutes and the first customers had yet to arrive. There were only two checkouts operating. The other was occupied by Jinty Campbell, Brenda’s lifelong friend.

“So is the money awright then?” asked Brenda.

“No tae start wi,” replied Jinty, filing her nails as she spoke. “But he says that the mair he sells the mair he gets. Commission like.”

“Well it’s goaty be better than bein idle innit. How long wiz Erchie oot o work then?”

“Three’n a hauf years. Aye it’s been murder so it hiz. But thon trainin scheme’s done’m the power o good. Ye know, confidence wise n‘at like. As a matter o fact,” she lowered her voice now. “It’s done wonders fur oor sex life, know whit ah’m sayin?”

Their schoolgirl giggles were interrupted as a customer approached Brenda’s checkout. It was an elderly man with white straggly hair which looked too long for his age. He held a walking stick in one hand and a packet of biscuits in the other.

“How much are these missus?” he asked in a hoarse, unsteady voice. Brenda ran it over the bar code scanner a couple of times before it registered.

“Thirty-nine pence,” she replied.

“How much is that in auld money?”

“Whit? I dunno mister.”

“Aboot eight shillings,” said Jinty, still filing her nails.

“Eight bob furra packet o biscuits. That’s a scandal,” the old man declared.

“D’ye want them then?” said Brenda, growing impatient.

“Ah loast ma wife. Ah don’t know aboot these things. She did aw the shoppin. Eight shillins ye say.”

He searched his pocket.

“Thirty nine pence.”

Brenda raised her voice as she tried to get the message home.

“Ye don’t need tae shout missus. Ah might be auld but ah’m no deef.”

Jinty walked towards the man who now held a number of coins in his hand.

“There ye are mister.”

She used her index finger to separate four ten pence pieces.

“That’s forty pence. A penny change.”

The man handed over the money, took the biscuits and the one pence and shuffled towards the exit.

“Sorry aboot yer wife mister,” Jinty called after him. “When did she die?”

“Twenty wan years ago.”

The two women shook their heads as they watched him shuffle towards the exit.

“Eight bob furra packet o biscuits,” he muttered to himself.

“Poor auld sowel,” said Jinty as she returned to her checkout and the nail filing.

“Ah wish ah hid your patience ye know Jinty,” said Brenda, swivelling her chair round to face her colleague. “Ah’ve got too short a fuse that’s ma trouble.”

“Och it’s aw part o life innit. Ye’ve jist goaty keep remindin yersel that wan day ye’ll be auld’n decrepit yersel.”

“Aye ah suppose ye’re right. So whit exactly is it your Erchie’ll be sellin then?”

“Och electrical goods, telly’s. videos, washin machines, vaacums, that sort o thing. Why, wid ye be interested?”

“Aw naw Jinty ah wisnae meanin that. It’s aw ah can dae tae feed that shower at hame never mind splashin oot on new toys. Nae offence but know whit ah mean?”

“Aye but he’ll gae ye terms.”

Jinty discarded her nail file as she let the idea take shape.

“Ye’d be his first customer. An ah’m sure he’d gae ye a rerr discount cos ye are his first customer. Aw gaun Brenda, whit d’ye say?”

“Aw ah don’t know Jinty. There’s that much ah dae need but, och ah jist don’t know.”

“Ye know when ah wiz a boy.”

The old man had returned and stood just inside the door.

“When ah wiz a boy, we used tae come intae Woolies’n ask fur broken biscuits an the wummin wid gae’s a big bag fae furra farthin.”

[49] A Killing Kindness

2006-08-26T18:40:00.000+10:00

There was something not quite right about Professor Boxall. Melissa Henderson had worked as his laboratory assistant since she left the convent school and had always prided herself in being able to recognise his frequent mood swings. She instinctively knew when to leave him on his own or use her undoubted charms to relieve the stress at the end of a particularly difficult day. The professor had been locked away for long hours in his test and development laboratory every day for the past three months. Melissa noticed that when he did emerge he was unusually tense. She was aware of a haunted look in his eyes and his expression was gaunt and drawn.

Professor Boxall had warned her on her very first day never to enter the test laboratory which was situated in the basement of the Edwardian building which housed the Scientific Research Centre for the university which was located four miles across town. Melissa would take down some lunch to the professor but always left it on the table outside the locked door. She would then press on the warning bell to alert him before returning upstairs to the general laboratory and office area.

Apart from Melissa, two other people worked at the Research Centre. One was Rodney, a junior scientific adviser who tended to work on his own and generally kept himself to himself. Angela acted as receptionist and telephonist and performed a hundred and one other menial tasks. She was just out of school and was constantly talking about boys and pop groups and television soap stars. Melissa often thought how pretty she looked or, more accurately how pretty she could look if she had a modicum of taste. Not that Melissa wasn’t pretty herself. She knew she was reasonably attractive and more importantly, was able to enhance her looks by wearing the right clothes and hairstyle. It angered Melissa to see Angela, who had natural beauty, spoil it through wearing outrageous hairstyles and shocking colours.

As Melissa continued the task of analysing a computer file of DNA results which was already three weeks overdue, she heard the professor call from the basement laboratory. Always security conscious, she carefully clicked on her mouse to close the file before rushing down the steep staircase where the professor stood at the entrance to the laboratory. He looked brighter and more alive than he had been for some time and he greeted her with a smile.

“Could you contact John Surridge at St Mary’s?” he began. “Tell him...” He paused for some moments and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Tell him I am ready to give him a demonstration.”

“A demonstration?” replied Melissa.

“He’ll know what you are talking about. Ask him to call round tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Tell him everything will be ready.”

Melissa knew the professor well enough not to ask any questions. As she turned to climb the steps once again he tightened his grip on her shoulder, forcing her to wait. He looked deep into her eyes and smiled warmly.

“I just want to thank you. I couldn’t have worked without all your help.”

“Don’t mention it professor,” she replied as she felt her cheeks burn.

She watched him move apruptly back into the test laboratory and lock the door behind him. She touched her cheek and stared blankly ahead of her for some moments before turning and hurrying back to the office. She had grown to love Professor Boxall from the first day they met but had never communicated her feelings to him. She feared he would find such attentions to be a touch juvenile and a distraction from his important work.

“Angela. Get me John Surridge.”

She went to the small kitchen area and took a bottle of Coke from the fridge. She removed the top and swallowed a soothing mouthful. She held the icy coldness to her cheek and removed her glasses, closing her eyes as the cool bottle on her skin eased her discomfort.

“John who?” said Angela with a touch of irritation in her voice.

Melissa quickly composed herself and let out an anguished sigh. She marched purposefully towards the desk and took the telephone receiver from the young girl.

“Never mind. I’ll do it myself,” she said, unable to conceal her frustration.

When she had passed on the message she picked up the bottle of coke and swallowed the remaining contents.

“I’m going for lunch,” she announced. “If the professor wants me I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

“Sure,” muttered Angela without interest. “Anything you say,” she said acidly when Melissa was out of earshot.

Melissa raised her head from the lens of the microscope and looked at her watch. The strain of meticulously examining slide after slide of chemical samples had taken its toll and she had to rub her eyes for a few seconds before she could focus on the timepiece which told her it was six forty-five. With a sigh she decided to call it a day as her thoughts turned to a long luxurious bath and a relaxing evening in front of the fire with a good book and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

She spent some moments tidying her work station and recalled the words of Rodney on his first day at the laboratory. “You’ll never be a scientist,” he had chided her. “You are far too tidy.”

She picked up her coat and her Harrods shopping bag and walked to the top of the stairs. She looked down at the entrance to Professor Boxall’s secret laboratory and noticed that the door was open.

“Professor Boxall,” she called down to him. “I’m going now. Goodnight.”

There was no answer. Melissa turned to leave but something stopped her. She could not help feeling that something was not quite as it should be. She was well used to receiving no response to her calling as she knew that when the professor was engrossed in his work, it would take an earthquake to distract him.

But this time she felt uneasy. Before long she found herself being drawn down into the basement. Her steps were slow and deliberate as she descended the staircase. She could hear the sound of her heels against the wooden steps reverberate throughout the cold, dimly lit interior. She heard her own heart pound. Then she heard the sound of her own voice.

“Professor. It’s me. I’m off now. Professor?”

She stood at the entrance to the laboratory. The door was open only a few inches. She pushed her face towards the gap and called out once more.

“Professor Boxall.”

She waited for some moments and wondered if she dared investigate further. She knew that she was strictly forbidden to enter the laboratory, but this was different, she told herself. Almost before she could consider the implications of disobeying the professor’s instructions, she pushed the door and stepped back like a naughty child as it moved easily, swinging wide open to reveal a room full of all manner of computer hardware. On every wall were shelves stacked with computer monitors, boxes overfilled with pieces of microchip boards, scientific and technical manuals, notebooks and many other bits and pieces of discarded gadgetry.

Melissa called the professor’s name once more before stepping into the room. There were several tables and desks, each holding an assortment of Personal Computers, Laser Printers and untidy stacks of computer disks. In the centre of the room was a strange contraption which resembled a kind of spaceship. Not a conventional spaceship. More the type which appear in science fiction picture books and cheap B movies. It was cigar shaped and made of what was clearly part of a light aircraft fuselage, the windows of the cockpit covered with a kind of aluminium foil. There was a door on the near side which had a handle at the bottom, indicating that it opened upwards, rather like a hatch.

Melissa pulled at the handle. For a moment it appeared stuck fast and she gave it an extra tug with both hands. It opened easily once it was released and she had to step back abruptly as it creaked open and stopped just above her head. Melissa stepped forward and called Professor Boxall’s name once more. Silence. The interior was dark and mysterious but as she stepped inside a light came on automatically, which startled her briefly. With one foot inside the craft she paused to take in the scene before her. There was a pilot’s seat which was extended backwards in the form of a reclining chair.

There were straps on either side of the chair and on the pilot’s right hand side was a control panel which contained a number of coloured buttons and levers, each labelled by numbers and letters which formed some sort of indecipherable code.

On the floor in front of the chair was a volume of notes. Melissa picked it up and stepped down from the craft. The interior light went out as she did so. She sat on the edge of a nearby table and flicked through the pages. It was soon obvious to her that she was looking at the User Manual for the mysterious craft. It did not take her long to come to a decision. Quickly she rushed back upstairs to the office and spent the next half hour meticulously photocopying the pages of the manual. All the while her heart was pounding as she knew Professor Boxall might return at any moment.

When she had completed her task she roughly placed the copy in her bag and raced downstairs, replaced the manual back inside the craft and raised her arm to close the hatch. The craft began to move. At first it was a slight vibration and Melissa stood motionless, her arm raised and her hand resting on the open hatch. She thought she had imagined it at first but the vibrations grew in intensity and she could feel them pass through her hand. Then all of a sudden the interior of the craft was lit up with a brilliant flash of white light, accompanied by a momentary whooshing sound. Melissa jumped back from the craft and dropped her bag, the copy pages of the manual spilling out onto the floor. She bent down and picked up the sheets of paper and pushed them into her bag once again. She stood up and looked at the craft. The interior was enveloped in a strange mist which crept out through the open hatch.

She stood transfixed as she watched the outline of a human emerge from the mist. She stepped back until she collided with some shelves, knocking books and sheets of paper noisily to the floor. The human form stepped down from the craft and out of the mist. It was Professor Boxall and he was completely naked. He stood and stared at Melissa. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came. She watched as the professor slowly moved towards her. He had a strange look in his eye and a smile formed on the side of his mouth. She knew it was the professor but she was immediately struck by the fact that he looked younger and more athletic than she remembered him.

As he edged closer she found her eyes move over his body and take in the strong, lithe muscles of a much younger man. She let her eyes linger on his thighs which were rounded and firm. She began to perspire and felt a dryness in her throat.

“What are you doing here?”

His gruff voice startled her and she began to edge sideways towards the door, knocking over more books and discarded hardware as she did so.

“I . . . I was just . . .” she stammered nervously.

“You were just what?” he continued, his voice both mocking and challenging.

Melissa was unnerved by his coldness as he moved closer to her. She made a sudden dash for the door but the professor was too quick for her. He slammed the door shut and held his arm outstretched behind her, his hand resting against the door as he leaned forward slightly, his face close to hers.

“I asked you a question?” he was whispering now, which alarmed her further.

“The door was open. I . . . I called your name. You didn’t answer and I thought . . .”

“You thought what?”

“I thought you might have been ill or something.”

She began to gradually edge along the wall away from him but he raised his left arm now and placed the palm of his hand against the door, leaving her no escape route.

She could smell his breath as he closed in on her, and she found his demeanour menacing yet strangely intoxicating.

“You know you are not allowed to enter here under any circumstances.”

“Yes I did. I do. I simply wanted to be sure you were all right. When I didn’t get an answer I was really worried. Anything could have happened.”

She was smiling now as she pleaded her case, trying hard to defuse the situation.

“Don’t be alarmed Miss Henderson,” the professor was smiling now. “I find your concern for my welfare rather touching.”

Melissa was not used to him addressing her as Miss Henderson and she found the sarcasm in his voice somewhat disturbing. She began to wonder if he was indeed Professor Boxall.

“How much did you see?”

His tone had changed to a more serious manner.

“I just came into the room and saw a flash of light,” she replied, careful to tell him only what was already obvious. “Then there was some mist and you came out from that . . . that thing.”

“Were you frightened?”

He had resumed his teasing manner once again.

“Well at first I was. Then when I realised it was you I felt relieved.”

“So what do you think?”

“Professor, what I have seen today will go no further. You have my word on that. You do not have to tell me anything and I won’t ask questions. I promise you I . . .”

“That is not what I meant.”

His right arm moved slowly down to his side.

“I know you have always liked me Miss Henderson.”

His voice was a whisper again and she noticed a strange mistiness in his eyes. She jumped as she felt his hand firmly clasp her left thigh.

“Professor Boxall . . .”

“Please. Call me Jim.” His hand was caressing her through her skirt. “All my friends call me Jim. You are my friend Miss Henderson are you not? Shall I call you Melissa?”

“If you wish.”

Her breathing was heavy now with a mixture of fear and excitement. She felt his body press against her as his hand moved down to raise her skirt. He ran his fingers along the soft flesh of her uncovered thigh and felt the soft material of her panties. His mouth was close to hers and she looked into his eyes.

“Professor . . .”

She let out a muffled cry as he violently ripped the panties from her body and threw them to the floor. At that point their lips met and he kissed her passionately. At first she resisted and her arms remained by her side. Then she felt him grab her with both hands and he pushed himself violently against her. His tongue was darting in and out of her mouth and before she knew it she was forcing her tongue into his. Her arms were round his neck and she raised her legs and wrapped them around his waist. As he was about to enter her he suddenly released her and moved away abruptly, holding his head and swaying from side to side. Melissa grabbed hold of his arms to steady him.

“Professor. Are you all right?” she spoke breathlessly.

“Melissa,” he looked at her as though he had seen a ghost. “I . . . I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s all right professor,” she moved towards him but he retreated quickly and moved behind the craft where he started to get dressed.

“But professor, I . . .”

“You must go now Melissa,” he commanded her. “I will speak to you in the morning.”

She picked up the discarded panties and placed them in her bag. She then opened the door and ran up the stairs towards the office and out into the street. When she closed the door behind her she stood for several minutes and let the cold air soothe her burning skin. After a while she sighed at length before walking along the busy street and hailing a taxi. On the journey home she began to read the copy of the manual. She was so engrossed that the taxi driver had to twice tell her they had arrived. When she got into her flat ahe didn’t even remove her coat. She poured a glass of Brandy and sat down and continued to read, occasionally highlighting text with a pencil as she went.

It was some sort of Time Machine. But it didn’t transport the time traveller back to another time. It merely took the traveller on a journey through time but always arriving back to the present. Her understanding from the manual was that the purpose of the machine was to reverse the ageing process by transporting the body through space and time, thereby attaining great speeds and thus making the body younger.

She studied diagrams explaining the controls. These indicated that the machine could indeed transport the user to the past, but only by a matter of minutes, ten at the most. She read on and realised that a user could program the machine to go back ten minutes, any number of times, and the traveller would return having appeared to have been gone for only ten minutes.

“So that’s how he does it,” she spoke out loud.

He sets the controls to take him back ten minutes, and repeats it ten times, twice a day. After all these months he has come to look younger and fitter and stronger.

“But why did he get careless?” she asked herself, staring into space and chewing on her pencil.

She wondered why he had left the door to his laboratory open. Why had he become aggressive after emerging from the machine? It was as though he had taken on a completely new personality. The telephone rang. It was the professor. He wanted her to return immediately to the laboratory.

“Are you okay professor?” she pressed him.

“Yes, yes I’m fine,” he replied. “I need your help. Now that you have seen my work. Could you come round as soon as possible?”

“I’ll be there in one hour.”

“Thank you Melissa.”

She undressed and went into the shower. As she rubbed the soap over her body she began to think of what the professor had done to her. He had stopped too abruptly and her body began to tingle. Slowly and carefully she dressed. She put on her black silk stockings and navy blue skirt which revealed an ample amount of thigh. She sprayed her wrists and her neck with expensive scent and pulled on a silky white blouse.

She looked at herself in the mirror and brushed her long auburn hair as she examined her body. She was certainly dressed to kill and she knew it. Finally she stepped into her high-heeled shoes and pulled on her long blue coat. She stepped out into the street and quickly stopped a taxi. As she travelled to the Research Centre she was suddenly conscious of not wearing underwear and she felt her legs part slightly. Her coat fell away to expose her stocking clad leg. She felt daringly mischievous and had uncharacteristically elected to sit in the front, next to the driver.

With a swift movement she crossed her legs, revealing an expanse of thigh as the driver’s eyes darted between her legs and the road. Now she was playing a game with herself and her whole body was tingling. She decided she was going to have Professor Boxall tonight. She would seduce him and he would be unable to resist. He had taken fright earlier and thought she wasn’t willing. Now she will make it easy for him. She will give herself to him and make him love her.

Melissa removed her coat as she entered the Research Centre. As she descended the steps to the laboratory she felt a mixture of apprehension and excitement. She paused at the door which was once again left open. The machine sat majestically in the middle of the room. Slowly she moved towards it and her hand reached out to pull the hatch. She heard a noise from within, a kind of muffled groan. She hesitated for some moments before finally pulling the hatch away from the machine. It rose obediently and Melissa looked down on the naked body of Professor Boxall. But he was not alone. Beneath him lay Angela, the receptionist.

“Professor . . .” cried Melissa as her mind raced.

The professor looked round and seemed startled at first. Then he smiled and turned towards Angela and his lovemaking became more frantic, which caused the young girl to cry out.

She looked up at Melissa and gave her a look which was the product of wanton lust and unbridled desire. Melissa returned the look and she stood for several minutes, watching the two lovers give their all. She felt a burning rage rise up in her. She felt betrayed. She had given many years of loyal service to the professor and there he was, screwing a teenager who has just come out of school.

She turned away and ran towards the door, tears welling in her eyes. She suddenly stopped as the idea came to her in a flash. She was very calm now as she composed herself for the task ahead. She moved round to the other side of the machine. The two lovers were lost in each others arms now, having both enjoyed simultaneous orgasms. Melissa quietly pushed the buttons on the control panel. She carefully set the reverse time to ten minutes, to be repeated one hundred times. Then she calmly walked to the far side of the room and sat down on a chair. She watched as the professor and the young girl gradually moved apart and sat up inside the machine. The professor wiped beads of perspiration from his face and let out a sigh. Then suddenly he grabbed hold of the girl and they looked at each other with crazed eyes for a few moments before he pushed her back onto the chair and mounted her once again. Melissa watched the scene unfold several times before she became bored. She got a taxi back to her flat and propositioned the driver.

As she lay in bed with a strange man whose name she didn’t even know, she thought about the professor and the receptionist. She smiled as she pictured them feeling that same desire every ten minutes. She knew they would not be able to stop themselves.

It was John Surridge who discovered their bodies the next morning. The professor and the young girl were found inside the machine, their bodies entwined in a gruesome embrace. According to the coroner they both died of heart failure.

The police at first could not accept such a coincidence and were suspicious. Everyone was interrogated, including Melissa. But the forensic evidence soon put their minds at rest. Both had died of natural causes. Only Melissa Henderson knew that the couple had actually screwed themselves to death.

[48] A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 2 - Pissin' in the Sink

2006-08-19T11:09:00.000+10:00

Ringo had spent an unusually long time in the bathroom, a fact that was not lost on Tam, who was now knocking on the door.

“Haw Ringo, hiv ye fell asleep in there or whit?”

“Ah’ll no be a minute,” he replied, his voice muffled as he dried his face while he spoke.

“Ye said that five minutes ago,” said Malky, who had now joined his father in the hallway.

“Aw it’s up?” exclaimed Tam, looking disdainfully over his shoulder at Malky who stood in nothing but a pair of grubby underpants.

“Ah’m burstin by the way,” he announced, both hands tucked inside his pants, his body crouched forward to ease the pressure on his bladder.

“Forget it pal,” said Tam. “Ah’m furst.”

“Aw fur fucksake da ah’ll no be a minute. Ah’m desperate.”

“An ah’m no like?”

“Are you want’n a pish or a shite?”

“Mind yer ain business.”

“Och ah’ll away doon an pish in the sink then.”

Malky turned and proceeded down the stairs, one hand still inside his pants while the other held on to the banister.

“See’n take the dishes oot the sink furst this time ya mucky wee bugger ye.”

Tam heard the click of the lock being freed and he stepped back as the bathroom door opened. Ringo emerged and Tam was surprised to see that he was wearing his one and only suit and a crisp white shirt. His hair was neatly combed and his breath smelt of toothpaste.

“Jeezo whit’s aw this?” said Tam. “Ah hardly recognised ye there. Fur wan horrible second ah thought ah wiz in the wrang hoose.”

“Ah telt ye last night da. Ah’m up afore the Sheriff the day.”

“Oh aye. Ye got done fur pishin up a close didn’t ye.”

Tam stepped into the bathroom as he spoke.

“D’ye think tartin yersel up like a bliddy poof’s gonnae impress they bastarts?”

“Can ah borrow a tie?”

“A tie anaw? Ye’re gettin done fur pishin son, no mass murder. A collar’n tie’s no gonnae make much odds is it?”

“Look can ah hiv a tie or no?”

“Aye on ye go,” said Tam as he closed the door between them. “Take wan oot the wardrobe.”

He screwed up his nose as the strong scent of cheap aftershave suddenly hit him.

Ringo stood in front of the bedroom mirror and fiddled with the tie. It took him four attempts to get it right before he finally pulled down his shirt collar and adjusted the knot. He stood back and half turned to examine his whole appearance. He took his comb and ran it through his hair which felt shinier and smoother than he could ever remember. He then licked his index finger and ran it across his right eyebrow. He wasn’t at all sure why he did it but he had seen film stars do it and that was good enough for him.

His posturing was brought to a sudden and dramatic halt by the sound of a woman screaming, followed by Malky shouting, “Jesus Christ” then the crash of shattering crockery.

Ringo raced downstairs and into the kitchen where Malky was spread-eagled on the floor amid a mess of broken cups and plates and an upturned stool. He rubbed at his knee and uttered a string of curses as he gently got to his feet and stood in front of the sink, leaning forward to look out of the window.

“Ah wiz hivin a pish ya silly auld cow,” he yelled, his face red and contorted with a mixture of pain and rage.

“Whit’n God’s name’s gaun on here?” said Ringo.

He looked out of the window in time to see old Mrs McDermott from next door rush frantically along the path and through the gate as though she was fleeing some untold horror.

“Ah’m staunin on the stool pishin in the sink,” protested Malky, still rubbing his aching knee.

“When aw a sudden that auld eejit appears at the windae. Ah wiz lookin doon, ye know, watchin whit ah wiz dain like. Then ah heard this God almighty scream. Ah nearly shit masel an before ah knew whit wiz happ’nin ah loast ma balance an doon ah went.”

Ringo tried hard to suppress his laughter.

“Ye better get this lot cleared up afore ma da comes doon. Ah’m off.”

“Aye awright,” replied Malky, bending down to pick up the shattered debris. “The silly auld bugger. Ah could’ve broke ma bliddy neck bay fuck.”

[47] A Glasgow Dynasty: Part 1 - The Man Fae The TV Licence

2006-08-06T18:06:00.000+10:00

A Glasgow Dynasty is a collection of stories written around the life and times of the Mitchells, a Glasgow family - a dysfunctional Glasgow family - a dysfunctional Glasgow family whose members pull no punches in the day-to-day struggle for survival and an incessant pursuit of the main chance, against all the odds.

A Glasgow Dynasty is a gritty and uncompromising look at the underbelly of Glasgow working-class life at its rawest and meanest, as well as its most inspiring and uplifting. As such, these stories are told in a vernacular that might not appeal to readers from outwith Scotland, and in language that is at times brutal and shocking, and will certainly not be to the liking of the more sensitive and easily offended. I make no apology for either.

The Man Fae The TV Licence is the first in a series of stories chronicling the life of the Mitchells – A Family Dynasty.

You have been warned.

Part 1 - The Man Fae The TV Licence.

Tam’s day started off badly and quickly went downhill. Brenda, his long suffering wife, interrupted his peaceful slumber by tossing a bundle of mail on to the bed. One particularly bulky item caught him a direct hit on the bridge of his nose. The sudden pain caused him to jolt his head back involuntarily, only to crack his skull against the wooden headrest.

“Jesus wummin are ye tryin tae finish me aff aw the gither?” he cried, rubbing both his nose and the back of his head at the same time.

“Don’t tempt me,” replied Brenda as she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on her boots.

Tam yawned and let out a rasping cough as he gently raised himself to a sitting position. He lit his first cigarette of the day and began to tear open the mail.

“Fuckin bills. Is that aw ah ever git these days, fuckin bills?”

“Whit’s yer problem?” replied Brenda. “It’s no you that has tae pay them is it?”

“Aye too bliddy right it’s no,” shouted Ringo from the bedroom across the hall.

Ringo had already got to his feet and was stretching himself, releasing the cobwebs in preparation for the day ahead. He looked down at his younger brother Malky who shared the double bed.

“Are you no gonnae get up’n look furra joab ya lazy wee shite?”

Malky grunted some sort of reply and began to roll a cigarette. Ringo rubbed the pain in his back and cursed under his breath.

“Haw ma,” he shouted. “Ye’ll hiv tae git me a new bed. Ah cannae sleep on they springs any mair.”

“It’s awright fur you,” complained Malky. “Ah’ve goat tae lie here aw bliddy day.”

Having surveyed the day’s mail and discarded it on to the floor, Tam lay back again and drew on his cigarette as he stared at the ceiling. Brenda’s attention was drawn to the loud red print on what was clearly a bill which was well overdue. She leaned forward and picked it up. She read the contents with some trepidation.

“Is that yer answer is it,” she said. “Jist toss it on the flair’n hope it’ll go away?”

“Whit’re ye oan aboot?”

“This,” she raised her voice, waving the document in front of him. “It’s a final demand fae the electricity board.”

“Thank God,” said Tam. “Ah thought the bastards wid never gae up.”

Brenda threw the bill back on to the floor and got to her feet, cursing under her breath.

“Any spare dosh on ye hen?”

“Aye that wull be right.”

“Ah’m seein wee Hughie doon the road aboot a joab, honest. Ah cannae very well walk intae a boozer wi nae readies noo can ah.”

“You must think ma heed button’s up the back,” replied Brenda.

Tam watched her pull on her coat and rush out of the bedroom.

“Ah’m gonnae be late if ah don’t get a move on.”

As she opened the front door she was met by two men, one in his middle years and carrying a briefcase. The other, whom Brenda imagined to be in his mid twenties, held a clip board under his arm.

“Mrs Mitchell?” said the older of the two, his manner both officious and unsmiling.

“Who wants tae know?” she replied, eyeing them both up and down suspiciously.

The man produced an identity card.

“Television Licensing Authority. We called last week.”

“Oh aye that’s right, sorry, ah didnae recognise ye withoot the red mist in ma eyes.”

“Did you manage to buy a licence as promised?”

It was the turn of the younger man to speak.

“Aye, ah did that. If ye don’t mind ah’m in a hurry, ma bus’ll be alang directly.”

“It won’t take a minute,” he would not to be put off. “If we could just see the licence.”

“Look, the door’s no locked. Jist go right in, up the sterrs, first bedroom on the right. Ye’ll find the licence in a shoe box under the bed.”

The two men watched her scurry along the road for some moments before entering the house and proceeding nervously up the stairs. The older gentleman entered the bedroom and silently raised his arm, indicating that his colleague should wait in the hallway. He got down on his knees and quickly located the shoe box.

“Whit the...who the hell are you?” exclaimed Tam.

The two men had failed to notice his presence under the crumpled blankets.

“Oh...er...Mr Mitchell, we’re from the Television Licensing Authority. We’d just like to check your licence.”

“Whit the fuck are ye doin doon there then?”

“It’s ok Mr Mitchell. The licence is located in this shoe box under the bed.”

“Holy Jesus,” declared Tam. “That’s some bliddy detector van you’ve got.”

[46] A Slap on the Face

2006-07-13T11:11:00.000+10:00

I was recently sitting in a hospital waiting room with nothing to read, so my attention was drawn to the television situated high in the corner. It was one of those studio audience shows where families and couples sit on a stage and tell the female presenter – and national television – all about their marital and relationship problems. On this occasion, a woman in her thirties was tearfully describing how her husband "does not pay her any attention, preferring to sit in his room for hours on end playing computer games with his best friend."

Eventually the husband was introduced and he walked onstage to a crescendo of jeering and booing from the predominantly female audience. The presenter proceeded to gently interrogate the man about his behaviour and it came to light that he had landed in the hospital casualty department because of his wife’s violence towards him.

“What happened Lisa?” asked the presenter.

“I went upstairs and told him to get off the computer,” said Lisa. “He told me to stop nagging him so I whacked him on the head with a snooker cue.”

This revelation was greeted with wails of laughter from the TV audience, plus one or two women in the hospital waiting room.

Thankfully, the presenter immediately took the audience to task and asked them what they found so funny. She went on to tell them that domestic violence is not funny just because it is meted out by the woman against the man.

“It is still domestic violence,” she lectured. “You would not be laughing if the roles were reversed would you?”

Domestic violence by men against woman is obviously much more prevalent than the reverse situation, and only a fool would say otherwise, but violence against men at the hands of their female partners is certainly no laughing matter and is a lot more common than most people realise.

I speak from experience.

I lived with a wife whose only answer to my daring to disagree with her or to answer her back was to lash out with her fists and her sharp fingernails. On one occasion it was I who ended up in hospital after she cracked me over the head with the iron because I refused to go out onto the streets of New York City at midnight to buy her dope, and that was on our honeymoon. On several occasions I turned up at work with black eyes and facial scratches and I soon ran out of excuses to explain them away to my fellow-workers. It was a female work colleague who eventually took me aside at an office night-out and asked me what was going on. When I went into denial, she said, “It’s me you’re talking to now. I don’t believe you. Please talk to me.”

That was the first time I spoke to anyone about my situation and we talked for weeks on end and she really helped me restore my self-esteem. I had been at a terrible low and my confidence was completely shattered. Not long after that I walked away from the marriage and have never looked back. I am now married to a wonderful woman and I am my old self again and enjoying life to the full.

Ironically, my male friends and fellow-workers at the office subsequently told me they knew there was something wrong and that I was obviously lying about my predicament, but it took a female work colleague to approach me about their fears. Apparently the guys were embarrassed and "didn't hink I'd appreciate their suggesting that I might be being beaten up by a woman".

So you will perhaps understand why I get angry when women treat female violence against men as a big joke and something to be applauded. It doesn’t matter that the man may be a complete jerk and a terrible husband. There is no excuse for domestic violence, regardless of the gender of the assailant and the victim.

Only once did I speak up when I found myself in the company of "feminists" who were condemning men in general for violence against women. When I explained my situation, I was told that I "must have hit her first". When I explained that I had not, I must have "deserved it". So much for "no excuse".

How many times have you watched a movie, TV show, theatre production etc where the woman slaps the man across the face after he has betrayed her or insulted her or whatever? It is accepted as the norm and almost always regarded as warranted and often very funny. Now reverse the roles and see if you find it justified or humorous.

It may be just a slap in the face. It is violence nonetheless.

[45] How Did We Survive?

2006-06-30T11:05:00.000+10:00

The other day I was travelling on a train from Brisbane to the Gold Coast when the young lady opposite used her mobile telephone to inform her husband that she would be “at the train station in fifteen minutes”. Fifteen minutes later, after the lady had alighted at her destination, the older lady next to me uttered the oft-heard lament: “How did we survive in the old days?”

Aside from my taking umbrage at her obviously including me in the “we” when referring to “the old days” her comment got me thinking. Why do older people automatically pour scorn on new technology on the basis that “we survived very well without it in our day”?

I grew up in the pre-internet world, but cannot now imagine life without my Personal Computer. If I want to know how to make a Lasagne Verdi, I look up the internet and print the recipe on an A4 sheet of paper then hand it to my wife. If I want to know who scored the goals for Scotland when they defeated England 3-2 in 1967, I look it up on the internet. If I want to re-read a book which is 20 years out of date, I go to the internet and buy it online and have it delivered to my door within a few days.

I remember about 25 years ago when the Automated Telling Machine (ATM) started to become a feature of every High Street. An older man in my office told everyone that he had resolved never to use these “diabolical contraptions” as he preferred to queue up in the bank and speak to a human being when he wanted to draw cash from his account. Presumably he would also queue up inside the bank just to find out the balance on his account, whereas I frequently use the internet and online banking to establish the state of my account; to find out whether or not the overseas cheque has cleared; and to remind myself when my direct debit to the telephone company is due to be paid; all from the comfort of my own living room.

Going back to the lady on the train, the ubiquitous mobile phone certainly has come in for a great deal of criticism on the grounds that the world spun successfully on its axis without it for billions of years. Admittedly, I have witnessed the mobile phone being utilised in the most bizarre circumstances. I stood at the bar of one of those huge eating and drinking establishments which was once a banking hall. The man in front of me was ordering food and drinks when the bartender asked him for his table number. As I have said, it was a very large establishment, but rather than walk the 30 yards or so to discover his table number, he quickly pushed a button on his mobile phone and asked his wife to furnish him with the required information.

Back in Scotland I knew a man who would lie in bed every Sunday morning reading the Sunday papers with a cup of coffee. His wife swore it was true when she told me he phoned her from his mobile phone from the bedroom to the living room to inform her that she had forgotten to put sugar in his coffee.

The internet also has its negative side. My cousin in Liverpool told me the story of how his wife telephoned the pub to find out if he was there. The bar manager asked him if he was there. He said no, and his wife was told he had not been seen. A few minutes later, his daughter came downstairs and excitedly told her mother, “I can see daddy.”

“Where?” said her mother.

“Come with me and I’ll show you.”

A few moments later, the mother was seated in front of her daughter’s PC watching her husband drink beer with his friends in the very bar she had just phoned to be told he wasn’t there. The bar had recently installed a live webcam.

Needless to say another phone call was made to the bar and no more lies were told. Within 24 hours the webcam was removed – in the interests of customer privacy.

Quite right too.

However, there can be no doubting the fact that the mobile phone is a veritable godsend in many different ways. How many parents with teenage children - especially daughters - have received calls from mobile phones telling them that their children are stuck in the middle of nowhere and can’t afford a taxi fare and “can you pick me up?” My own son once called me from his mobile phone in the toilet of an Edinburgh nightclub with the news that a gang of thugs were waiting outside to beat him to a pulp. I was able to drive to the back door of the club and have the doorman escort my son into the car to be driven home to safety.

A friend of mine took a late-night mobile phone call from her 17 year-old daughter who had been thrown off the last bus because a fight had broken out among some boys. She was walking home alone in the freezing fog and was very scared. Her mother was able to drive to her and pick her up within minutes.

There can be few things more terrifying for a woman on her own than for her car to break down in a remote area in darkness. In years goneby she would have had to lock her doors and sit tight and wait for help, and even then decide whether or not to open the door to the strange man who had stopped to offer assistance. Alternatively, she could risk walking along the darkened road in search of a telephone. Nowadays, all she has to do is use her mobile phone to call her boyfriend, husband, brother, father, friend or indeed the breakdown services or the police.

As for the old lady on the train from Brisbane, no sooner had she uttered the words than I took out my own mobile phone and informed Kerrianne that I would be at Nerang in ten minutes. I wonder if the woman would have found it more acceptable for me to wait until I got to Nerang and call my wife from the public telephone in the railway station, then hang around for the ten minutes it takes her to drive there.

Three cheers for the mobile phone.

[44] The Black Hole

2006-06-22T14:56:00.000+10:00

It was dark by the time Tam and Balf left the pub. They held each other upright as they meandered along the country road, singing a song about a prostitute from Maryhill. Only the light of a full moon stopped them from rolling into a ditch where, due to their state of inebriation, they would undoubtedly have spent the night, unable to recover a vertical position of any sort.

“Where’s that bliddy taxi?” said Tam, for the third time.

“Ach Tam ah telt ye,” said Balf. “Ye threw yer guts up in the taxi and the driver kicked us oot on the street. Can ye no remember?”

“Me sick? Are ye sure? Where are we?”

“Don’t you worry Tam. Ah know a shortcut hame fae here. C’mon, o'er this fence.”

Balf quickly grabbed the top wire of the fence and lifted his right leg over and fell down on to the soft grass on the other side. Tam followed his friend without protest. The fence consisted of three steel wires attached to wooden slats about ten feet apart. Somehow Tam managed to entangle himself in the wires and found himself suspended above the ground, swaying to and fro as he tried to maintain his balance. His cigarette caught one of the wires and flew from his mouth only to land inside his jacket.

“Ya bastart ye,” he cried as he let go of the wires and tried to retrieve the burning cigarette. Red embers flew in all directions as he finally landed with a thud on the other side. Balf had wandered off without him.

“There’s a big fuckin hole in ma shirt bay fuck,” he said as he caught up with his friend. “Whit are ye starin at?”

Balf had stopped walking and was scratching his head as he stared at the ground about ten yards in front of him.

“See that?” he said finally.

“Whit?” said Tam, straining his eyes in the general direction of Balf’s gaze.

“That wisnae there yesterday?”

“Whit wisnae?”

“Thon big fuckin hole,” he replied, moving forward slowly now as he surveyed the scene.

Tam followed his friend and soon he too saw the black circle. It was a hole in the ground, about four feet across.

“Fuck me Tam, some poor sod could easy have fell in there nae bother. It could’ve been wan o us come tae think of it. Who the fuck wid dig a hole an jist go away n leave it like that?”

“Aye right enough,” agreed Tam. “Any cunt could end up wi a broken neck or worse.”

“I wonder how deep it is,” said Balf as the two men stood about ten feet from the hole, neither having dared to move any closer.

“Fuck knows pal but ah’m no hangin aboot tae fun oot,” said Tam as he moved to walk round the hole. Balf grabbed him by the sleeve.

“Haud oan a wee minute there Tam. Let me try sumfin.”

Balf bent down and picked up a stone, about the size of a golf ball. He stepped forward a few paces and lobbed the stone into the black hole. The two men bent forward and listened intently. After a few seconds, Balf turned and scratched his head.

“Not a sausage.”

“Whit d’ye mean Balf?”

“Did ye hear that stane landing? Did ye hear a splash or a thud when it hit the ground?”

“Naw.”

“Naw, me neither. That’s wan fuckin deep hole.”

“Aye ok, nice experiment Balf. Now can we get the fuck oot o here?”

“Jist a wee minute Tam.”

Balf walked back towards the fence they had just climbed over and picked up a discarded fence post. It was five feet long and six inches thick. Pointed at one end and flat at the other. He carried it back towards the hole and dropped it into the darkness. Once again the two friends stood, leaning forward, their ears turned towards the hole as they awaited the thud or splash. After about thirty seconds of silence, Tam shook his head and stamped his right foot.

“Some bastard’s takin the pish here. Is someday hidin there wi a fuckin camera or whit?” he shouted towards the bushes which were about twenty yards on the other side of the hole.

“C’moan Balf ah’m fuckin starvin. Let’s get hame.”

“No fucking way wee man. Ah’m gonnae get tae the bottom of this.”

“Aye that’s whit ah’m afraid of,” said Tam.

Balf walked towards the bushes as Tam lit another cigarette and pulled down his zip, fumbled inside and proceeded to urinate into the hole. He stared up at the moon and exhaled smoke into the still air as he emptied his bladder in an impressive arc down into the black emptiness below.

“It’s a fuckin full moon as well fucksake. That’s aw we need.”

“Tam.”

Tam nearly jumped out of his skin as his friend’s booming voice broke the stillness of the night.

“Whit?” Tam replied in a hoarse whisper.

“Heeza haun wi this fucker.”

Tam did up his flies and walked towards the bushes where he found Balf lifting one end of a disused railway sleeper.

“Aw fucksake Balf, gonnae no dae that?”

“Shut up n grab that end wid ye?”

Tam took hold of the other end and together they managed to tip the heavy wooden railway sleeper down into the hole. This time they both stood, again bent in half, looking directly down into the hole. They both held their breath as they listened.

A rumble.

It was very faint at first, and Tam and Balf looked at each other as the sound seemed to be getting louder.

Footsteps. Running footsteps.

The two men stared at each other with wide eyes and mouths agape as their minds raced to understand the sound.

Racing footfalls, coming closer and closer.

Just in time they realised the sound was coming from behind them. They glanced round and screamed in unison as an animal leapt into the air at them. Balf leapt back one way and Tam the other as they watched the beast leap down into the black hole. The two men sat trembling as they listened to the animal scream in terror, the sound getting further and further away as the poor animal descended deeper and deeper into the abyss.

They did not stop running until they both collapsed on the steps of Tam’s close. They were covered in mud and grime and Balf had lost a shoe. After taking time to catch their breath, Tam was first to speak.

“Whit the fuck was that aw aboot?”

“Dunno Tam,” replied Balf between gasps for air. “It was a big fuckin goat. Did ye see it?”

“Sure ah fuckin saw it. It was a goat awright. Jumped right intae thon big fuckin hole. Whit did it dae that for ye reckon?”

“Who knows. Aw ah know is a wisnae hingin aboot tae fun oot. Smells tae me like some sort o black fuckin mass or something goin on doon there. Ah lost ma bliddy shoe anaw fucksake. Ah’ll need tae go back n find it.”

“Ye’re no goin back the night are ye?” said Tam, his voice registering alarm.

“Am I fuck. It’ll wait tae the morn. Nae way ah’m goin back there the night.”

Next morning, Balf woke up in bed beside Malky.

“Whitr you doin here?” said Malky as he rubbed his eyes to a new day.

“Ach me’n yer da got pished last night. Hope ye don’t mind sharin yer bed wi me son.”

“Naw nae bother Balfy boy. Any fags?”

Tam entered the room in his underpants.

“Geeza fag Balf.”

The three men lit up and savoured the first cigarette of the day as Tam sat on the end of the bed.

“Are ye goin back doon there tae get yer shoe?” he said.

“Aye ah better mate,” said Balf. “She’ll kill me if a go hame wi wan shoe.”

“Whit the fuck’ve you too been up tae?” said Malky.

“Never you mind,” said Tam.

“Ach me’n yer da fun this big whore ay a black hole in the middle ay the field on the way back fae the boozer last night. We were jist lookin at it when some cunt chased us an a lost ma shoe.”

“Whit d’ye mean a big hole?”

“He means a hole,” said Tam. “As in a big fuckin hole in the grun. Dae you know anything aboot it? You’re always hingin aboot doon there. Is that no where the tossin school is?”

“Ah’ve no been tae the tossin for a while. Anyway, whit de ye mean some’dy chased yous. Was it the polis?”

“Naw it wisnae the polis,” said Balf. “Let’s just say there’s mair tae aw this than meets the eye.”

Tam went back to his room to get dressed. Balf got out of bed and groaned when he saw the dried mud on his trousers.

“Have ye got an auld pair o trainers ah could borrow Malky?”

“Aye there’s a couple a pair in thon cupboard there Balf.”

Soon Tam returned, dressed and ready to go.

“So it’s straight doon tae the field, grab yer shoe and away again right?”

“Too fucking right,” said Balf as he strained to tie the laces on the training shoes. “No way am I hingin aboot there again.”

“Where’s yer maw Malky?” said Tam.

“She stayed at oor Peter’s last night. She said she’ll be back first thing so ye better get yer arse in gear.”

“Don’t you say fuck all right?”

Malky ignored his father and turned towards the wall and pulled the blanket up over his ears.

“Can ye remember where the hole is Balf?” said Tam.

“Aye ah think so. Should’nae be too hard tae find.”

“Ah’m no sure ah could on ma ain.”

“Ach don’t worry. We’ll find it. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t at all easy to find the mysterious black hole. They wandered into three different fields before finding the correct one. They could see the fence at the far end of the field and the row of bushes where they found the railway sleeper.

“This is it Tam,” said Balf. “Let’s just nip ow’er there n grab the shoe n get tae fuck.”

“Suits me pal.”

“Where are you two going?”

“Aw fucksake,” cried Tam as he turned round to face two uniformed police officers sitting in a police patrol car on a dirt track which ran along the side of the field.

“Ye made me jump there officer,” said Tam.

The two policemen got out of the car and approached the two friends. One was big and fat with a little moustaache, the other short and thin and sickly pale. Tam instantly thought of Laurel and Hardy.

“I’ll ask you again. Where are you going?” said Laurel.

“We’re jist takin a wee shortcut tae the pub,” said Balf, forcing a smile.

“Which pub would that be then?” asked Hardy.

“The Bay Horse,” said Tam.

“At eight o’clock in the morning?”

“Aye, we’re meetin a couple a mates there, then a bit ay scran, study the gee gees, pit a bet on, then intae the pub fur openin time.”

“No this way you’re not,” said Laurel.

“How no?” said Balf.

“Cos it’s private property,” said Hardy.

“Oh right,” said Balf. “Didnae realise that. Thanks for lettin us know. We’ll jist be on oor way then.”

The two men made to walk back towards the fence and the roadway.

“Not so fast,” said Laurel, stopping them in their tracks.

The two policemen manoeuvred themselves so that they stood between them and the road.

“You often use this as a shortcut then?”

“Naw, naw,” said Balf. “It’s jist. It’s a nice enough morning like, an we fancied a wee walk rather than takin the bus. Fresh country air n that know?”

“Aye,” said Laurel, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Did yous take a shortcut back from the pub last night?” said Hardy.

“Last night? Naw no last night. We were at the pub right enough but we got a taxi hame. We widnae come this way in the dark wid we Tam?”

“Naw, no way,” said Tam. “Bad enough staggerin hame in the street lights withoot wanderin aboot here in the dark.”

“So what way have you come then? Just now I mean?” said Hardy, his tone now more relaxed and friendly.

“We jist walked fae the scheme and alang past the graveyard and doon West Farm Road an into the field. Why whit’s up?”

“You sure you weren’t around this way last night?”

“Positive.”

“And neither of you have seen anything suspicious this morning?”

“Naw,” said Balf. “Whit dae ye mean suspicious?”

“Ach, old farmer Milligan’s doin his head in. You haven’t seen a goat running around wild have you?”

“A goat?” said Balf.

“A goat?” said Tam.

“Aye. Apparently it’s some sort of prize goat worth a few thousand quid and the old farmer’s in the lodge and we’ve had the chief constable on our backs this morning. Seems his prize goat’s done a runner.”

“Well fancy that,” said Balf.

“Ye widnae credit it wid ye?” said Tam.

“Aye well. If you do see the beast in your travels, give us the nod then will you?”

“Aye. Aye of course officer,” said Tam as the two policemen walked back to their car.

“Excuse me officer,” said Balf.

“Aw fucksake Balf fuckin leave it,” groaned Tam.

The two policeman stopped and faced Balf.

“This goat that’s escaped. Where exactly did the auld farmer leave it?”

“In that field over by the bushes,” said Laurel, pointing. “Seems he left it tied securely to a big heavy wooden railway sleeper.”

Brenda arrived home from a night spent with her eldest son and daughter-in-law. She found Tam’s muddy clothes lying on the floor beside her bed.

“The clatty get,” she said, picking up the clothes and tossing them into a laundry basket in the corner beside the door. “How the hell did he get intae this state?”

She marched into Malky’s room.

“Haw Malcolm. Has your father been here this morning? And don’t you lie to me cos ah’ll fun oot.”

“Aye he came hame last night wi Balfy.”

“And where are they at this time in the morning?”

“Away lookin for their hole.”

Brenda leapt on to the bed and slapped Malky across the bare flesh of his back.

“Don’t you dare use that talk in this house ya wee bugger ye.”

Malky winced as he felt the sharp pain after a few seconds.

“I’ll deal wi you later,” she said, before slamming the door behind her.

“Whit did ah say?” he shouted after her. “Whit the fuck was that for?”

[43] Buried Alive

2006-06-16T10:13:00.000+10:00

Her flesh quivered under his touch as his fingers glided across the small of her back. He watched as the soft fine black hairs on the base of her spine gave way under his probing fingers, standing out against her brown skin. He listened to her breathing – slow and contented. Once again he could faintly hear the sirens in the distance, and once again he closed his mind to the world outside the hotel bedroom.

Tim looked at the discarded items of clothing strewn carelessly on the floor between the bed and the door. He recalled the passion which gripped them as they clawed at each other in the elevator, their tongues probing and their hands pulling at each other’s clothing. He remembered closing the bedroom door noisily behind them before he pushed Maria against the wall and hungrily bit her flesh and undressed her without finesse, impatiently, wantonly.

He met Maria as arranged at Battery Park, 8am. They had both agreed to call in sick and spend the day in a hotel room, locked away from the rest of the world, entwined in each other, abandoned to their mutual desires. Just one day, they had decided. Just one journey of passion and discovery; to exorcise the lustful demons which had slowly brought them together. Tim called first as Maria clung to his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. He told Marcus, his boss, that he was going to stay in bed today. A migraine coming on, he told him. Thought he’d best close the blinds, pop a couple of painkillers and hide under the blankets. Write-off the day, he suggested. He closed his cell phone and handed it to Maria, who carefully dialled her own office in Queens. Another migraine. Another day spent in bed and in darkness. Another lie.

Tim had already made the hotel reservation and prepared the room for a champagne breakfast. Once they had relieved themselves of their initial hunger for each other, they showered together and helped dry each other before enjoying the champagne and oysters as they sat naked on a brown leather couch in front of a glass coffee table. After a while, Tim closed and locked the windows, shutting out the sounds of the city beyond. He switched off his cell phone and climbed back into bed. He watched as Maria, his dark and sensual Brazilian beauty, moved over him and ran her tongue along his neck and down to his chest. Tim closed his eyes and enjoyed the movement of her lips and her tongue as they probed his body. For a guilty second he involuntarily thought of his wife Lori and baby daughter back home in Long Island and his hand covered his eyes as he felt Maria’s mouth brush his naval on its downward journey. The image of his wife was soon erased from his mind as he surrendered to the girl's kisses and carresses.

Tim checked his watch. 4:45pm. He rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom where he drank two glasses of water in quick succession. The champagne had left him slightly dehydrated and he breathed into his cupped hand and tried to smell his own breath. He decided he’d tell Lori he had a couple of glasses with a client for lunch, if she detects it on his breath. He managed to shower and dress before Maria woke from her deep slumber. She complained of a genuine headache and rushed to the bathroom where she locked the door behind her.

Tim sat on the edge of the bed and picked up his cell phone which he had left on the bedside table. He switched it on and waited for the display. Twenty-three missed calls. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. He was not mistaken. Nervously he navigated to the list of missed calls. Lori. Seventeen calls from Lori. Then four from his father followed by two more from Lori. His heart skipped a beat and sweat formed on his brow. He knew something was wrong. Was it Felicity, his daughter? He stood up and paced the room, constantly glancing at his cell phone. He had already planned to catch the usual train at the World Trades Centre and meet Lori at the station as normal. What if she had phoned his office direct? What if she had called his boss? His mind raced as he tried to cover every angle.

Maria emerged from the bathroom and began to dress.

“Is everything alright?” she enquired, noticing Tim’s agitated state.

“Yes. Yes I think so,” he lied.

“You don’t look so good darling. Anything I can do?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Look honey,” he said, moving towards her. “You know I told you I had to catch my train.”

“Yes,” said Maria as she continued to dress. “What time is it?”

“Nearly five o’clock. It’s just that, can you let yourself out? I need to run.”

“Look sweetheart,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I told you, I know the setup. No strings...no heartache. You go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her at length. His cell phone rang. He moved quickly away from her and stood at the window, subconsciously manoeuvring for a better reception.

“Hello,” he began nervously. “Yes darling of course I’m alright. Why are you crying? What’s happened Lori?”

He sat on the edge of the bed facing the window as Maria looked on anxiously.

“I know darling. My cell phone hasn’t been working all day. I only just got it fixed. One of the techie guys fixed it for me. Of course I love you. I know you love me. What’s happened baby? What’s wrong?”

He leaned forward now, his elbows resting on his knees and looking down at the floor as he listened to his hysterical wife.

“Yes, I’ve been in the office all day. Why wouldn’t I be safe?”

Maria moved to the window and opened the blinds. Tim heard her let out a gasp. She walked backward away from the window and fell into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

“Darling I don’t understand,” he continued. “I tell you I’ve been at my desk on the eighty-seventh floor of the World Trade Centre since eight-thirty this morning. What are you saying Lori?”

Tim noticed the look of terror in the face of his lover Maria. With one hand she blessed herself while the other gripped Tim roughly by the arm as she stared straight ahead, her eyes filling with tears. Tim turned his head towards the window and saw the huge cloud of smoke. He jumped to his feet and stepped swiftly towards the window. He looked across the Hudson River and his legs turned to jelly as he took in the scene before him. The whole of downtown Manhattan was enveloped in a thick cloud of smoke and dust. The Twin Towers of the World Trade Centre – his office – was no longer there. He dropped his cell phone and stared in open-mouthed horror, his mind racing as it tried to make sense of it all.

Behind him he heard Maria whimper and cry out, “My God. Oh my God.”

On the floor by his feet he could hear the sound of his wife’s voice rising from the discarded cell phone.

“Tim. Are you there. Tim. Tim.”

[42] The World Cup

2006-06-09T12:53:00.000+10:00

Today's the day.

At 5pm CET and 2am AEST, the World Cup kicks-off with the hosts Germany taking on the Central American minnows of Costa Rica in Munich.

My country - Scotland - did not qualify, but my adopted country - Australia (the Socceroos) - thankfully did, so at least I will have someone to cheer.

Brazil, as usual, start the competition as favourites, and who would bet against them? Personally, I have a little hunch about the Czech Republic, and believe they might even make it to the final and, if they are not up against Brazil, who knows what might happen?

England, as is their wont, have already decided that they are going to win the trophy. Well, they have a divine right do they not? After all, they gave the game to the world, or so they keep telling everyone who will listen. I feel very sorry for all my Scots compatriots stuck back in the United Kingdom. At least here in Australia I don't have to endure all the arrogant, belligerent, xenophobic nonsense that fills the airwaves and the TV screens at times like this. And heaven forbid they should actually win the bloody thing.

My club side - Celtic - has 3 players taking part in the extravaganza: Goalkeeper Artur Boruc and striker Maciej Zurawski of Poland, and Shunsuke Nakamura of Japan. So if Australia falls by the wayside, I can always cheer for Poland and Japan.

Some of the matches kick-off in the early hours Australian time, so I may well be walking about like a zombie some days.

May the best team win, as long as it ain't England.

Come on the Socceroos

[41] In the Movies...

2006-06-08T19:07:00.000+10:00

...every apartment in Paris has a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower.

...every square kilometre of the African wilderness is prowled by lions, tigers and sundry other ferocious, man-eating beasts.

...every bad guy with a gun is a terrible shot and every good guy has the power to jump out of the way of speeding bullets.

...every oriental marshal arts practitioner has the power to fly or levitate.

...every cop who burst into a room trips over the carpet and falls head over heels before shooting the gunman who has been standing admiring his impressive somersault.

...every woman who takes a shower becomes sexually aroused.

...every bad guy who shoots at the fleeing good guy gives him a chance by aiming at the ground six inches behind his running feet.

...every American police precinct has a scantily-clad prostitute occupying a seat in the background.

...every time the good guy takes on a gang of roughnecks in a fist fight, the roughnecks politely form an orderly queue to take on the good guy one at a time.

...every time someone has a nightmare, they are lying on their back, wake with a scream and sit abruptly upright with wide staring eyes and sweating profusely.

...every spaceship goes speeding past hundreds of stars which are millions of light years apart, but that’s still not fast enough to shake off the pursuing alien ship.

...every detective who arrives at a crime scene says: “What’ve we got?”

...every copper who receives an instruction from his superior officer says: “You got it.”

...every bank employs a geeky, nervous, squeaky-voiced male clerk whose job it is to panic in the event of an armed robbery, resulting in the deaths of at least one other employee and one customer.

…every car crash results in not one but a series of tremendous explosions followed by a fireball of nuclear proportions.

…every single woman living alone in a New York apartment has a gay neighbour as a friend and confidante.

…every macho hero who has fought off a gang of villains before jumping through a window and landing 20 feet below and is then hit by several cars as he flees into the night, winces in agony as the glamorous lady applies some ointment to the graze on his arm.

…every graveside burial service is conducted under torrential rain.

…every person who goes shopping buys a long French bread stick.

…every remote island retreat is populated by a crazy madman who hides in the woods waiting for visiting groups of college students camping for the weekend, so that he can kill them off one by one.

[40] My Favourite Writers: James Kelman

2006-06-02T15:25:00.000+10:00

James Kelman was born in Glasgow in 1946. He left school at 15 with no qualifications, to take up an apprenticeship in a print shop. He later moved to London, where he began to write. His first success came in 1973 with the publication in the USA of An Old Pub Near the Angel – a collection of short stories inspired by his experiences while doing various jobs in and around London. It was another 11 years before the appearance of his first novel – The Bus Conductor Hines – a story inspired by his own days as a bus driver in 1960s Glasgow, set deep in the underbelly of working-class Scotland and written in the Glasgow vernacular; a style which was to prevail throughout his subsequent works.

Much success soon followed, culminating in the 1994 Booker Prize for How Late it was, How Late after being shortlisted in the previous year for A Disaffection.

Bibliography:

An Old Pub Near the Angel - Puckerbrush Press (USA) 1973
Three Glasgow Writers (with Alex Hamilton and Tom Leonard) - Molendinar Press 1976
Short Tales from the Nightshift - Print Studio Press 1978
James Kelman (Writers-in-Brief) - National Book League 1980
Not Not While the Giro - Polygon Press 1983
The Busconductor Hines - Polygon Press 1984
A Chancer - Polygon Press 1985
Lean Tales (with Agnes Owens and Alasdair Gray) - Jonathan Cape 1985
Greyhound for Breakfast - Secker & Warburg 1987 – Cheltenham Prize
A Disaffection - Secker & Warburg 1989 - James Tait Black Memorial Prize
Hardie and Baird, and other plays - Secker & Warburg 1991
The Burn - Secker & Warburg 1991
Some Recent Attacks: Essays Cultural and Political - AK Press 1992
How late it was, how late - Secker & Warburg 1994 – Booker Prize
Busted Scotch - W. W. Norton (USA only) 1997
Seven Stories (audio cassette, read by James Kelman) - Sound House-AK Audio 1997
The Good Times - Secker & Warburg 1998 - Stakis Prize for Scottish Writer of the Year
Translated Accounts - Secker & Warburg 2001
And the Judges Said... (essays) - Secker & Warburg 2002
You Have To Be Careful in the Land of the Free - Hamish Hamilton 2004

James Kelman holds very strong views about the literary establishment, pouring scorn on the English Literature taught in schools and universities, describing them as a means of control by England in particular and the upper-classes in general. His writing rejects the very idea of the so-called Great Literary Tradition, choosing instead to write about issues which are immediate and relevant.

Kelman is a great believer in political and literary freedom of speech, reflected in his throwing away of classical writing conventions – particularly with the grammar of dialogue – which had the aforementioned literary establishment split down the middle at the time of his Booker award, which caused great controversy and, in my view, was a wake-up call to British writing, which is all the better for it.

I had the pleasure of knowing James personally when he was Writer in Residence for Renfrew District Libraries in Scotland, where I used to attend the local Paisley and Linwood Writing Groups. He was a great inspiration to the various aspiring writers and was then, as well as through his subsequent writing, a tremendous influence on me personally as the writer I am today.

A true working-class hero, James Kelman now lives back in Glasgow with his wife.

[39] Vital Football

2006-05-30T08:20:00.000+10:00

Anyone who knows me will be aware of my love of Football - that's Soccer to the uninitiated - and in particular Glasgow Celtic Football Club.

For some weeks now I have been writing as a site journalist for Vital Football, a football website magazine which covers news and articles about every club in the UK. I write about my own team - Celtic.

If you are interested in the beautiful game, check out my work at Vital Football (Celtic) by clicking on the image above. My articles appear under the heading: Tom's Twists, Tom's Turns.

[38] My Favourite Beer

2006-05-28T20:13:00.000+10:00

[37] The Dream

2006-05-24T11:31:00.000+10:00

Monday evenings were always the worst for George Mellor. A long week of monotonous nights was all he had to look forward to. As security guard for Mason and Son, manufacturers of household furniture, there was very little he could do to shake off the boredom and frustration of a job he detested. He looked round the small, cosy security office and wondered how long he could go on turning out six nights a week in all weathers, with nothing but the soporific ramblings of a radio presenter to keep him company, and the occasional stray cat which brought him out of the comfort of his chair in lukewarm pursuit.

Now and then he would encounter a stray of the human variety with mischievous intentions. George always allowed them the benefit of the doubt as they made their protestations of innocence while sitting astride the top of an eight foot iron fence. Not that he wished to face any real danger. After all, at fifty-eight he knew he wouldn’t stand much chance against a gang of villains. No, he simply longed for the unexpected; something which would break the repetitive nightly routine.

George lit his pipe and rested his feet on the low coffee table and thought of his sick wife tucked up in bed back home. Immediately he stopped thinking about his own predicament and remembered why he had carried on for so long in such a soul-destroying job. He promised himself he would give it all up in two years to look after her full-time. He knew that by then her arthritis would have overwhelmed her and no more would he be able to leave her each night to look after the property of Mason and Son.

George was quickly brought to his feet as the bright beam of a car’s headlights lit up the office momentarily as it turned into the parking area in front of the main gate. He picked up his torch and moved abruptly into the cold air. He watched the dark silhouette of a man climb out of the car and walk briskly towards the gate. George immediately raised his torch and pointed the beam towards the man’s face.

“Switch that thing off Mellor. It’s only me,” said Robert Mason, raising his arm to shield his eyes from the bright light.

George sighed with obvious relief and nervously unlocked the gate.

“Good evening Mr Mason,” he greeted his employer. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

Robert ignored him and moved off towards the main office block. Soon George was at his side.

“I’m flying to New York in the morning on urgent business,” he explained. “I’ve come to collect some important documents I need for the trip. I shan’t be very long.”

George watched him disappear along the corridor, switching on lights as he went.

“Yes sir,” he mumbled in mock respect.

He stood outside and took in the cold night air as he waited for Mr Mason to return.

George certainly did not care much for young Robert Mason. He considered him too brusque and uncaring towards his staff. He had a short temper and a sharp tongue; not the kind of employer who commands loyalty and respect, he thought. Old Mr Mason was a different man altogether, he recalled with some affection. He had always been very kind and friendly towards George. Once he had promised him a comfortable office job when a vacancy arose but old Arthur had died suddenly, leaving his son Robert in charge of the business. From that day he no longer found any pleasure or purpose in his work and whenever he brought up the subject of Arthur Mason’s promise of an office job, he was met with an air of indifference.

“He never mentioned it to me,” was his usual response.

In a few moments Robert returned carrying a pile of documents under his arm as he walked back towards his car.

“Goodnight sir. Enjoy your trip,” shouted George as he locked the gate.

Mr Mason ignored him and drove off noisily into the darkness.

“Miserable young upstart,” George whispered to himself, feeling the contempt build up inside him.

Back in the office he made himself comfortable once again, relit his pipe and picked up the evening paper. As he scanned the sports pages he had to struggle to stay awake as sleep began to overcome him. The words on the newspaper were a blur and the music from his radio faded into oblivion as his body slowly succumbed to the onslaught of sleep.

George looked down at the scene of horror below him. The peaceful calm of the sea was destroyed by the thunderous roar of the Jumbo jet as it hit the surface. He could hear the screams of the terror-stricken passengers and in an instant he saw the face of Robert Mason at the window of the jet before it disappeared. He held his hand out towards George and screamed.

“Help me George. Please help me.”

George was unable to move, no matter how hard he tried. He watched helplessly as the plane vanished in a second, leaving behind it a calm sea once again. George screamed and tried to shake himself out of his nightmare. He read the headline in the newspaper.

London to New York Jet disappears over Atlantic Ocean - No survivors.

Again George screamed as he leapt to his feet and held his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes as he came slowly back to reality.

He picked up the newspaper and searched in vain for the dramatic headline. He sat down clumsily and wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead and loosened his tie. He was shaking visibly.

***
Muriel Mason handed her husband a cup of coffee and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“You must get some sleep darling.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him.

“You’ve got a long journey in front of you.”

“Just a few more minutes, I promise,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the papers in front of him as he sipped his coffee.

“Does it have to be you who makes the trip?” she protested half-heartedly.

“You know I must.”

At last he pulled his attention away from his work and smiled affectionately.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

He touched her gently on the cheek before she got up and headed towards the kitchen.

“As long as you don’t forget our visit to the country this weekend,” she called from behind the door.

“Of course not,” he assured her as he returned to his work.

In a moment she came back with a glass of milk and climbed into bed beside him.

“Isn’t it about time you delegated some of those boring business trips to someone else?” she kept up the protest.

“So that they can have a good time on fat expense accounts you mean.”

“So that’s what you do on these trips, have a good time.”

“Don’t you believe it. It’s all work and no play as far as I’m concerned.”

“Your father never troubled himself with such mundane tasks,” she challenged him. “He always had someone to represent him on such occasions.”

“My father was far too generous if you ask me,” he argued. “Sending employees abroad on expenses is one sure way of wasting good money.”

“Oh you’re impossible,” she replied with a smile.

The sound of the telephone made them both jump and they looked inquisitively at each other before Robert picked up the receiver.

“Five, six, seven, three,” he recited, looking at his watch.

“Hello...er...Mr Mason?” the voice was nervous.

“Yes, who is this?”

“It’s George, George Mellor.”

“It’s Mellor, our night watchman,” he asided to his perturbed and attentive wife. “What’s the problem Mellor?”

“Well, I...I don’t quite know how to put this sir.”

“It’s one o’clock in the morning man. I suggest you put it as briefly and simply as possible.”

“It’s just that...you know you said you were flying out to New York this morning.”

“That’s correct.”

“Well...I...you mustn’t get on that plane sir.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I had a dream...you know...a sort of premonition.”

George braced himself before continuing.

“The plane will crash into the ocean and you will be killed sir.”

“Have you gone stark raving mad?”

“I assure you Mr Mason. I am perfectly serious. You must not take that flight.”

“You expect me to miss out on a lucrative business contract at the whim of a neurotic old...”

“I beg you sir. Listen to me. You must believe...”

“That’s enough Mellor.”

Robert could not conceal his rage.

“I’ll deal with you when I get back.”

He slammed the receiver down and breathed in deeply.

“Bloody fool,” he murmured.

“What did he want darling?” asked Muriel nervously.

“Oh nothing to worry about,” he assured her. “He’s probably been drinking.”

He returned to his work.

“What was all that about a premonition?” she persisted.

“It’s nothing. Just a silly old...”

“He begged you not to go to New York didn’t he.”

“Look darling, I can’t...”

“He had some premonition of disaster and he warned you not to go.”

“It really is ridiculous,” he laughed. “I mean I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“These things happen Robert,” she pressed him. “I’ve read lots of stories about dreams and premonitions.”

“Not you as well Muriel. I really cannot take this thing seriously.”

“You mustn’t go Robert,” she pleaded.

Jumping to her knees, she faced her husband and held him by the shoulders.

“You must cancel the trip.”

“My dear, you can’t seriously believe...”

“Please Robert,” she begged him. “You can never be sure about these things.

“But the contract.”

“There’ll be other contracts.”

Robert thought for some moments before relenting.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll postpone the trip till Wednesday.”

“Thank you darling.”

She snuggled close to him.

“But on Wednesday I’ll have no more of this nonsense.”

“I promise.”

She kissed him gently. Robert returned her kiss and smiled contentedly.

“Premonition indeed.”

***
George walked solemnly along the elegant tree-lined terrace and braced himself against the biting wind as he searched the luxurious houses for number seventy-three. He silently admired the tasteful villas and bungalows with their well groomed gardens and expensive cars. He felt envious as he compared the splendour around him with the dreary flat he had to return to each morning. He thought again about his poor wife and how he wished he could provide for her properly with a large, comfortable house in just such a street.

He was still quite shaken after his nightmare and subsequent telephone call to Mr Mason. Soon he stopped in front of the mock Tudor mansion with it’s luxurious garden. He immediately recognised Robert’s silver Jaguar sitting regally in the driveway.

George paused at the gate and gathered his thoughts before walking slowly along the path towards the front door. He pressed the doorbell and heard the musical tones reverberate into the large house. In a second he heard the voice of Muriel Mason above her rushing footsteps.

“I’ll get it darling.”

The door swung open and George was confronted with the warm, smiling face of Mrs Mason.

“Good morning ma’am.”

He instinctively took off his cap.

“I’m Mr Mellor. I telephoned your husband earlier.”

“I thought I recognised you,” she smiled. “Please come in.”

George was suddenly struck by the contrasting warmth inside the house as he was escorted into the kitchen where Robert was enjoying a hearty breakfast.

“It’s Mr Mellor darling.”

She offered George a seat. Robert stopped eating and looked up at him.

“Don’t tell me. You’ve had another dream.”

“Robert!” Muriel chastised her husband.

“Would you like a cup of tea Mr Mellor. Or coffee?”

“No thanks Mrs Mason. I won’t stay. I only called round to apologise to Mr Mason for last night. Only I...”

“Don’t mention it,” she reassured him, then glancing directly at her husband. “We’re really very grateful, aren’t we Robert,” she prompted him.

“Er, yes. Yes...you did the right thing Mr Mellor.”

“It was just, well, at the time I thought...”

“No need to apologise,” Muriel intervened. “Besides, he’s decided to go tomorrow instead. So there’s no harm done.”

“Oh I am glad. I wouldn’t like to think that I’d caused...”

The telephone rang.

“Excuse me,” said Robert, grateful for an escape from what had become an uncomfortable situation.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of something Mr Mellor?” Muriel tried again.

“Perhaps just a quick tea then thank you. Black no sugar.”

Soon Robert returned and stood at the entrance to the kitchen. His face was a ghastly pale and his mouth hung open in shock. Muriel instantly became alarmed.

“Who was on the phone Robert? What’s happened?” she implored him.

“It was Thomas Hollister, our sales director,” he replied, his voice trembling with emotion. “The London to New York flight...it was on the radio...crashed into the Atlantic...no survivors.”

“Oh my God,” cried Muriel.

She dropped her cup which hit the floor and smashed into little pieces. She ran to her husband and threw her arms around him and wept uncontrollably. Robert stared at George in disbelief, unable to speak. George returned his gaze for some moments before he fainted, crashing to the floor amongst the shattered crockery. When George came round he was propped up against the door of the kitchen as Muriel slapped him gently on the cheeks. Robert offered him a glass of water.

“Are you all right Mr Mellor?” said Muriel with some concern.

“Yes...I...I’ll be fine in a minute or two,” he whispered, raising himself shakily to his feet.

“Sit here for a moment,” said Muriel as she pulled a chair towards him.

“Yes take it easy man,” said Robert. “You’ve had a bit of a shock.”

“Haven’t we all,” said Muriel.

“I really don’t know what to say George,” said Robert. “It’s absolutely incredible.”

“Robert, the least you can do is give George a lift,” said Muriel.

“That won’t be necessary,” replied George.

“No problem,” said Robert. “I’ve got to call in at the office this morning anyway. I’ll drop you off on the way.”

George felt much better now as he took his place beside Robert in his luxury car.

“Damn it,” exclaimed Robert. “I’ve forgotten something. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He took some keys out of his briefcase and got out of the car. In his haste he let the case fall off the seat, the contents spilling out onto the floor. George carefully picked up the case and began to replace the documents. His eyes fell upon his own name. It was a memo signed by Robert Mason, Managing Director, addressed to Personnel. It read:

Please prepare P45 and one month’s salary for Mr George Mellor (Security) - Dismissal due to industrial misconduct.

George could not believe his eyes. He read the words several times. Each time his heart sank ever deeper. Quickly he replaced the memo as Robert returned to the driving seat. They drove through the town in silence as George tried to convince himself that he had not imagined it. It was raining heavily now and a strong wind made their progress hazardous. Robert was in quite a hurry and was driving too fast for comfort. But George had other things on his mind.

“Why are you sacking me?” he began suddenly.

“What do you mean?” said Robert.

“I saw the memo in your briefcase. Is it some kind of joke?”

Robert was silent, not knowing what to say.

“Well, is it true or not?” George pressed on relentlessly.

“Alright, yes it’s true,” Robert took a deep breath. “I’m firing you.”

“But why?” pleaded George. “What do you mean by industrial misconduct?”

“You slept on the job.”

“I what?”

“You’re supposed to be employed as a night watchman and you slept on the job,” said Robert, spitting out the words.

“You mean because I dreamt of the plane crash?”

“You can’t dream without sleeping can you?”

“I don’t believe it. I save your life and you reward me by giving me the bloody sack?”

“It was a coincidence,” said Robert.

“Whether it was a coincidence or not, if I hadn’t phoned you’d be dead.”

“I suppose so.”

“You suppose so,” shouted George. “But still you’re prepared to fire me.”

“I have a business to run.”

“Don’t give me that rubbish about business,” he spoke with venom. “Give me the real reason.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tell me the real reason behind this. There’s something I don’t know about. You’re not firing me because I slept on the job. Tell me the truth.”

George grappled frantically with Robert in his demands for an explanation. The car swerved perilously on the wet road.

“Alright, alright,” said Robert. “Take it easy and I’ll explain everything.”

George sat back and regained his composure.

“I’m waiting,” he said in a much calmer voice.

“Your father and my father started a small business back in the late thirties.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he began to unfold the details.

“Your father put up most of the capital but when war broke out he was called up.”

“Never to return,” said George bitterly.

“My father had a shrapnel wound from the first war and had to stay behind. The war was a real boon for the business and when it was all over, well, the firm went from strength to strength, until we got to where we are today.”

“What has all this got to do with me?”

“I’m coming to that,” said Robert, preparing himself for the crunch to come.

“Before my father died he made a last will and testament.”

Robert took a sharp right turn onto a narrow country road.

“In the will he stated that if you are still employed by the company at sixty years of age you are to be given an honorary directorship with a salary equivalent to three times your final salary.”

Robert paused to let the words take effect.

“Only if you are still employed at sixty.”

“So now you have found a convenient way to get rid of me.”

“My father always did have a strange sense of loyalty towards you because of your father. I suppose he felt guilty in a way.”

George let the words run over in his mind before snapping.

“Let me out of here. Stop the car,” he shouted as he opened the door and tried to jump.

“Don’t be bloody stupid man,” said Robert as he leaned across and tried to grab hold of him.

It was at that moment he lost control of the wheel. The car swerved before leaving the road. It rolled down a steep embankment as George leapt out of the open door. He hit a tree stump with an agonising thud and cried out in pain as the car plummeted into the swollen river with a tremendous crash. George looked down at the scene of horror below him as he watched the car sink slowly below the surface. He was unable to move as he watched Robert stretch out a hand towards him.

“Help me George, please help me,” he screamed, trapped inside the sinking vehicle.

George watched helplessly as the car vanished, leaving behind it a peaceful, flowing river.

[36] Comb For Sale

2006-05-21T17:55:00.000+10:00

It had to go. Now that I am living in a hot climate, after decades of living in Scotland, it was time to dispense with what little hair I had left. I finally talked Kerrianne into doing the deed. She was very reluctant at first, but thankfully, she was delighted with the result.

I am pleased with the new look myself, to be honest.

I will be posting my comb for sale on ebay in due course.

[35] McNulty's Law

2006-05-17T09:52:00.000+10:00

As soon as I pinned the large rosette to my lapel I immediately felt less than comfortable. I should have followed my instincts there and then by tossing it into the waste bucket. Instead I gallantly forced myself to take to the streets, convinced that my duty to humanity was infinitely more important than childish vanity. I felt the first pangs of embarrassment as I strode along Stevenson Street, aware that I was being followed by a couple of young neds.

“Haw mister, there’s a big floo’er stickin oot yer jaicket.”

“Geeza sook at yer lollipop Jimmy.”

They took it in turns to assault me with their cruel taunts. I halted the tirade by turning sharply as if to pounce. They scattered in different directions, one up a close and the other down towards the end of the street. Yet still I failed to get the message. My sense of purpose overpowered any discomfort as I made my way towards the first close at the end of the road. First call was a door with a hand-written cardboard nameplate which showed G McNulty. I knocked hesitantly. The door opened and I was faced with a haggard old man wearing blue and white striped pyjamas and a battered bunnet.

“Good evening sir, I represent . . .”

The old codger pushed me aside and rushed out into the street without acknowledging my greeting.

“Well, whit is it?”

I turned once again towards the open door and looked into the eyes of a great bulging battle-axe of a woman. She glared at me with threatening eyes and bared teeth. She had one hand on her hip while the other held onto the door. Her forearms were muscular and hairy. Her neck could have belonged to a Sumo wrestler.

“Good evening madam, I represent the independent...”

“Get loast pal!”

The muscular arm slammed the door inches from my face. The violent thud reverberated into the street. I pressed the doorbell across the landing. I waited. I tried again. I waited. I turned to leave but stopped as soon as I heard the faint sound of a lock being turned from inside the house. A muffled voice came from behind the door.

“Hold on, I won’t be long.”

I listened as a snib was unsnibbed, a chain was unchained, a latch was unlatched. The door swung open very gradually to reveal the head of a petite old lady. Warm, inquisitive eyes peered up at me. Her crackled face bore the merest hint of a smile.

“Good evening madam, I represent the independent candidate...”

“Come away in out of the cold son.”

She stepped back and beckoned me with a wave of her hand.

“Come in and sit by the fire.”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all young man. Come in and tell me all about it.”

Soon I found myself in a small sitting room. Well perhaps it wasn’t so small, but it seemed that way. The place was packed with all sorts of furniture, ornaments, lamps and candlesticks. Every wall was covered with pictures and ornamental mirrors. The room was a veritable treasure trove of tastefully arranged hardware.

“Sit yourself down. I’ll just put on the kettle.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Nonsense. It’s not often I get visitors. Make yourself at home.”

She disappeared into the kitchen as I returned to admiring the room. The only modern fixture was a small television set. The only seating was an ancient but well preserved settee which I had to share with a fluffy white cat. He lifted his head and eyed me suspiciously as I took my place next to him. After a few moments he settled down again and curled up into a furry ball. Evidently I had met with his approval.

“Here we are then. Help yourself young man.”

She placed a tray on the table in front of me. I poured from an expensive china teapot.

“Biscuit?”

She held a plate in front of me.

“No thank you. I’ve only just eaten.”

“Well, if you change your mind, no need to ask.”

I sipped my tea and mulled over what to say next.

“Who did you say you were?”

She saved me the trouble.

“Ah yes.”

I placed the cup and saucer on the table and continued with my usual enthusiasm.

“I represent the independent candidate in the...”

“No, no, never mind all that. What is your name?”

“Oh, I see. Harry, Harry Lawson.”

I was grateful to her for putting me right.

“I’m Sarah Ramsay and this is Ginger.”

She introduced me to her feline companion. I opened my mouth to ask why her snow-white cat was called Ginger but decided against it.

“I bet you’re wondering why I call him Ginger aren’t you?”

“Er yes, it did occur to me.”

“Belonged to my late husband you see.”

She stroked his furry coat affectionately as she spoke.

“Blind as a bat he was. I tried to tell him but he wouldn’t listen. He was political you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He fought in the Spanish Civil War. He was badly wounded there as well.”

“How awful.”

I was genuinely shocked.

“Is that how he lost his sight?”

“He was blinded during a pub crawl in Govan.”

I spat out a copious spray of tea and spluttered uncontrollably.

“I’m terribly sorry Mrs Ramsay. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Och don’t concern yourself about it son. Help yourself to a wee biscuit while I switch on the television.”

I tried to compose myself and disguised my embarrassment by nibbling on a chocolate cookie.

The television came to life after some hesitant crackling and the picture settled down to reveal what appeared to be an opera. The English sub-titles suggested it was in Italian but I could not be sure as there did not appear to be any sound.

“I like the opera don’t you Mr Lawson.”

“Er yes, yes I do,” I lied, more concerned at the dryness of my throat as I struggled to devour the biscuit.

“Is there something wrong with the sound on your television set Mrs Ramsay?”

I hoped I might be of some assistance.

“No, it’s nothing like that. I like to follow the story but I just can’t abide that awful singing.”

I choked on the biscuit, splattering crumbs all over the cat. I decided it was time for me to move on.

“I really will have to dash Mrs Ramsay.”

“Oh must you? I really do enjoy having the occasional visitor.”

“It’s been a pleasure Mrs Ramsay but I really do have a lot of people to see.”

My grateful host followed me to the door and rushed to hold it open for me.

“You must come back and see me when you feel like a chat.”

“Yes, thank you. I will.”

I forced a smile and bade her farewell.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Harry Lawson.”

“No, not that. The politics.”

“Oh, I see. I represent the independent candidate in the forthcoming by-election.”

My introduction was well rehearsed. I never expected to be reciting it as I left a voter’s residence.

“Independent you say.”

“That’s right. George Harvey, local schoolteacher. Do you know him?”

“Which side does he swing to?”

I can’t imagine why at this precise moment my personal tailor should suddenly spring to mind.

“He’s more or less in the middle I suppose. The voice of moderation you might say.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

She sounded quite sincere.

“I simply can’t stomach those Marxist-Leninist-Trotskyites.”

“Quite.”

“Even less those petty-bourgeois landowners.”

“Well, I couldn’t agree more.”

I made a poor job of concealing my astonishment.

“You tell your nice Mr Harvey he can rely on my vote.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. Goodnight.”

I made my way towards the front of the close. I’d had enough.

“Remember what I said. Drop in any time now.”

I heard the door close and the locks, snibs and chain being secured. The old man in the striped pyjamas was sitting on the steps at the mouth of the close.

“She’s a right bampot that yin.”

“Mrs Ramsay?”

“Naw, naw. McNulty. That eejit that slammed the door in yer mug.”

I sat on the step beside him and breathed in the cold night air.

“Are you Mr McNulty then?”

“Whit? Are ye kiddin? Nae chance o that pal.”

He looked at me for the first time and eyed me up and down as though questioning my sanity.

“D’ye think ah’d marry that aul scunner? Naw, whit is it youse young yins cry it? Co-habitation? Aye, that’s us.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Six years on an off. But ah’ll never marry the aul bag. Ah’m no that daft. Did she show ye her parrot?”

“Mrs McNulty?”

“Naw, aul Mrs Ramsay fucksake.”

I could scarcely keep up with this exchange of pleasantries.

“No. But I did meet her cat though.”

“Never mind the bliddy cat. She shoulda showed ye her parrot. Swears like a bliddy trooper so it diz.”

He spat on the step and cleared his throat. I cringed visibly.

“Hid enough then?”

“Sorry?”

“Canvassin. Aw that politics lark.”

“Yes. I think I’ll call it a day.”

“Yer wastin yer time Jimmy. Naeb’dy cares aboot aw that rubbish roon here.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Gaun then. Surprise me.”

“Old Mrs Ramsay. She cares. In fact she sounded rather well versed on the subject if you ask me, and she gave me her support.”

The old man snorted his disapproval and toyed with his dentures, allowing them to pop out from between his lips and perform a merry jig before disappearing back into his mouth once again.

“Listen pal. If ye telt her ye’d git her a cooncil hoose in the black hole o Calcutta wi an ootside cludgie she’d still gae ye her support fucksake.”

I got to my feet and wiped the dust from my trousers.

“Anyway, I’ll have to be moving. It’s getting late.”

“Take ma advice son. Nix time stay in the hoose. Ye’ll get nae thanks fur tryin tae save the world.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

My tone was somewhat cynical but at the same time I wondered just how near he was to the truth. I looked back in time to see a muscular arm appear from inside the close and grab the old man by the scruff of the neck. He yelped like a pig as he was dragged into the darkness, his feet leaving the ground as he was hauled away like a rag doll.

“Git back in that hoose an dae they dishes ya lazy aul get.”

The voice boomed out into the street to be followed by the familiar slamming of the door.

“Some fuckin close this eh?”

I looked round to see a parrot perched on a cage behind Mrs Ramsay’s open window. I decided there and then that I certainly would pay her another visit.

Me and that bird are going to have a little chat.

[34] Beware of the Dog

2006-05-13T13:23:00.000+10:00

[33] The Substitute: An Extract from my Novel

2006-05-08T18:08:00.000+10:00

Chapter 7
Heavy rain rattled against Aileen O’Brien’s bedroom window, adding an extra percussion to the Country Rock sound which was fed from her bedside radio. Terry surveyed the elements with disdain.

“What a day to make a comeback.”

He stood in front of the window and looked down at the quagmire which was his beloved Jupiter Ground. Aileen came into the room carrying two mugs of hot tea and handed one to her boyfriend.

“Aren’t you nervous?” she said.

“Maybe just a little bit. But I would have preferred a better day than this for my return.”

“It is only a friendly.”

She stood next to him and placed an arm round his waist.

“Yes, I know. You weren’t planning on watching were you?”

He turned to face her.

“Why, don’t you want me to?”

“Well, it’s just that, it’s my first real match for months and I’d rather just get it over with.”

“And you don’t want me there to distract you.”

She smiled warmly.

“It’s not that. It’s just...”

“I understand. It’s alright Terry. My mum wants me to go into Glasgow to do some shopping. I did promise her.”

“Then that’s settled.”

He turned towards the window again and stared up at the grey sky.

“Can I ask you something Terry?”

Aileen moved behind him and wrapped her arms snugly round his waist. She pressed the side of her face against his back.

“Sure you can. What is it?”

“You didn’t have anything to do with what happened to that boy Mitchell did you?”

“Of course I didn’t.”

He turned to face her and placed his hands on either side of her head, forcing her eyes to look up into his.

“Why did you ask me that? What have the police been saying to you?”

“Nothing Terry. I just told them the truth.”

“You don’t really think I did it do you?”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did after what he did to you.”

“But you were with me all the time. How could you doubt me?”

“Only until you went home because of your sore head.”

They both looked intently into each other’s eyes, Aileen searching for answers and Terry hardly believing his ears.

“And you think I went back to the disco and cut up Sanny Mitchell?”

“No, I don’t Terry. I know you wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“Then what are you trying to say?”

“Well, the policeman did suggest to me that you could’ve put someone up to it.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

Aileen felt alarmed as she saw Terry’s face redden with rage.

“I’m going.”

He drew away from her and grabbed his jacket.

“Terry, he said he would’ve done the same thing if he was you.”

“And you fell for it.”

Terry stormed out of the room and out of the house. Aileen followed him to the door and called after him as he raced down the stairs.

“Terry, I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry.”

She punched the door in frustration as tears flowed down her cheeks. She stood motionless until she could hear his footsteps no more.

“What’s the matter Aileen?”

Mrs O’Brien had heard the row and led her daughter back into the house.

Terry sat at the back of the number forty-one bus as it moved along Muir Street towards the town centre. He watched droplets of rain race each other down the window and thought of Aileen. As he calmed down again he began to regret losing his temper with her. But uppermost in his mind was a feeling of utter dread. He had lost his temper with her, he told himself, because it had crossed her mind that he may have been capable of carrying out such a savage attack, whether or not the victim had it coming. But deep within himself he feared the possibility that he may indeed have been responsible. The question nagged at his insides like an extension of the police interrogation. Where had he gone after leaving Aileen’s flat that night? Try as he might, he could not remember. Did he go straight home? Had he gone for a breath of fresh air? He knew the headache was genuine enough. The excruciating agony was something he could never forget. Did he go back to the disco for some reason? He could not come to terms with the blackout. He remembered he had taken a mouthful of cheap wine but the quantity was nowhere near enough to affect his memory.

Eventually he forced himself to accept that the memory loss was a direct result of the severe headache, but he could not yet rid himself of the terrible doubts which ran over and over again in his mind, each time leading inexorably towards Sanny Mitchell. He recognised that he could perhaps, in time, come to terms with himself if he had committed the assault in a fit of revenge. What he could not accept, and what now tied his stomach in knots was the thought that somehow he may have carried it out without knowing it, without being in control of his senses, without being able to remember a thing about it.

He decided there was no sense in attempting to play football in his present frame of mind. He knew he would not be in a position to do justice to himself until he had found a way of unburdening himself of the terrible fear which tore at his insides. He knew there was only one way to do that. He would speak to Sanny Mitchell, who would be able to confirm that he had nothing to do with the attack. They had become quite friendly after all, he reminded himself, so he could see no reason why he should not visit him in hospital and perhaps even convince him that he hadn’t put someone else up to it. Terry immediately felt more at ease, having come to a decision. He relaxed now in the knowledge that he would soon be free of the terrible doubts which tormented him.

Rose Johnstone could never understand how anyone could waste good food. Throughout her impoverished childhood she had learned to fully appreciate what little was placed in front of her. Now, even when times were much easier, she could not bring herself to turn her nose up at anything, so it was with a heavy heart that she found herself scraping her husband’s untouched breakfast into the waste bucket.

“You could’ve told me you weren’t hungry before I started cooking.”

Tommy stood at the kitchen sink, looking out at the rain-drenched blocks opposite.

“I’m sorry love. I’m just not up to eating this morning.”

Rose sat down at the kitchen table and took a cigarette from her packet.

“You’re not still worried about Terence are you?”

She leaned back against the wall and looked at her husband.

“I don’t know Rose,” he turned and sat opposite her. “I’d never have believed for one moment that it was him but...”

“But what?” she glared at him. “You’re not going to sit there and tell me you think Terence knifed that boy are you?”

“No, no Rose. Just let me finish.”

She drew deeply on her cigarette and waited for him to continue.

“I just can’t understand why he should leave Aileen so early.”

“He told you he had a headache.”

“Has he ever had a headache before? And how many lads of his age would leave a disco and a girlfriend to go home to bed early on a Saturday night because of a flaming headache?”

He punched the table to emphasise his point.

“How do you know how bad he was feeling? It may have been worse than an everyday headache. I never thought I’d see the day when you would accuse your own son...”

“I’m not accusing him of anything Rose...”

“Then what are you doing Tommy?”

She stood up abruptly and began to pace up and down behind her husband.

“I’ll tell you what’s going through your mind shall I?”

She raised her voice now as anger welled up inside her.

“You want him to say he did it.”

“What? That’s bloody ridiculous.”

Tommy raised his voice even louder.

“You want to believe that your son was man enough to wait for the chance to get his own back on the thug who nearly killed him.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying woman.”

“Then I’ll tell you the truth and I want you to listen good and proper Tommy Johnstone.”

She sat down again and leaned forward so that she was only inches from her husband. She began to speak calmly and evenly once again as she delivered her message.

“Our Terence is the most gentle, loving. sensitive son any parent could ever wish for. I know a lot of boys would have taken their revenge on that lad Mitchell. But I’ve been watching our son very closely since all this happened. He hasn’t an ounce of hate in his body. He just picks himself up and gets on with his life. Oh I remember how I felt as I watched him lying in that hospital bed looking like a lump of meat.”

Tommy winced and closed his eyes as the picture came to his mind.

“I wanted his attackers to suffer. I wanted revenge on the cowards who did that to my boy. But what about Terence? He was the one who was lying there. Did you ever once hear him complain or talk about getting his own back? If he had wanted to he could have got him any time he wanted. He could’ve picked any one of a hundred people who would’ve gladly done it for him. But no, that’s not how my son’s mind works. I’ve come to know more about him in the last few months than I did all those years before. I suggest you get to know him as well Tommy. Then you’ll see what real courage is. You’ll find out what being a decent, honest, caring person is all about. Then you’ll know that our Terence could not possibly have attacked that lad. Not the Terence I know anyway.”

Rose wept uncontrollably as she ran out of the kitchen and into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Tommy sat staring at his hands, feeling as though he had been run over by an express train. Deep within himself though, he knew that Rose was right.

Terry had some difficulty finding his way around the hospital. He had been moved from block to block in his search for Sanny Mitchell, as each enquiry sent him to another part of the complex. As he stood at the reception area of Block C, a haggard old man in blue and white striped pyjamas approached him and spoke in a trembling voice.

“Got a cigarette son?”

“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

Terry stepped back as he caught a whiff of the old man’s breath.

“Can I help you?”

The voice came from behind him. He turned to face a young, attractive nurse who smiled warmly.

“Yes, I’m trying to find a patient. Sanny Mitchell. I’ve been all over the hospital.”

The lady escorted the old man towards the entrance to a ward.

“On you go Charlie. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

She watched the old man for a few seconds before returning to Terry.

“Mitchell you say. Are you a relative?”

“No. But I am a friend. Is he here?”

The nurse sat down behind a desk and proceeded to look through some files.

“Visiting isn’t for another hour,” she said, without looking up.

Terry moved towards her and placed his hands on the desk.

“Couldn’t I see him for just a minute?”

She stopped working and raised her head to look at him closely.

“A friend you say.”

“That’s right. We played football together.”

He contented himself with a half truth.

“I suppose a couple of minutes won’t do any harm.”

She stood up and walked along a narrow corridor. Terry followed her without waiting to be asked.

“And he could do with some cheering up I suppose.”

She opened a door and pushed her head inside.

“A visitor for you Mr Mitchell.”

She turned to Terry and held the door open for him.

“Two minutes and not a second more.”

Her warm smile belied the authoritative tone. Terry stepped into the room and looked expectantly at an empty bed. He stood for some moments before he noticed the figure of a man leaning over a sink, his back to the door.

“Hello Sanny. I hope you don’t mind but I thought we’d better have a chat.”

The man did not move but Terry thought he heard gurgling sounds coming from his mouth. Terry moved slowly towards him.

“Sanny, it’s me. Terry Johnstone. Are you alright?”

A hoarse choking sound rose from the man as he began to raise his head and turn round slowly.

“Is there anything I can do?” said Terry nervously.

He recognised the profile of Sanny Mitchell as he turned towards him.

“Sanny. It’s me. I’d like to...”

Terry’s heart almost stopped and he stepped back as Sanny let out a pitiful cry of terror and anguish. Terry opened his mouth to speak but no words would form as he looked into the youngster’s tortured eyes. The left side of his face showed a series of scars which stretched from just above his eye and down to his lower jaw. Another ugly scar ran from above his right ear, across to his eye and down, across his cheek, over his mouth, slicing through his lips and stopping at the centre of his chin.

Terry was overcome with a mixture of abject revulsion and a feeling of immense pity for the boy. He was then gripped with a sense of fear and alarm as he watched Sanny tremble and cower in terror. He was staring at Terry with a look of sheer horror. His body shook and his face was contorted in a convulsion of shock and fear. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he backed away from Terry, reaching the corner where he could retreat no further. Terry was unable to move as he watched the pathetic figure sink to his knees, covering his face with his arms.

“Leave me alone. Please go away.”

It was the voice of a tortured child pleading for mercy.

“Don’t hurt me, please. I didn’t do nothing. Please don’t hurt me.”

Terry swallowed hard and forced himself to speak.

“It’s ok Sanny I’m not going to...”

“Why? Why did you do it?”

The boy wept uncontrollably, his entire body trembling.

“What are you talking about? You know it wasn’t me.”

Terry felt his stomach tighten and a panic began to rise in his head.

“I thought we had made it up. Why did you have to come back and do this to me?”

“No, you’re wrong Sanny. You must be mistaken.”

Terry was crying now as he pleaded with Sanny to release his tortured mind of the terrible guilt which was now gripping him.

“I saw you Terry. You followed me into the toilet and took out a Stanley knife. Oh Christ I wish you could’ve killed me instead of this.”

He collapsed in a heap and started punching the floor frantically, his whole body heaving under his hysterical sobbing. Terry shook his head in disbelief, trying to shake the nightmare from his memory.

“Oh dear God. Please forgive me.”

He turned and ran, tears streaming down his face. The young nurse called after him as he rushed past her. She watched him run into the car park where he fell to his knees and was violently sick.

“Men,” she asided to a colleague. “They’re just big softies really.”

Terry spent the next few days shut away in his bedroom., refusing to respond to anyone. His parents made every effort to talk to him, cajole him, plead with him, but all to no avail. He spent most of the time lying on his bed and staring at a blank ceiling, hoping upon hope that a bolt of lightning would reach down and strike him. Time and again he buried his head in the pillow in an attempt to erase the image of Sanny Mitchell’s badly mutilated face. Sleep was no refuge as his every dream was haunted by the cowering figure on the floor of the hospital ward.
Aileen paid several visits but could find no way through the torment which enveloped him, shutting him away from reality. He realised that the only answer was to escape. If he was ever going to succeed in freeing his soul from the pain which tore at his heart, he would have to drag himself out of the blackness and find a new world, a fresh existence, far removed from the sordid memories which tied him to a sense of guilt and self-loathing.

The realisation gripped him with a suddenness which brought him out in a cold sweat. Abruptly he got to his feet and went down on his hands and knees. He groped blindly amid the darkness under his bed until he felt the smooth, soft leather. In an instant he pulled his football boots from under the bed and held them close to his chest. He sat on the edge of the bed and brushed some hard-set mud from the soles with the sleeve of his shirt. Tears of comfort and relief rolled down his cheeks as he contemplated the options in front of him. For the first time in his life he thanked God for having bestowed a talent upon him. A talent which he would now use to the fullest of his abilities. A talent which would lead him away from the sorrow of his present predicament and into the wider, safer world of fame and fortune.
Rose Johnstone brushed away a tear as she prepared a meal for her son, the first meal he had asked for in several days.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been difficult mum,” he said with genuine regret. “It’s just that
I’ve been a bit down these last few weeks.”

“Don’t worry son. There’s no need to apologise. I’m just glad you’ve found your appetite again.”

“Could you let me have a couple of quid today mum?”

“I don’t see why not. Can I ask what it’s for?”

“I want to go up to town and do a bit of shopping. I need a new football for a start.”

“What a good idea,” she agreed enthusiastically. “Why don’t you ask Aileen to go with you?”

“I don’t think so mum,” replied Terry, rejecting the idea out of hand.

“But she’s been round asking for you almost every day. I just thought you might want to show her some appreciation.”

“I just want to be on my own today mum.”

“Very well Terence. It’s up to you of course.”

Tommy arrived home late from work that afternoon. He had popped into the Railway Tavern with a few work colleagues and had expected a rough reception from Rose.
“Sorry I’m late love. I had a couple of pints with the lads.”

“That’s fine Tommy,” she called from the kitchen. “Sit yourself down. Your tea will be ready in a few minutes.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said as he sat down and scanned the sports pages of his daily newspaper. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“Terence and I had a good long chat this afternoon,” she announced as she sat down opposite him.

“What? Where is he? Is he in his room?”

“No,” she smiled broadly. “He seems to be his old self again. He asked me for some money for a new football as a matter of fact.”

“Did he now? Well that’s great news isn’t it. I told you he’d come round in the end. Is this for me?”

He picked up a letter which was lying on the coffee table in front of him.

“Yes,” replied Rose as she got to her feet. “It came this morning. I’ll make you a cup of tea while you’re waiting.”

Rose returned to the kitchen as her husband examined the handwriting on the front of the envelope. It was addressed simply T Johnstone and it occurred to him that it could be for Terry.

“Ah well. There’s only one way to find out.”

The note inside was grubby and the writing untidy and hurried. He read the two words scribbled at the top, Dear Terry. His first instinct was to replace it in the envelope and put it aside till Terry got home, but something about the feel of the letter urged him to read on. His heart pounded as the contents of the letter unfolded before his eyes. Perspiration formed on his forehead and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He sat back into the armchair and let the letter fall onto his lap.

“Oh my dear God,” he cried as Rose returned with a mug of tea. She hurriedly placed the cup on the table and picked up the letter and started reading.

Dear Terry,
I hope you don’t mind but I did that Mitchell good and proper. I did it
for you so don’t be angry. He deserved to die after what he did to you
but I decided to make him suffer. So don’t worry any more. He can’t
touch you now. Maybe we can get together some time. I’d like that.
I’ll wait for you to get in touch. All the best for now.
Robert.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” cried Rose as she dropped to her knees at the feet of her husband, staring at the letter with tear-filled eyes. “Oh God, not this. Please, not this.”

She buried her head in her hands, still holding the letter which crumpled under her tears.

“Take it easy Rose,” said Tommy as he moved forward and held her by the shoulders.

“How can you say take it easy?” she raised her voice in exasperation. “What are we going to do?”

“Nothing,” said Tommy firmly. “We’re going to do absolutely nothing.”

He took the letter from her and tore it unceremoniously into little pieces and threw it into the waste basket.

“We do nothing. We say nothing. We forget we ever read it.”

“I knew he’d come back to haunt us,” said Rose through her tears. “What if Terence finds out? He’d never forgive us.”

“Don’t even think it Rose,” said Tommy forcefully. “He won’t need to find out. We tell him nothing. Just pull yourself together and don’t think about it. If only for Terence’s sake at least.”

Rose sank her head in her husband’s lap and smothered her tears. She felt the ghost of her past touch her life with icy, haunting hands. Tommy comforted her as he winced against the cold shiver which ran down his spine.

[32] Books That Became Films

2006-05-08T11:15:00.000+10:00

How often have we heard the old maxim: The film is nothing like the book?

It is rare indeed to hear a book lover speak highly of a film that has been adapted from a favourite book. While I suspect that a degree of cultural and artistic snobbery comes into play here, there can be no doubting that for the most part, books and films give the consumer completely different variations on a theme, and are received with similarly distinct sets of values.

Guardian Books Unlimited provides a list of the top 50 book-to-film adaptations, chosen by a 'panel of experts'. It makes for interesting reading.

50 Book Adaptations

[31] Tall Boys and Wide Girls

2006-05-07T14:22:00.000+10:00

It’s strange how you can see death in some people’s eyes, like an eerie sort of sixth sense that allows you to share some perverse metaphysical secret. I saw death in the man with the yellow hair. I wasn’t frightened by such insight but calmly sipped my whisky without taking my eyes from the sad figure. He returned my gaze and I detected a hint of fear in his eyes. Perhaps he saw in me an image of his own self. Was that why I could see so deeply into his soul? I tried to shut him out. I averted my eyes and looked down at the golden liquid in my glass. I raised it to my lips but again I met the cold stare of the stranger. My stomach turned and I placed my drink noisily on the bar. I closed my eyes and allowed my thoughts to flow freely, ignoring the dark images which haunted my tired mind. Such ghosts no longer held any terrors for me. Over the years I had become immune to the strange faces, contorted in pain, or was it anger?

Eventually I forced the warm liquid into my body. I felt its soothing hands caress my insides and my head began to spin. The man with the yellow hair coughed and spluttered noisily. He pushed a rolled-up cigarette into his mouth. His whole body retched violently as he inhaled at length. All the time his eyes were fixed on me. I estimated him to be in his late thirties but his state of disarray made such guesswork hazardous. I attracted the barman’s attention and requested a refill. He served me in silent disinterest. He was small and stout with a bushy red moustache and thick, unkempt hair. He had a pale, sickly complexion and ugly, protruding eyes. I found his whole being quite repulsive and he reminded me of a garden gnome.

“In the old days a barman took pride in his profession. Not like these amateurs today eh?” I complained to no-one in particular.

“I didnae ask tae work here big man,” he pushed the glass in my direction. It stopped perilously close to the edge and I silently admired his aim. “An if ye don’t like it, ye know whit ye can dae wi yersel big man.”

I watched him throw the money into a drawer, all the time shaking his head in disgust.

“See what I mean,” I took great pleasure in turning the screw. “It’s hard working, upstanding gentlemen like us who keep plebs like you alive.”

The man with the yellow hair let out a snigger which set him off in another fit of coughing. I felt pleased with myself as I watched the barman scurry into a corner and hide his embarrassment behind a tattered old newspaper. The bar was enveloped in an atmosphere of despair and deprivation. Broken glass littered the floor and the bar was covered in circular beer stains, sticky and hard set through time and neglect. An old paper plate overflowed with cigarette ash, discarded fag ends, spent matches and scraps of rotting food. I pulled my coat tightly to me and consoled myself with the thought that it was safer in the grubby bar than out in the deserted streets. My nerves were on edge and I was spoiling for a fight as the whisky began to take effect. I called the barman three times before he stopped pretending not to notice.

“I’ll have a bottle of the hard stuff and don’t give me any shit.”

“Ye’ve already had yer ration pal.”

“Look mister, there are only two punters in this boozer. Forget the rations and give me a fresh bottle.”

He turned his back on me and walked away, scratching at a gaping sore on the side of his neck.

“How much can I have then for fucksake?”

I began to regret my earlier outburst.

“Two glasses and nae mair.”

“Oh come on old boy. A bottle. Who’s to know?”

He turned and moved swiftly towards me.

“Don’t gae me that old boy patter big man. Ah know and that’s aw that needs tae know.”

I was getting nowhere. My mind raced as I contemplated my next move. I looked across at the man with the yellow hair.

“Hey you.”

I snapped my fingers and he jumped like a nervous kitten.

“What’s your name my friend?”

I moved slowly along the bar and placed my hand round his back. He turned his head and glanced nervously at my hand which rested on his shoulder. He was scared out of his wits.

“Don’t be shy now mister. I’m Stanley Goodfellow. My friends call me Stan. What about you?”

“Vincent,” he whispered.

“Ok barman, how much whisky can you allow my friend Vincent here?”

“He disnae drink whisky.”

“Oh yes he does. Don’t you Vincent.”

I tightened my grip and he shifted nervously.

“I don’t mind giving it a try.”

“How much whisky barman?”

He turned away once again, still scratching his neck.

“Ah’ll gae ye a bottle then if it’ll shut ye up.”

“Shut me up?” I whispered to myself and Vincent. “I’m only just warming up for my usual Friday night.”

I paid for the bottle and poured two generous measures. Vincent was reluctant to avail himself of my hospitality.

“Go on my friend, down the hatch.”

I emptied my glass in one swift gulp. Vincent smiled and raised his glass to his lips, pausing for some moments before following my example. Another fit of painful coughing quickly ensued. The barman looked up from his newspaper and shook his head disdainfully.

“Never mind him Vincent. He’s only jealous because he’s stuck behind the wrong side of the bar.”

“It’s years since I’ve tasted this stuff,” said Vincent.

He covered his glass with his hand as I tried to top it up.

“I’d better not. I’m not used to it.”

“Please yourself,” I replied, filling my own glass to the brim.

I stepped sideways away from the man. His clothes were caked in dry mud. His breath was stale and his few remaining teeth were black and badly misshapen. Our temporary acquaintance had served its purpose. I examined the whisky bottle. I had long since given up complaining about the absence of a label. As long as it tasted like the real thing I cared little for the brand.

A blast of cold air hit the back of my neck. I turned round and watched the two militia men enter the bar. They stopped and looked round the dark and untidy room. The barman jumped to attention like a scared rabbit.

“What can I do for you lads?”

His mouth was contorted in a sycophantic smile. The two men ignored him and started to walk slowly round the bar. They sported the customary blue uniform and protective helmet with yellow stripes. The younger of the two wore mirrored sun glasses. He held his truncheon in his right hand, hitting it against the palm of his left hand as he progressed. The barman nervously followed their every move.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in this place sarj,” said the one with the shades.

“I remember it well Malky.”

They examined the decor with disapproving shakes of the head.

“I used to drink here when I was a student back in the nineties.”

“Is that a fact?” replied Malky, sounding genuinely impressed.

“Thing is,” continued the sergeant. “I’m buggered if I can remember the name of the joint in those days. Hey mister.”

The garden gnome jumped to attention.

“How long have you worked in this hell hole?”

He scratched his neck as he tried to remember.

“Just over six months.”

“Six months,” the sergeant sounded disappointed. “What happened to old Charlie then?”

“He died some months back.”

“Is that a fact?”

The two men resumed their tour of inspection and the barman breathed a sigh of relief.

“Look at the state of this place,” said Malky. “I wouldn’t bring a dog in here?”

They had now reached my friend Vincent. He lowered his head and tried to appear disinterested. The two men stood behind him, one on either side.

“What’s your name mister?” said the sergeant, eyeing him up and down as he spoke.

“Vincent,” he whispered.

“Speak up,” commanded Malky.

“Vincent O’Donnell.”

“You’re not a bloody Paddy are you?”

He stood back and turned up his nose as he inspected the man.

“You’re a bloody mess pal. What the hell have you been doing with yourself? What have you got here then?”

He moved his truncheon forward and tapped it against the knapsack which lay at his feet. Vincent glanced down at the bag, then at the soldier, then at me. I turned my head sharply away and sipped at my whisky. He was on his own and I could not afford to get involved.

“My work,” he finally replied.

“Your work,” said Malky. “What kind of work?”

“I’m an artist.”

I detected a hint of sarcasm in his reply.

“An artist eh?” mocked the sergeant. “We don’t come across many artists in our line of business do we Malky?”

“Can’t say we do sarj. Let’s have a look then.”

They feigned respect and admiration as they pressured the man. I was reminded of a couple of school bullies deep into my past and all the time my contempt for the two soldiers grew in intensity. Vincent bent down and raised the knapsack onto the bar. He moved his hand inside but the sergeant grabbed him roughly by the wrist. Without a word he pulled the bag towards him and emptied the contents. Scrolls of paper and an assortment of pencils and brushes landed in an untidy heap. One or two fell to the floor and Vincent crouched down and carefully gathered them together. The sergeant began to unfold a canvas and slowly spread it across the bar.

“Well, well. What have we here then?”

He used a couple of empty beer glasses to hold it flat. I moved over a few feet, careful not to attract attention to myself. The painting was about six feet by four. It took some moments for my eyes to focus properly in the dark atmosphere. I was not disappointed. The painting showed a steep hill which stretched high and far towards the horizon. On top of the hill stood Edinburgh Castle, it’s walls sprinkled with gaping holes, it’s ramparts crumbling with decay.

A cold shiver ran through my body as I took in every detail. Starting at the top of the hill and spreading out towards the front of the picture, thousands of people fled in apparent terror. They began as unrecognisable specks in the distance, growing in detail as the eye followed the progress of the crowd. As the faces revealed greater detail I realised that they were screaming in obvious terror as they tried to escape some untold horror towards the castle itself. I shuddered as I took in the sheer revulsion and fear in the faces of the crowd. The two militia men were clearly similarly moved as they stared at the scene in silent astonishment.

“What the hell is this all about mister?” said the sergeant, his voice betraying his nervousness.

“I swear I’ve never seen anything so grotesque in all my life,” said Malky, no less inspired. “Why’d you paint it then man? What does it all mean?”

“It’s entitled Tall Boys and Wide Girls and I painted it for a very close friend,” said Vincent with a new found air of confidence.

For the first time I took in the peculiar shapes of the people represented in the painting. Each male was extremely tall and thin while the women were short and fat.

“Why are all the guys tall and the dames fat? What’s going on at the top of that hill?” Malky’s tone demanded answers.

“You’ll have to look further into the picture to see what it’s about,” replied Vincent with an air of superiority.

I watched the two men lean forward in unison, straining their eyes to look behind the walls of the crumbling castle. The artist stood aloof, clearly enjoying the moment. I suddenly found myself admiring him for the first time.

He was making fools of the two soldiers, despite the fact that they had clearly set out to intimidate him. Malky was first to raise his head from the painting.

“Well I sure as hell can’t see nothing. What are you trying to pull here mister?” he would not be appeased.

“It’s bullshit,” shouted the sergeant.

He pushed the painting away with both hands. The two beer glasses went with it, smashing noisily to the floor. He looked straight at Vincent and raised his right hand, pointing a finger inches from his face. His eyes stared wildly and sweat ran down his face.

“It’s nothing but bullshit and you know it,” he screamed.

I could sense a feeling of panic in the sergeant’s voice, like he was trembling inside, his words of anger trying to outweigh some inner torment. Vincent returned his gaze with a knowing grin which I found unnerving. The atmosphere in the bar room was decidedly edgy and I braced myself for whatever was to follow.

“Come on. Let’s get out of this shit hole.”

The sergeant pushed past his colleague and headed for the door. I breathed a sigh of relief and swallowed a large mouthful of whisky.

“Wait for me sarj,” cried Malky as he quickly followed. We watched them scurry out into the snow-covered street.

Vincent carefully rolled up the canvas and placed it in his knapsack along with the rest of his work. All the time a contented smile lit up his face and I wondered what was going through his mind. The garden gnome snatched angrily at the man’s glass and gave him a hate-filled stare.

“Ya fuckin smart arse. Who the hell d’ye think ye are comin in here an noisin up the polis?”

Vincent’s face resumed it’s former sadness. He threw the knapsack over his shoulder and walked out into the street.

“Bliddy troublemaker,” he continued to berate the artist after he had gone. “He’s probably wan o they Edinburgh bastarts himself.”

“What if he is? Some of my best friends come from Edinburgh,” I said, happy to contradict his tirade.

“Och ye know whit ah’m on aboot,” he continued, raising his voice as he turned his back on me. “It was them that started it aw. Can ye no remember? Them an their bliddy festival. Whit did aw that arty fartin aboot ever dae for us eh?”

He turned towards me once again and advanced slowly and deliberately.

“It was bad enough wi the Aids thing. But this? They should’ve quarantined the whole bliddy lot o them afore it was too late. We should’ve abandoned the bastarts and stuck wi the English when we had the chance. If we’d done that then nane o this wid ever a happ’ned.”

“I think you’re overreacting old boy.”

I poured another measure of whisky and tried to control the rage which was building up inside my head. Before the barman could respond the doors burst open behind me and once again I winced against the icy blast on the back of my neck. The barman took one step to his right and glanced over my shoulder. The look of fear in his eyes told me he did not like what he saw.

“Can I help you sir?” he resumed his pathetic, frightened voice.

“Where is he?”

I recognised the voice of Malky, the junior of the two militia men. I turned round and had to shield my eyes against the brilliant white sunlight which bounced off the snow covered street. The soldier stood with his arms outstretched, holding the two swing doors wide open. His dark silhouette gave him a sinister appearance.

“Where’s who?” said the barman.

“The artist. The man with the painting.”

“I say would you mind coming in and closing the door old boy before we all freeze to death,” I said, having consumed enough of the hard stuff to risk bringing unwanted trouble on my already overburdened shoulders.

Nevertheless he duly complied. The young man stepped into the room and removed his sun glasses. He was sweating profusely as he glanced round the bar.

“He’s gone. You just missed him,” I informed the agitated soldier.

“Where did he go? Did he say where he was headed?”

“He just picked up his possessions and walked,” I was beginning to slur my speech.

“What’s the problem sir? Is there anything I can do?” said the barman.

“It’s my colleague, Sergeant McLeish.”

He removed his helmet and sat on the edge of a grubby table. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.

“He’s dead. He just dropped down and he . . . in a few seconds he was gone. Just like that.”

I poured another drink and raised the glass to my lips.

“Ah well,” I sighed. “Here’s to Sergeant McLeish. He was obviously an objectionable bastard but, well, he died like a true soldier. May Auld Nick torment his soul forever more.”

“You bastard!”

Before I could drink to the memory of the fallen soldier, Malky leapt from the table and raised his arm. Just in time I managed to move my face wide of the heavy truncheon which closed in on me. The momentum of his lunge threw him face down on the bar. I quickly moved behind him and threw my right arm tightly round his neck. With my left I grabbed the half-empty bottle and held it in front of his face.

“Look mister,” my mouth was pressed against his left ear as I spat out the words. “If your mate’s kicked the bucket then there’s bugger all I, you or the disappearing painter can do about it.”

He was crying like a baby as I pressed the bottle against his face. Through the side of my eye I could see the terrified barman slowly back away. I was very close to the edge and I knew that one wrong word from the soldier would send the bottle crashing down on his skull.

“I just want to speak to him that’s all,” he whimpered.

“Your partner looked very much alive when he left here five minutes ago. What makes you think the artist can help you now?”

“Before he died, he said something about the painting.”

He began to choke but I felt no inclination to relax my grip.

“He said he had to destroy the painting. Then he just dropped dead.”

I finally let him go and he slumped to his knees. He held his head in his hands and his whole body shook in great heaves as he wept. I jumped over the bar. The garden gnome was cowering in a corner, busily chatting on the telephone. I grabbed the receiver from him and ripped the telephone from the wall, bringing lumps of masonry and clouds of dust down with it. He crouched on the floor with his face hidden between his knees, covering his head with his hands as I stood over him.

“The keys. Give me the keys,” I shouted.

He made no sound. I grabbed him violently by the hair and forced him to look up at me. I still held the telephone receiver in my hand. He could not be in any doubt about my intentions as I raised it above his head. He let out a muffled cry and reached into the pocket at the front of his apron. I pulled the keys from his hand and moved over to the safe. I tried several keys before the door moved easily towards me. I helped myself to three bottles of whisky and several hundred Government issue cigarettes. I found an old sack. Quickly I dropped my loot into the bag and tossed it over my shoulder. There was no way of knowing how far the barman had got with his call for help so I had to move fast. I pulled the cash box out of the drawer and emptied the contents over the bar. Several coins spilled onto the floor. I picked up all the notes and pushed them deep into my coat pocket.

Quickly I scrambled back over the bar. Malky looked up at me with tear stained face. As I turned to leave he reached out and grappled frantically with my legs.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged. “Please don’t leave me.”

Both my hands were occupied and I had great difficulty freeing my legs from his determined grip. Somehow I managed to pull my right leg away from him and with one swift movement I kicked him with all the strength I could muster. The end of my boot caught him under the chin and I heard a sickening crack as the back of his skull crashed against the sharp corner of the bar. I took his wallet and thrust it into my pocket. I afforded myself one last look as I edged backwards through the door. The soldier lay lifeless, strange gurgling sounds coming from the back of his throat. The barman scrambled across the floor, frantically trying to retrieve some of the coins which had spilled out of the cash box.

I slipped several times as I plodded through the snow towards George Square. As I turned into Queen Street I nearly fell over a body lying face down in the snow. I turned him over and looked down into the wide, staring eyes of Sergeant McLeish. I had witnessed many dead bodies before but never had I seen such an image of abject horror captured by the camera of death. My hair stood on end as I looked down at the pitiful face. I wanted to be sick but quickly forgot such feelings as I heard the distant wailing of a military siren. I rifled the sergeant’s pockets and soon his wallet joined that of his colleague Malky.

In a second I was scampering towards the old railway station. I was gasping for breath as I walked along the concourse in the direction of the disused rail carriage. I closed the door behind me and with a sigh, I slumped onto the cold, damp floor. I lay motionless for several minutes, gathering my thoughts and my strength. I must have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes I was in complete darkness. My head throbbed and my muscles ached. I groped inside the battered old suitcase where all my worldly possessions were stored. I felt the soft, smooth body of a candle and found a book of matches amongst an assortment of bits and pieces collected during my years on the run. My hands were trembling with cold as I struggled to strike the match. Eventually I succeeded and I rubbed my hands together in front of the protesting flame.

I emptied the contents of my coat pocket and counted the money. Suddenly I heard a noise. I blew out the candle and lay on the floor, not daring to move. I could hear slow, steady footsteps move along the platform. Each door was opened and closed as the footsteps progressed. My heart raced as I knew the door to my sanctuary would soon be opened. I heard the shuffling of feet and the creaking of the door as it gradually gave way. There was a long, agonising pause. The only sound was the pounding of my own heartbeat. The silence was broken by a loud click and in an instant the carriage was lit up by the bright beam of a torch. I kept my eyes firmly closed and prayed for the first time in years. I could sense the beam moving slowly round the carriage and my whole body tensed as the light penetrated my tightly closed eyelids. The beam seemed to rest in that position for an eternity and I finally resigned myself to my fate.

“Have you any more of that whisky left Mr Goodfellow?”

I looked up at the man holding the torch. The bright light blinded me and I had to rub my eyes for some moments before recognising the face.

“Why you . . . I swear I thought my time had come. Where the hell did you come from?”

Vincent closed the door behind him and sat on the floor facing me. I opened a fresh bottle and swallowed at length before passing it to my friend. He accepted gratefully and raised it to his lips.

“Who are you anyway? Have you any idea the trouble you’ve caused tonight?”

He ignored me and carried on drinking. For someone who didn’t touch the stuff he was sure performing an impressive disappearing act with my whisky. Suitably watered, he passed the bottle to me and with deep breaths began rummaging through his knapsack. Then he made an announcement.

“Tonight, under cover of darkness, I intend to make my way southward.”

“You’re joking,” I sat up sharply. “You’ll never make it. They’ll cut you down at the border. That is if you make it that far, which I very much doubt.”

“I’ve no choice. If I stay around here I’m finished.”

“What do you mean finished?”

A smile of indignation formed on his lips.

“You mean you’ve got the B-Strain?”

“I’ve got one month, maybe two, I don’t know. But if I can get to London I can maybe buy my life.”

“But how? You’ll never make it. It’s the middle of winter and in your condition . . .”

“I know. But what’s the alternative? London is my only hope. I’ll think of something.”

All of a sudden I felt immense pity for the man. At the same time I could not help admiring his courage and resolve. I knew that if I was in his shoes I’d probably have blasted my brains out by now. I watched him pick at a crust of bread and wipe a tear from his eye.

“Look mate,” I sat up on my seat and looked down at him. “If there’s anything I can do, anything, I’ll do it.”

Despite my words I felt completely helpless. His silence was ample response. I decided to be more positive.

“What will you do when you get to London?”

“I’ve got friends there. Once I’ve sorted myself out I’ll make contact. It’s strange to think . . .”

His eyes lit up as he sat deep in thought.

“Go on,” I knew he wanted to talk.

“Ten years ago, before they closed the border, I lived in London. I was a student at the Royal College of Art. I even managed a few exhibitions of my work. Everything was clear then. I met a girl and fell in love. We bought a nice studio flat in Chelsea. She was beautiful. Monica her name was. A wonderful concert pianist. We were going to be married. Then it all went wrong. I was knocked out by a brick during an anti Government riot. I was rushed to the infirmary and, well, the blood tests told their own story. Within twenty-four hours I was taken back across the border. I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye to Monica.”

He laughed in defiance of the tears which now ran down his cheeks. I reached into my pocket and found a torn handkerchief. I handed it to him and watched in silence as he wiped the tears from his face. Then very suddenly, he leapt to his feet and gathered his belongings.

“Anyway,” he said. “There’s no sense in dwelling on the past. I’d better get moving fast.”

“Hold on Vincent. I’m coming with you.”

I opened my battered old suitcase and carefully placed the whisky and cigarettes inside.

“What are you running away from?”

“I’m wanted for helping the resistance. As we speak there’s a huge price on my head. If I can get to London . . . I’ve got friends there too.”

“But the border patrols. Wouldn’t you be better off without me holding you back?”

“I’ve got two Military ID cards and border passes. It would be a shame to let them go to waste now wouldn’t it. Apart from that I’m an old soldier myself so I know the drill.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Vincent laughed and threw his knapsack over his shoulder. He stepped back and raised his arm, inviting me to lead the way. We both had a spring in our step as we marched along the dilapidated station concourse towards George Square.

“With army documents we can be in London in under a week,” Vincent enthused, clearly excited at the prospect.

“This treatment, you do realise it’ll cost you a lot of money.”

“No problem,” he replied, patting his knapsack with the palm of his hand. “My paintings will fetch a tidy sum down south. Especially now that I am officially a dead artist.”

We both laughed easily as we strolled through the dark, snow-covered streets.

“While we’re on the subject of art,” I assumed a more serious tone. “That painting you took out in the bar, the one with the castle and the tall boys and wide girls, I think you called them.”

“My masterpiece,” he replied, raising his voice above the sound of thick snow crunching under our boots.

“What was it all about? I know I’m a bit of a philistine when it comes to art, at least the visual arts, but why did the sergeant get so worked up about it? His partner seemed to think it had something to do with . . .”

“I know.”

“What do you know? How could you possibly know?”

“The picture was actually painted by one of the aliens.”

“I thought you did it?”

“I did, in a sense. The alien took over my mind and well, I guess you could say we both painted it.”

“But what does it mean?”

“The poor creature was dying fast. He wanted to repay me for hiding him and protecting him from the authorities. So he asked me to let him into my mind. Then I painted my masterpiece.”

“Yes. But you still haven’t told me what it’s all about?”

“I’m not really sure myself. But what I do know is that every time someone tries to do me harm, all I have to do is show them the painting and, well, somehow my enemies have a nasty habit of dying soon after.”

“You mean it casts some sort of spell on them?”

“You could say that. It is only when they look deep into the picture. I don’t know. There’s something there. Something that protects me.”

“Boy I’ve heard some wacky tales in my time. But this sure does take some beating.”

Snow began to fall. It was very light at first but soon developed into a fierce blizzard. We settled for the night in a run-down farmhouse near Bothwell. We filled ourselves with whisky and sang ancient folk songs well into the night.

Five days later I arrived in London, tired and alone. I had buried Vincent in Epping Forest the previous evening. He was so near and yet so far. His demise was swift and painless. I held him in my arms as he died. He told me to take his works and sell them in the city. I took them to the Royal Academy. The faceless vultures were falling over themselves with glee. I had to endure their ceaseless fawning with a smile but laughed triumphantly as I left, fourteen million Dollars richer.

I’m happily married now with two young children. We own a large science farm in Berkshire and my native Scotland is now only a distant memory. Vincent’s painting still hangs pride of place in my drawing room. Several big international dealers have offered me millions of dollars to part with it.

“Why don’t you just sell the thing and be done with it?” my wife has pleaded time and time again. I know for sure that Vincent would have approved of my marrying his Monica but no amount of money would make me submit to the final sell-out. Vincent was right when he described her breathtaking beauty and I knew that one day I would have to tell her the truth and risk losing her the way he once did.

“It’s of great sentimental value my dear,” I would tell her for the hundredth time.

“I can’t imagine why,” she scoffed. “It’s so full of pain and suffering.”

I now look back over the past twenty years. The pain and suffering is all too clear in my mind. One day I’ll return to my native home. Monica will find out the truth. The whole world will finally know and my country, my people, will be repaid with interest.

[30] My First Novel: The Substitute

2006-05-04T14:09:00.000+10:00

My first novel, which has taken me a few years of blood, sweat and tears to complete, is now at long last about to be published.

The Substitute is the story of Terry Johnstone, who has worked hard to achieve fame and fortune in the world of professional Football, and is on the verge of the big time. Along the way, a series of misfortunes has befallen him, and now, on the biggest day of his life, as he prepares to play in the FA Cup Final at Wembley, someone has kidnapped his fiancée and demands a meeting.

This is the story of how Terry rose from the back streets of a Scottish steel town to the bright lights of London. Someone has been following his meteoric rise very closely, and is intent on ruining his big day, and his career. Can Terry save the life of the woman he loves? Can he do it without jeopardising his date with destiny in front of the watching world? Will he finally discover who has been stalking him and why?

The suspense builds to a shattering climax, and a race against time.

The book is being published through www.lulu.com and as soon as it is available for sale, I will post a link to the web page.

I am hard at work on my second novel - as yet untitled - and am also putting together 2 anthologies, one containing Short Stories and the other Poetry, all of which I hope to publish in due course.

[29] My Favourite Writers: Louis de Bernières

2006-05-02T10:51:00.000+10:00

"Louis de Bernières is in the direct line that runs through Dickens and Evelyn Waugh ... he has only to look into his world, one senses, for it to rush into reality, colours and touch and taste." A.S. BYATT

Louis de Bernières was born in London in 1954. Following a brief stint in the Army, based at Sandhurst, he attended Manchester’s Victoria University. He then gained a Postgraduate Certificate of Education at Leicester Polytechnic and went on to receive his MA at the University of London.

Prior to becoming a writer, he held down a variety of occupations from landscape gardener to motorcycle messenger to car mechanic. He eventually moved to Colombia to take up a position teaching English and French. This experience was the inspiration for his first three novels, The War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts (1990), Señor Vivo and the Coca Lord (1991) and The Troublesome Offspring of Cardinal Guzman (1992). The trilogy is greatly influenced by South American literature, particularly 'magic realism'.

In 1993, he was voted one of the 20 best young British novelists by Granta magazine. His fourth novel, Captain Corelli's Mandolin, was published in 1994, winning the Commonwealth Writers Prize (Best Book) and being shortlisted for the Sunday Express Book of the Year award. Set on the Greek island of Cephalonia during the Second World War, the novel tells the story of a love affair between the daughter of a local doctor and an Italian soldier. It has become a worldwide bestseller and has now been translated into 11 languages. A film adaptation of the novel was released in 2001, and the novel has also been adapted for the stage. 2001 saw the publication of Red Dog, a humorous, melancholic and uplifting novel inspired by a statue of a dog encountered on a trip to a writers' festival in Australia in 1998.

Louis de Bernières wrote the introduction to The Book of Job, one of a series of books reprinted from the Bible and published individually by Canongate Press in 1998. This was followed by a play, Sunday Morning at the Centre of the World, which was broadcast on BBC Radio 4 in 1999, and subsequently published in 2001. His latest novel, Birds Without Wings (2004), was shortlisted for the 2004 Whitbread Novel Award and the 2005 Commonwealth Writers Prize (Eurasia Region, Best Book).

Bibliography:

The War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts Secker & Warburg, 1990
Señor Vivo and the Coca Lord Secker & Warburg, 1991
The Troublesome Offspring of Cardinal Guzman Secker & Warburg, 1992
Captain Corelli's Mandolin Secker & Warburg, 1994
Labels One Horse Press, 1997
The Book of Job (Introduction) Canongate Press, 1998
Red Dog Secker & Warburg, 2001
Sunday Morning at the Centre of the World (Play) Vintage, 2001
Birds Without Wings Secker & Warburg, 2004

Louis de Bernières is a very entertaining and versatile writer. Captain Corelli's Mandolin is a wonderful novel which made me laugh and cry and rage at different times throughout. The writing is beautiful and inspiring and takes the reader on an almost seamless rollercoaster of emotions. His descriptive prose brings the music of the book to life and his characterisations are flawless and utterly compelling. A truly wonderful journey for the reader, and one of my top 10 favourite novels.

His South American trilogy dabbles in the murky world of the Colombian drug cartels and political and police corruption, all mixed with Latin-American mysticism. It took a European reader like myself a bit of time to become accustomed to the style of writing, but when I got into step, it was a worthwhile exercise. The imagery is well-crafted and carries the reader on a journey of discovery and intrigue, complemented by clever yet simple plots and sub plots. The use of humour and irony to expose the futility of religious zeal is a joy.

Red Dog is the story of a stray dog which is adopted by the people of the mining communities around Fremantle in Western Australia. It reminded me of Greyfriar’s Bobby in many ways as, like the famous Edinburgh collie, Red Dog has a statue dedicated to him in the area where he lived and died. The novel is peppered with hilarious and heartrending anecdotes, described in typical de Bernières style.

Birds Without Wings, his latest offering, is another beautiful piece of work. Set against the background of the crumbling Ottoman Empire, the Gallipoli campaign and the subsequent conflicts between the Greeks and the Turks, the story centres round the fortunes of a small town in south-west Anatolia, where Christian and Muslim lives and traditions have co-existed peacefully over the centuries. It is a story of a people torn apart by love and war, hunger and genocide.

[28] My 25 Favourite Films

2006-04-27T10:30:00.000+10:00

In no particular order of preference

And my favourite film of all time is:

[27] Decisions Decisions

2006-04-25T15:40:00.000+10:00

Who is it that speaks to me in the darkness
Of a cold and sombre night,
When shadows tease and visions dance
Tto a breeze that plots with mischievous light
And fertile imaginings;
Laughing, rasping, casting sounds
That form faint, yet clear, yet distant words,
Both pleading and commanding
Me to rise, high above my dormant shell.

“Abandon thy cradle
And tear thyself from thy mother’s breast.
Come; devour the milk of eternal fortitude
And grasp the thorn that summons thee to greatness.”

Awake, I lift the volume from my eyes and start aloud:
“When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning or in rain?”
A sigh then a smile, I lie for a while and ponder
The day which beckons me to a new dawn,
Where decisions, decisions have to be made.

My instincts obeyed, I sign upon the dotted line.
With racing heart I rest once more,
To dream, perchance to close the door,
To banish the doubting, mocking child within.

“When the hurly burly’s done.
When the battle’s lost and won.”

[26] Devil's Desire

2006-04-24T12:00:00.000+10:00

Rita caught me totally by surprise. In all our twenty-seven years together I had seldom come across such an uncharacteristic display of benevolence. The taxi cab had stopped in the heart of Oxford Street where we were deposited in the midst of a throng of shoppers. I watched as crowds converged on busy pavements which made Argyle Street seem like a village market. People rushed from shop to store, all busily engaged in the incessant pursuit of spending money. I had resigned myself to an afternoon of trudging this jungle of bartering and greed. I watched as the beasts surveyed their prey with ravenous eyes, licking their lips at the colourful offerings laid bare before them.

I glanced towards the other side of the road where a tall street sign caught my eye. Soho. The name immediately conjured up all sorts of images in my mind. I pictured an assortment of beautiful girls, all eager to pander to my every whim. Shops and cinemas which promised all kinds of inducements aimed at the healthy, red-blooded male. And there I was. My first and last time in London and I stood within the shadow of that monument to manhood. Yet it might as well have been a million miles away as far as I was concerned.

“Get a move on Sandy. And stop day dreaming. We’ll never get another chance to see these famous shops so lets make the most of it.”

“Yes dear.”

I could not help sounding less than enthusiastic as I rushed to catch up with her. There hardly seemed to be any justice left in the world. After all, who was it who won the competition in the first place? Who filled in the entry form, bought the stamp and posted the envelope? A weekend for two in London. I wanted to take my pal Tony along with me. I don’t recall anything in the rules which said that I had to take my missus at all. The way she was foaming at the mouth at the sight of all those shops and department stores, I had a feeling that the prize was going to turn into a penalty. We had already spent her share of the two hundred pounds spending money which went with the plane tickets and the luxury West End hotel.

“Wid ye just look aw all these shops Sandy,” she could scarcely contain her excitement. “I just don’t know where to start.”

“Howz aboot the nearest boozer?” I ventured to dampen her enthusiasm.

“Is it no excitin? Look at aw these people.”

Either she ignored my question or failed to hear it above the confused babel all around us. Either way I found myself trailing at her heels in my customary state of passive obedience.

“My goodness. Wid ye have a look at those beautiful dresses.”

She came to a halt and gasped at an elegant window display. My eyes were fixed on a dark, bronzed Goddess who slinked seductively towards me, her black, silky hair flowing in the breeze. She swayed her hips with expert rhythm and her long legs moved in slow, sensuous strides. She smiled warmly in my direction. A long, inviting smile which revealed brilliant, white teeth, contrasting sharply with her smooth, dark skin. My mouth began to water and I allowed a smile to form on my lips in response to her own obvious gesture of admiration. My smile disappeared and my heart sank as a smart, well groomed muscle man emerged from behind me. My Goddess threw her arms around him and they embraced at length before strolling off arm in arm to some secret harem.

“Sandy,” my fantasy was interrupted by Rita’s bidding.

“Yes dear.”

“Why don’t ye find yersel a quiet wee pub and I’ll meet ye later. Yer heart’s no in this.”

I could hardly believe my own ears.

“Besides, it’ll give ye a chance to buy me an anniversary present. Ye havnae forgot have ye?”

“Course no,” I lied. “Will ye be awright on yer ain then?”

I risked feigning concern at her well being above my own ecstasy.

“Don’t you concern yersel wi me. Just make sure yer back here by six o’clock on the dot.”

Four hours. I was to be set loose on my own for four long, wonderful hours. I watched her disappear into the crowds before I turned on my heels and skipped towards Soho. I was like a prisoner just released from a long stretch as I dodged in and out of the crawling traffic. I clasped my hands together and whooped with joy.

“Ok girls, here I come.”

A couple of nuns stood back and eyed me suspiciously. I raised my cap instinctively as I passed. I rushed beyond the street sign and strolled along a narrow, busy road. The wide, sprawling thoroughfare was replaced by tight, bustling alleyways. Lights flashed constantly and huge, dinner-jacketed doormen vied for custom with promises of ‘girls, girls and more girls’. Shop fronts advertised a vast array of books, videos and an assortment of peculiar utilities aimed at the modern man. Girls stood here and there in doorways and street corners. Each one watched me closely as I passed.

“Looking for me darling?”

I turned to face a young lady of oriental appearance. She smiled invitingly as I involuntarily examined her ample wares. She placed her hands on her hips and jutted her bosom in my direction. I felt a sudden dryness in my throat.

“Er...good afternoon miss,” I stammered foolishly and raised my cap as I backed away from her.

She laughed aloud as I turned and walked off with hurried steps. In my haste I allowed myself to be enticed into a brightly lit doorway. The doorman had no trouble guiding me into a long, narrow corridor. I glanced up at the notice in large red letters. Live peepshow. Oh well, I thought, it can’t possibly hurt. I walked into one of a row of empty booths, each about the size of a telephone box. In front of my eyes was a kind of letter box. Beside this was a coin slot above a drawing of three pound coins. I got the drift and eagerly pushed the coins into the slot. I listened as they dropped, the last one triggering off a series of mechanical reactions before the letter box slid open. I moved my head forward and peered into the darkness. There she was. A tall, well built lady cavorted before my very eyes. She seemed to be in the process of changing for dinner. I watched mesmerised as she danced and writhed unashamedly. All around her I could see other pairs of hungry, leering eyes watching her from the darkness. Bloody peeping Toms, I thought to myself. Suddenly the girl seemed to abandon her exotic dance as her eyes met mine. I felt my heart pound with excitement as she moved slowly towards me. My hands trembled as I moved my ears closer to the letter box, straining to hear what she wanted of me.

“Close the bleedin door you plonker.”

I turned round to see a group of men leering over my shoulder. They all stood with gaping eyes, their tongues licking their boots.

“Whit the...get the hell oot o it ya shower o perverts!”

I scrambled to close the door and had to use all my strength to shut out a couple of persistent gatecrashers. I turned round again just in time to see the slot close with a thud. I cursed out loud and decided against wasting any more of my hard earned cash.

I moved out into the busy street and made a beeline for the pub which stood prominently at the corner opposite.

“Geeza wee hauf wid ye Jimmy.”

“Do what mate?”

“Eh...sorry pal. Could I have a whisky please?”

I was beginning to lose track of myself in all this excitement.

“Make it a large one please mister.”

I looked round the smoke filled bar room. People stood around in little groups, chattering noisily. The Juke Box boomed out Rod Stewart’s Do Ya Think I’m Sexy. A couple of pretty girls sat at the other end of the bar, their eyes fixed on me. I sent a friendly smile in their direction. They both crumbled into fits of laughter and turned away from me.

“That’ll be five pound eighty please,” said the barman.

“How much?” my voice registered alarm.

“Five eighty.”

“You must be joking. I asked for a glass, not a bottle.”

“Five eighty it is my friend.”

He looked menacing as he moved his face towards me, baring his teeth as he spoke. I handed him six pounds.

“There ye go big yin. Keep the change.”

I tried to sound like some big shot. Somehow his glare contradicted my sense of charity.

A strong scent hit me very suddenly. I screwed up my nose and sniffed at my whisky. The dreadful pong caught the back of my throat and I gulped at my drink in an attempt to erase the powerful stench from my nostrils. It smelled of old socks. I turned round slowly and followed the trail. I jumped as my nose came into contact with the chest of a large framed female. She towered over me and I looked up into a strong, heavily made up face. Her false eyelashes flashed messages at me. Her hair was dyed blonde and her large, square shoulders heaved as she moved in on me, allowing her body to press against mine. I retreated until I was pushed against the bar and could retreat no more. She stopped inches away from me and the stinging aroma was almost unbearable.

“Hi. Me Helga. Me from Bavaria.”

She offered an outstretched hand of friendship.

“Hello. Me Sandy...er...I’m Sandy. I’m from Carfin.”

My hand ached as I accepted her greeting.

“You go with me. I give you plenty panky hanky, ya?”

I could not decide whether she was asking me or telling me.

“No thanks hen. No the day if it’s aw the same wi you.”

I made to turn towards the bar once more but she pushed herself more forcefully against me. There was no escape. She was all of six feet tall and with a build to match.

“You no like Helga? Me from Bavaria.”

“Naw...I mean aye. I like. Ye’re dead nice, honest tae God. y’are.”

I broke out in a cold sweat as the smell of old socks overpowered my senses.

“Ok you come with me ya? How much you pay?”

I let out a long gasp and nervously loosened my tie. I searched frantically for a way out.

“Five pounds,” I replied. I prayed she wouldn’t accept.

“Five pounds?” she cried. I felt all eyes on me as I tried desperately to conceal my embarrassment.

“Five pounds?” she repeated in an even higher voice. “Scheisse. You only get ugly pig for five pounds. Scheisse.”

She moved away and I sighed with relief as I watched her disappear into the crowd. I finished my whisky and ordered another. In my panic I had forgotten how extortionate the tipple was in this particular establishment. But I was so relieved to escape from the clutches of the crazy German that I did not care what it cost. I devoured the strong liquid with a new found relish and promptly ordered yet another. Several refills later I decided I’d had enough for now. I walked into the gents and made for the cold tap. I could still smell the old socks and I did not want Rita to start asking awkward questions. I washed my hands vigorously but the more I scrubbed them the stronger the pong. I began to panic as I imagined the horrible smell sticking to me for days on end.

“Me Helga. Me from Bavaria.”

I let out a guttural cry and leapt back against the wall as I caught sight of the large Bavarian girl. Some girl. There she was standing in front of the urinal, her skirt hitched up at the front, in the process of relieving herself, just like any ordinary bloke. I cursed aloud and raced for the exit as fast as I could. I heard it calling after me as I fled.

“Five pounds. Scheisse. Ugly pig for five pounds.”

I was in a state of apoplexy. I spent the next half hour taking in the sights and sounds of Soho as I gradually came back down to earth.

I watched the flashing lights grow in intensity against the darkening sky. Tough looking men drew crowds at street corners. I watched them trick several unsuspecting tourists into parting with ten pound notes at the turn of a card, and wondered at the apparent ease with which some people were prepared to throw away their cash. An obese gentleman of middle-eastern appearance performed a perilous fire-eating trick to the delight of an appreciative audience. A street peddler hawked items of cheap jewellery and perfume from a battered old suitcase while an accomplice kept a look out for the law.

The strong whisky had given me a taste for more and I moved off in search of another watering hole. My eyes fell upon a large neon sign surrounded by flashing red lights. Live Sex Show. I moved closer and examined the small print. £10 membership, Licensed Club, Topless Girls, Live Show.

I took a deep breath and entered the dimly lit interior. A large doorman, completely bald and with a massive frame, stood at the top of a flight of stairs. I found his presence somewhat menacing and turned to leave.

“Excuse me sir.”

He grabbed me by the arm. His grip left me in no doubt as to his dedication to the job. I had no choice but to turn to face him.

“Would you care to avail yourself of some of our wonderful hospitality?”

He stood aside and raised his free arm, inviting me to descend the stairway. I felt trapped.

“Are you a member sir?”

His voice was a lot friendlier than his manner and I began to feel a bit easier.

“Naw. I’m a visitor. Down for the weekend. Know whit I mean?”

I must confess my tone was somewhat apologetic.

“Then let me welcome you to my humble establishment. For five pounds you can become a member for life. When you see our beautiful girls you will not regret such a small investment.”

The bald eagle led me down the steps towards a darkened foyer. Almost immediately a buxom girl emerged from the gloom and led me through a swing door into a dark and sleazy bar.

“Welcome sir. Please take a seat.”

She invited me to install myself at one of the many free tables. The place was in semi-darkness and I had to strain my eyes as they became accustomed to the change of light. It was then that I noticed my hostess was completely topless. I nervously averted my gaze as I manoeuvred myself into a seat by the wall.

“Would you care for some company sir?”

She stood over me with hands on hips, her large breasts swaying seductively in front of my eyes.

“Naw thanks. I’m fine by masel if it’s awright wi you.”

What the hell am I doing here, I asked myself. She’s younger than my own daughter for heaven’s sake.

“That will be ten pounds please.”

Her voice assumed a more businesslike tone. I fumbled nervously in my pocket while she took out a notebook and pencil from the front of her apron and stood poised to take my order.

“Now what would you like to drink sir?”

I remembered the exorbitant price I had already been charged for a glass of whisky and decided to settle for something a bit less painful to the wallet.

“A lager please thanks hen.”

I watched her disappear into a darkened room and sat back in my seat. I looked round the cramped, stuffy room. An elderly gentlemen watched me intently from the far corner. He sat on a chair and crouched forward, his hands resting on a walking stick.

He wore a grey raincoat and sun glasses. I thought he looked like a character from a Le Carré novel. At another table a couple of topless girls were helping themselves to a Chinese Takeaway. I wondered what might happen if some of the hot meat were to spill onto their vital assets. A West Indian disc jockey sat in a cramped booth, drinking from a bottle and listening to records through a set of earphones, obviously intent on keeping the sounds to himself.
“Will there be anything else sir?”

The topless girl returned and placed a can of lager and an empty glass on the table in front of me.

“Don’t you have any draught lager?” I protested.

“I’m sorry. We only sell cans.”

She sounded unsympathetic and quite irritated at my obvious disappointment. I emptied the contents into my glass. I tasted the lager and was further annoyed to discover that the liquid was warm and tasteless. Never mind, I consoled myself, at least cans are a lot cheaper than draught. I took a large mouthful.

“That will be eight pounds sir.”

I spluttered uncontrollably and spat out a copious spray of lager all over the table.

“How much?” I cried out in disbelief.

“Eight pounds.”

She stood back to avoid being drenched.

“You’re jokin aren’t you.”

My heart raced and my stomach heaved violently as she repeated the words.

“I only asked for one lager. There must be some mistake lass.”

“There’s no mistake,” she assured me. “It’s eight pounds for one lager.”

I tried to laugh as I looked around me. The old man with the walking stick still stared at me. I managed to force a nervous giggle as I gathered my thoughts.

“Aye Ok, very good. Very droll. You really had me goin there for a minute. Now how much is it really?”

The girl sighed and shifted her weight onto one leg. She was obviously trying very hard to keep her cool.

“Look mister. I ain’t bloody joking. Either you cough up eight soddin quid or I call the manager.”

My heart thumped and my bottom lip trembled as I contemplated my predicament. I looked over her shoulder and caught sight of bald eagle as he loitered at the one and only exit.

“That’ll no be necessary hen.”

I reluctantly took out my wallet and handed over a ten pound note.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll bring your change.”

How could I have been so stupid? I cursed myself as I tasted the warm lager. Ugh! This has got to be the worst brew I’ve ever put to my lips, I told myself. I felt like picking myself up and storming out of the place. But I decided against that. I decided instead to face up to it and make the most of my eight quid. I wanted to show them that I would not be messed about easily. Besides, I was still owed two pounds change. Two fingers to you bald eagle.

A beautiful maiden with long golden hair emerged from the shadows and stood at the end of the bar. She wore a black leather mini skirt and red stiletto heels. On the top half she sported a heavy gold chain necklace and nothing else. Her breasts jutted invitingly as she glanced around the bar.

Her eyes rested on me. Like the smitten fool I am I raised my glass and smiled. She did not waste any time as she slithered towards me, swaying her hips in an exaggerated pose. She became more voluptuous the closer she got.

“Hi there. I’m Angie. What’s your name?” she pouted in a voice I had heard many times in Hollywood movies.

“I’m Sandy. Howzitgaun hen?”

“May I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

Well, after spending eight pounds on a warm can of monkey’s urine I thought, what the hell.

“Would you care for another drink?”

She snuggled close to me and I felt her hot breath on my face as she spoke. A cold shiver ran through my body and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as her naked breast touched my arm. Another drink? You better believe it baby.

“Aye Ok. I’ll have a wee whisky.”

I tried to sound calm and in control of myself. In a second the waitress appeared on the scene with notebook at the ready.

“A Scotch for my friend please Susie and I’ll have a Devil’s Desire.”

Devil’s Desire eh? This I must see.

“You’re Scotch aren’t you.”

Angie brushed my leg with her hand as she spoke. My brain registered approval as my head began to spin and I knew it had nothing to do with the quality of the lager.

“Aye, that’s correct. How did ye guess?”

“Your accent. We get a lot of Scotsmen in here you know. I just adore Scotsmen. They’re so manly and sexy and they know how to treat a woman.”

“You do surprise me.”

“Here we are then. Thanks Susie.”

Angie came to life as the waitress returned with the drinks.

“A whisky sir,” she said as she placed the glass in front of me. “And a Devil’s Desire for me. Thank you very much Sandy. You’re very kind.”

A black shadow ran across my eyes and my stomach turned upside down as the realisation hit me.

“What d’ye mean I’m very kind?” I looked at Susie and then Angie with dread in my eyes. “It is your shout hen isn’t it?”

“No way love. I only work here. I don’t buy the drinks.”

She picked up her glass and proceeded to drink through a straw. I panicked. Action had to be taken and fast. I grabbed the drink from her and pushed it back towards the waitress along with my whisky.

“I’m awful sorry. I didnae realise. You’ll have to take these back.”

“You what?” cried Angie.

“No way,” said Susie. “You should have said before I took your order. It’s too late now.”

“But it wasnae my order. It was hers.”

My voice trembled as I pointed an accusing finger at my companion.

“Look, I’ve just about had enough of you,” cried Susie, raising her voice in exasperation. “I suggest you settle your bill and we’ll call it a day.”

My whole life flashed before me. I felt as if I was floating on air as my head spun and my heart pounded. I wanted to reach inside my head and tear out the nightmare which tormented me to the point of despair.

“How much?”

I lowered my head and closed my eyes as I prepared myself for the verdict.

“One hundred and two pounds exactly.”

My mouth hung open and my lips moved but no sound came. I felt a warm wetness between my legs as I stared at the bill in front of me. I could not see anything. My body refused to function. I was paralysed with a mixture of fear and incredulity. I must be dreaming, I told myself. One hundred and two pounds for a drop of whisky? No, it can’t be real. Cold sweat covered my hands and face. I felt sick. I wanted to run to the toilet.

“Are you all right Sandy?” said Angie.

I tried to respond but all I could do was utter indecipherable grunts, my eyes transfixed on the piece of paper detailing my account.

“I’m getting out of here,” said Angie. “He’s a real weirdo.”
She picked up her drink and moved off to join the two girls with the Chinese meal.

“Is everything Ok?”

It was bald eagle’s turn to witness the pathetic spectacle.

“One hundred and two pounds,” I managed to squeeze the words from my lips.

“That’s correct,” said Susie. “Look, here is a price list.”

She walked to the bar and picked up a sheet of paper and placed it in front of me.

I read the words on the neatly typed document.

1/2 Pint Beer £4.00

Pint Beer £8.00
Coke, Lemonade, Orange £3.50
Glass German Wine £9.50

Bottle £35.65
Whisky, Gin, Rum £7.35
Devil’s Desire £33.00

Then I ran through the small print at the foot of the page.

25% Service + Vat added to all bills
All totals rounded up to nearest pound.

Then there was some more small print.

Hostess Company Fee £30.00
All drinks bought for the hostess must include a hostess fee.
Seated conversation with the hostess is an acceptance to pay the full fee.

Then to rub salt into the wounds, the daddy of all small prints.

All drinks de-alcoholised.

I started to laugh. At first it was short, controlled giggles. then it developed into hysterical, fitful outbursts. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I took out my wallet and counted one hundred pounds in ten pound notes.

“Here, take it.”

I placed the bundle of notes on the table.

“You owe me two quid fae ma last drink. Take it. Ye deserve it. Ah cannae argue.”

I finished my drink and made my way towards the exit.

“Good day to youse all. It’s been smashin. We must dae it again wan day.”

I was now in raptures. Bald eagle helped me up the steps to the darkened street. I walked back towards Oxford Street. Passers by stared at me as I continued to laugh hysterically.

Rita was waiting for me and the sight of her standing there with bulging shopping bags brought me quickly back down to earth.

“Well, did ye have a nice time then?” she handed me her bags as she spoke.

“Marvellous,” I replied. “See these Londoners. They’re some crowd ah’ll tell ye.”

She grabbed me by the arm and led me back in the direction from which I’d come.

“Where are we goin now?” I cried.

“Don’t you know what that place is ower there? It’s Soho. We cannae very well leave London withoot taken a walk roon Soho now could we?”

“Is that right.? Well fancy that.”

As we entered the narrow streets I shuddered at the memory of my recent nightmare.

“My God wid ye look at them,” she said, pointing at a group of women standing just ahead of us. “How can they live wi themselves?”

As we approached the small gathering I wanted to die as I recognised the smell of old socks. I tried to avoid her eyes but it was too late. She broke off from her friends and spoke in a husky voice.

“Me Helga. Me from Bavaria. You come with me?”

Rita tugged at my arm and stepped up her pace.

“Ignore her,” she commanded. “She’s no even worth a second glance.”

“Scheisse. I told you,” her voice boomed out after me. “I told you you only get ugly pig for five pounds.”

[25] Pain or Pleasure

2006-04-22T23:57:00.000+10:00

Crushing the life from a squatting beetle
I both marvel and despair at the substance underfoot
And imagine my own demise as I cower
Beneath the black descending shadow of the scythe
And contemplate the rights and wrongs
The reasons why

Must man waste his final thoughts
On a futile journey of frantic self discovery
Whilst the eternal host awaits his pleasure

Such Pleasure

Will it be gloom or shining bright
The voice of darkness or radiant light

Shall I burn in the eternal fire
Or sing with angels in a heavenly choir

Or must I return to further strife
Born again to a second life

This life that’s cursed with perverse reason
Where pain is holy and pleasure treason

Crushing the life from a squatting beetle
I wake the dead

[24] Out of the Mouths of Babes and Sucklings

2006-04-21T18:37:00.000+10:00

Some years ago back in Scotland, a neighbour of mine named Rosa - the single mother of Emily, an angelically beautiful 4 year-old girl - was forever expounding the virtues of being a new age mother. Rosa openly boasted of how she spent her entire pregnancy reading book after book on natural childbirth and instruction manuals on how to ensure that her expected offspring is afforded the best possible start in life. This apparently included, among other things, subjecting the unborn child to endless hours of Mozart, Brahms and Mahler, by means of specially adapted earphones taped to her expansive stomach.

Rosa was indeed delivered of a healthy, bouncing baby girl, who grew in her initial years to show every sign of developing into a delightful, happy and intelligent human being. Rosa openly stressed upon her daughter that she must refrain from using childlike words such as choo-choo for train, baba for baby and doggy for dog, to lend just three examples, and all of which caused much head-shaking and tut-tutting from my own and other mothers in the neighbourhood.

“Why can’t she just let the child enjoy being a child?” was the oft-heard lament.

One hot summer in the mid 1970s, Rosa asked my girlfriend Linda and me to babysit for the by then 4 year-old Emily, which we were more than happy to do. We were left with strict instructions which decreed that Emily must be put to bed not a second after 8pm and that it must be lights out and no debate.

I enjoyed reading to the delightful child as she sat on my lap, immersing herself in the story animatedly and with great enthusiasm. All too soon it was 8 o’clock and time for Emily to retire to bed. Linda and I both escorted her and tucked her in. She sucked her thumb as she returned our goodnight, a natural and heart-warmingly childlike gesture which I felt sure would meet with the vehement disapproval of her demanding, if well-intentioned mother.

At around ten minutes after eight, Linda went to check on our charge and noticed a light shining under the door of the child’s bedroom. We both entered the room to find Emily with her nose in a book which was half-hidden under the blanket.

“What are you doing Emily?” I enquired with a smile.

“Your mother will be angry if she finds out you switched the light back on,” said Linda more firmly. “You should be asleep by now young lady.”

“Oh please,” the child protested. “Just a few more minutes. I’m reading Winnie the Shit.”
I was reminded of this recently when Susan, a work colleague related how, on finding her 4 year-old son Tim biting his fingernails, advised him in no uncertain terms to desist.

“Why?” he demanded, like a typically inquisitive and persistent child.

“Because,” his mother replied, thinking on her feet. “Because…it will make your tummy grow really big and you will be fat like an elephant.”

Tim seemed to settle for this explanation as he stopped biting his nails and resorted to picking his nose instead.

A few hours later, Susan and Tim were sitting in a café enjoying tea and milk, when the boy’s attention was drawn to the heavily pregnant lady seated at the next table. Tim stared with wide eyes at the lady’s huge round stomach which looked to him like it was straining to burst. Susan and the woman exchanged smiles as Tim continued to stare. The woman smiled at Tim and patted her bulging stomach.

“You looking at my big tummy son?” she asked with a warm and inviting tone.

“Yes,” confirmed Tim with a frown which hinted at disapproval. “And I bet I know what you’ve been doing.”

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings…

[23] No More Tears

2006-04-18T11:14:00.000+10:00

It is now time to venture forth, time to explore the world, or whatever is left for me to explore. I’ve been holed up in this stinking bunker for twenty-five days. Or is it twenty-six? I can’t take any more. I’ve just got to escape. I take one last look at my dead brother. Roger’s body has deteriorated badly. I’ve become immune to the stench of death but the eerie smile on his face still haunts me as I climb the creaking steps to a new life. But what sort of life? I pause for a moment. I begin to recall how it all came about. The political crisis worsening day by day. Something stops me from leaving. I sit down on the top step and light another cigarette. I read the Government health warning: Smoking can damage your health.

It all seems so long ago, like decades back into the annals of history. It’s as though I’m remembering an old school text book instead of recent events. I can still remember the feeling of deep despair as I watched the cruise missiles pollute the picture of a beautiful countryside. First one, then another, and another, on and on, all heading east. To where? I’ve forgotten now. Does it really matter? Not to me now or poor Roger. It’s all over now. Millions of years of evolution wiped out at the push of a button. I cannot cry any more. I have no tears left.

All this time in the bunker I have thought of nothing else but survival. Now it is time to go and I begin to think for the first time of the reasons. Why did it happen? Surely we could have avoided all this. I wish I could cry. It would be such a release. Have I been hardened by the holocaust? I used to think crying was silly. Not the manly thing to do. I want to scream but my soul refuses. No-one will hear me anyway. I look at Roger again. Still he smiles. You lucky bastard. What have you got to smile about?

It never occurred to me before, but climbing out of this hell hole will be just like being born again. I’ll crawl out into a strange new world, not knowing what to expect. Mother earth? I’ll have to learn all over again. Survival starts here. But what if I meet people? Should I be wary? Maybe I’ll need a weapon. Even now I can’t get rid of my animal instincts. Even after all this. Twenty-nine years old. Nursery, primary school, grammar school, university, now this. I haven’t done a bloody thing. I’m so scared. Why didn’t I wait for Susan? It would have been much easier if she had been here. I can’t stop worrying about her. Maybe she’s still alive. Maybe I can find her. Still I cannot cry. It’s bound to be dangerous up there. I remember The Day of the Triffids after the lights went out. The panic, the slaughter. It’s no use. I can’t go. I won’t make it. God help me.

A noise. I hear a noise, faintly In the distance. Like machinery. Some sort of generator? It bids me. Maybe they’ve started without me. I must investigate. It should be safe from fallout. Almost a month now. It had been a beautiful summer’s day. When the first warning sounded, I thought of Susan. But it was too late. I had to get underground. Roger and I built the shelter during the last Middle East crisis. When that passed off we thought we’d never need it again. I couldn’t find Roger. I searched everywhere. No-one could answer my questions. They were all too busy panicking and asking their own questions. I cried easily then. I got to the shelter just as the first bomb went off. I could feel the heat on my back.

My shirt was badly scorched and the skin on my back still ached. Roger came running into view just as I was about to close the hatch. I dragged him down these very steps. He was badly burned. For three days he screamed in agony before he stopped. I was helpless. That was the last time I cried.

I’ve run out of food. I’ve no choice now but to get out and find some. I don’t want to die down here. That would be futile. I owe it to Roger and I’ve got to try and find Susan. I’ll help to rebuild the world. We’ll be able to start from scratch. Then in another hundred years or so we can blow it all up again. What a joke. Why didn’t we listen to the Peace Women? I wonder if there are any women left. How else will we be able to recreate the species? I amaze myself that I can think of such absurdities at this time. I can’t believe my own stupidity.

I gather up all my strength and courage. I stamp out my cigarette and clamber to my feet. I test the lever with some effort. I release the catch. The hatch feels so heavy. I set my shoulder to work. Slowly it begins to relent. Brilliant white sunlight penetrates the bunker. I shield my eyes against the extreme bright light. A few moments later I give a final push. The hatch falls open with a thud. A grey dust falls down into the bunker. The whole area is covered in it. The land has been completely flattened. Not a tree in sight. I gather my strength and begin to climb out into the world.

I hear a click. It comes from behind me. I turn my head. A soldier stands ten yards from me. His face is sinister and unsmiling. The sun is behind him so I cannot identify his uniform. He seems to be wearing some kind of space suit. He points his rifle towards me. We stare at each other for some moments. I decide it’s time to make my acquaintance.

Hi there. My name is . . .

The bullet hits me in the chest. I fall back down into the bunker. The pain is excruciating. I tumble down and land on top of Roger, my face above his. Still he smiles at me. I manage to turn my head and look up at the soldier. He stands over the bunker and watches me with cold eyes. I am seconds from death. I force out the last words of my life.

Hello mother.

I cry easily. The tears roll down my cheeks. I can cry again.

[22] Dame Muriel Spark 1918-2006

2006-04-16T10:13:00.000+10:00

Dame Muriel Spark, one of Scotland’s greatest and best-loved writers, died this week at the grand old age of 88. Muriel is best known for her novel The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie which was largely based on her own schooldays at James Gillespie High School in Edinburgh. The book was made into a successful movie starring Maggie Smith in the title role. I remember seeing the film back in the early 70s and rushing out the following day to buy the book, which I held on to for more than twenty years, before losing it while moving house.

I had the honour of meeting Muriel a few years ago when she appeared at the Edinburgh Book Festival, where she read some of her work, including Jean Brodie. It was a veritable joy to hear her recite those famous words: “If only you small girls would listen to me, I would make of you the crème de la crème."

Muriel Spark was principally a poet turned novelist, and was very successful at both, turning out more than 20 books. She was also an authority on Emily Bronte and Mary Shelley. Muriel spent the last years of her life in her adopted home in the Tuscan village of Civitella della Chiana, where she passed away peacefully on Thursday after a short illness.
Muriel Spark

[21] 10 Things I Miss About Scotland

2006-04-12T13:04:00.000+10:00

1. Loch Lomond

Australia is a vast and beautiful and very varied country, but I do miss the wonderful Scottish scenery, especially around Loch Lomond. I have sailed on the Loch, eaten lunch on the bonnie banks, enjoyed walking the hills which stand guard over the beautiful waters, and savoured a refreshing beer while watching the sun set behind Ben Lomond, which sits serenely at the north-east corner of the Loch.

2. A Pint of Guinness
Yes I know it's an Irish beer, but every bar in Scotland sells Guinness on tap. Here in Australia, I have to travel quite far to enjoy an ice-cold pint of the best beer in the world. I can buy it by the bottle in the local grog shop, but it is prohibitively expensive, and it's never as good from the bottle or can. I enjoy the occasional drive to the beach at Surfers Paradise, which is about 10k from home. There is an Irish Bar named O'Malley's on the sea-front, which sells a wonderful pint of the black stuff. Fortunately, Kerrianne doesn't drink alcohol, so I drive there and she drives back. Every man's fantasy is my Kerrianne. Cheers.

3. Celtic Football Club

I am a fanatical supporter of Celtic Football Club, which is based in the East End of Glasgow. I have followed them since my father took me to my very first game as an 8 year-old boy and have travelled all over Europe to watch them play. Each of their home games at the stadium, officially called Celtic Park, but affectionately known by all Celtic fans as "Paradise", is played in front of 60,000 equally fanatical Celtic fans. The club has millions of followers all over the world, mainly among Scots and Irish exiles, like yours truly. I watch all their games live on my PC, which because of the time difference, usually means the early hours of the morning, but I wouldn't miss it for the world. Kerrianne is also a fan now, having attended a few matches at Celtic Park, and she too never misses a game. Hail Hail.

4. The Forth Bridge

Just a few kilometers west of Edinburgh there are two bridges which span the Firth of Forth from West Lothian to the Kingdom of Fife. One is the Forth Road Bridge, a suspension bridge built in the 1960s. The other is the Forth Bridge, more commonly known as the Forth Rail Bridge since the opening of the road bridge. The Forth Bridge, as well as being a beautiful and awe-inspiring site, especially at night, is a spectacular feat of engineering. It is a cantilever bridge, built from 1883 till 1890. It was the biggest steel bridge construction in the world in its time, and is 2.5 kilometers in length.

5. The Great Scottish Pub
Australian pubs really suck. There is no other way to put it. They are more like gambling dens than bars, with half (or more) of the premises set aside as a "Pokie" joint, which is nothing more than a big room full of fruit machines and one-armed bandits, where customers, usually females, spend all their money before you can say "Waltzing Matilda". It really is quite sad to see and it is no surprise to discover that Australia has a severe problem with gambling addiction.

Give me the great Scottish Pub every time. In a Scottish, indeed a British Pub, the emphasis is on drinking and socialising. Strict licensing laws limit the number of gambling machines in any bar to one only. In the UK the legal thinking is to ensure that gambling is kept separate from alcohol, as far as possible, which is eminently sensible as far as I am concerned. You can walk into a Scottish Pub as a complete stranger, and the locals will welcome you and treat you like a long lost friend. Try that in an Aussie pub and you will be suspected of being on the make, on the pull, or both. Slainte!

6. Edinburgh

Edinburgh is the capital of Scotland. It is known as the "Athens of the North" and having travelled to many of the world's great cities, I can safely say that Edinburgh is one of the most stunning and colourful cities I have ever seen. I had the pleasure of living there for 15 years. My two sons still live there and they love it. It is a joy to visit them from time to time and enjoy the splendour of "Auld Reekie" as it is known to most Scots. Great historical cities like Edinburgh is what young countries like the USA and Australia lack. The city is divided into the Medieval Old Town and the Georgian New Town. Edinburgh Castle is nearly a thousand years old and sits majestically in the centre of the city. Edinburgh also boasts the the world's biggest arts festival, which takes place in August and September each year and attracts millions of visitors from all over the world.

7. The Letterbox
Having lived in both the USA and Australia, I still cannot get my head round having to wander outside the home to fetch my mail from a mailbox located at the end of my driveway. Oh how I long for the days when the postman pushed the mail through my very own letterbox on my front door, where it fell in an untidy bundle on the floor inside my house. There is nothing quite like having breakfast in bed and having the dog, or Kerrianne, deliver the mail for me to open and read with my toast and boiled egg.

Having to venture outdoors to collect the mail? It is so uncivilised.

8. Betting on the Horses
I used to enjoy a flutter on the horses. I loved watching the horse racing on television, having invested a small part of my hard-earned cash with the local bookmaker. British horseracing is so colourful and traditional and so well organised. In Australia, there is quite simply far too much of it. Betting places, known as "Tabs" are part of pubs or clubs, and cover all manner of gambling sports, from horseracing to trotting to pony-trekking to dog racing. There is no finesse in the presentation. The punter is bombarded with information on dozens of screens, and when one item finishes, it moves on quickly to the next one. There is no time to draw breath. Not a second to sit and relax and contemplate your next bet. As a result, I don't bet at all now. I long for the relaxed and carefree atmosphere of the Scottish Betting Shop, where you can take your time to study the runners and riders and place your bet at leisure before retiring to the pub or my own television to watch the racing.

9. Snow

Don't get me wrong. I love the constant sunshine of tropical Queensland, but now and again, especially at Christmas, I dream of walking in freshly fallen snow; building a snow man; and partaking in a snowball fight. I'm not at all keen on the ice and frost, but the snow is such great fun, and when it really snows, it is never too cold to venture out to enjoy it. Kerrianne really misses the cold in Scotland, which is very strange, being Australian born and bred.

10. Shopping in Glasgow
Whilst Edinburgh is the capital of Scotland, Glasgow is the main city with the highest population in the country, and whilst Edinburgh is the Financial and Cultural centre, Glasgow is the top UK city for shopping and fashion, outside London. Kerrianne and I used to love spending the day shopping in Glasgow, and walking along the many pedestrianised shopping areas, free of traffic and exhaust fumes. When it is raining, which let's face it, is not uncommon in Glasgow, there are several impressive indoor shopping malls.

And 10 things I certainly do not miss about Scotland...

1. Bagpipes
I am sure I am not the only Scot who finds the sight and sound of the bagpipes to be an affront to my nation. It wouldn't be so bad if these pipers were to lock themselves away in a sound-proof room or sail to one of the many remote Scottish islands to assault each other's ears, but they insist on inflicting the agony on the millions of tourists who visit Scotland each year.

2. Queuing at the Post Office
It does not matter which time of the day or whatever day of the week you need to go there, the Scottish Post Office is permanently queuing to the door, and sometimes even out into the street. I have joined Australian Post Office queues, but they are invariably fast moving because, unlike in Scotland, when they see a queue forming, the management ensure that all serving counters are operational to minimise the waiting time.

3. Orange Walks
Probably the most negative and backward aspect of Scottish life is the presence of religious sectarianism between Catholics and Protestants. The main protagonists of this sorry state of affairs is the Orange Order, an anti-Catholic organisation which was imported from Ireland in the early 19th century. Every year the Orangemen march through towns and cities the length and breadth of Scotland to celebrate the Battle of the Boyne, which took place in Ireland in 1690. Yes 1690, more than 300 years ago. It wouldn't be so bad if they marched on the designated day for Orangeism, which is 12th July. No, they march for weeks before and after that date. In my home town of Motherwell, it was not unusual to be woken early on a Saturday morning by these drum-thumping bigots 3, 4, or 5 times every summer. It seems that almost every Saturday they find some excuse to march, and when they do, woe betide any Catholic who happens to cross their path later in the day when they are filled with drink and a lust for "fenian blood".

4. Neds

Walk through any residential estate in Scotland on any evening and you will see them. They gather on street corners, public parks, or shopping centres, dressed in shell suits and baseball caps, swigging bottles of cheap wine and strong lager or cider. This alcohol consumption makes them very brave as they shout abuse at passing elderly ladies on their way home from the bingo, or make v-signs at passing motorists, or gang up on decent young men who pass on their way home from work or a civilised night out.

5. Litter

Scotland is littered with litter. It is a social disease which is not restricted to neds. All ages and all sections of Scottish society are responsible for the disgusting litter which covers the streets. This is most notable first thing in the morning, before the street-cleaners come on duty, when the streets are littered with discarded fast-food cartons, half-eaten food, pizza boxes, beer bottles and cans. But even outwith the busy social and nightlife areas, generally the amount of litter needlessly dropped by people is disgusting, and will be eradicated only by a complete change in the attitude of Scottish people to their environment.

6. Homelessness

First of all, this is not an attack on homeless people. There are many and varied reasons why some people find themselves in that unfortunate position. No, what I despise is the way the homeless are allowed to sleep on the streets of Scottish cities. Princes Street in Edinburgh is Scotland's most famous thoroughfare and is visited by millions of tourists each year, yet you cannot walk twenty yards without encountering a poor homeless person begging for the price of a cup of tea.

7. Graffiti
Back in Motherwell, I walked through a pedestrian underpass on my way to the train station every morning. The walls were always freshly white-washed by council workers who came out every night under cover of darkness to remove the graffiti placed on the walls on the previous day. On my return journey at the end of the working day, the walls were covered in fresh graffiti, as the game of cat and mouse continued indefinitely. No matter where you go in Scotland, ugly graffiti is everywhere. It wouldn't be so bad if it was the artistic graffiti we see in other countries, but it's just wanton vandalism.

8. Cyclists
Cyclists in Scotland believe they own the roads and are a law unto themselves. They ignore the highway code and have no consideration for anyone else but themselves. Motor vehicles stop at a red light, but what does the Scottish cyclist do. He simply rides up onto the pavement and back onto the road he is intending to use and proceeds on his merry way. Even when all four roads are stopped by traffic lights to allow pedestrians to cross the road, the Scottish cyclist simply dismounts and walks with his bicycle.

9. Road Rage

I have definitely noticed a huge difference between Scottish and Australian drivers. In Scotland, everyone believes he or she is the perfect driver, incapable of making a mistake, which is why there is such a high incidence of road rage in Scotland, ranging from a rude V-sign to actual bodily harm and even murder from time to time. Australian drivers on the other hand, are extremely patient and tolerant. When I started driving in Australia, inevitably I made the occasional mistake, and on each occasion I braced myself for the expected tirade of abuse. Much to my surprise, I found that Australian drivers just got on with it and there were no rude gestures, no smoke coming out of ears, no air turning blue. Of course road rage does exist in Australia, but in my experience the Aussie drivers are far more civilised than their Scottish/British counterparts.

10. Rain

This hardly needs any explanation. A few years ago I moved to Seattle, in the American Pacific North-West, only to discover that I had moved from the rainiest city in the world, to the second rainiest city in the world. It's not just the rain. In Glasgow and the West of Scotland, it can rain, hail, snow and shine, all in the one day. Mix the rain with gale force winds, and it is time to stay in the pub, so I suppose it has its advantages.

[20] Little Red Riding Hood

2006-04-11T09:45:00.000+10:00

Little Red Riding Hood was gaily skipping through the forest on her way to visit her grandmamma. The early evening sun shone through the leaves and sprinkled golden sunbeams here and there on the undergrowth. As the young girl danced and whistled, her basket of freshly-picked shiny red apples swinging to and fro, a family of squirrels were joined by a number of bunny rabbits as they ran alongside her, stopping and starting as they kept pace with the happy young lady.

As she approached a large oak tree, Little Red Riding Hood suddenly came to a halt. Her small furry companions stopped instantly and stood looking up at her, their whiskers fluttering inquisitively.

“Come out now Mister Wolf. I can see you,” she called.

The Big Bad Wolf stepped out from behind the oak tree and smiled nervously, baring his large, menacing teeth.

“Hello there Miss,” he began. “I didn’t see you coming. How did you know I was there?”

“I could see your big long hairy feet sticking out from behind the big oak tree.”

At that, Little Red Riding Hood set off again along the leaf-covered footpath, hotly pursued by her little friends, whose number was increasing as they progressed.

After another few minutes, as she passed a row of bramble bushes, Little Red Riding Hood once again skidded to a halt and stood looking sternly into the darkness.

“I can see you Mister Wolf. Come out here right this minute.”

A red faced Big Bad Wolf slowly emerged from the bushes, again forcing a smile.

“Er…Hello again young Miss.”

“I could clearly see your big brown ears sticking up above the bushes, you naughty, naughty Mister Wolf.”

She wagged her finger as she scolded him, before picking up her basket and moving off quickly towards the riverbank with her guard of honour. The young girl sang merrily as she skipped beside the flowing river, the salmon leaping here and there as if to catch a glimpse of the happy scene. As they passed a cave beside the river, Little Red Riding Hood stopped and peered into the darkness. Slowly she stepped forward a few paces, her hand on her heart as she strained her eyes to focus.

“Mister Wolf,” she cried, her voice echoing into the blackness. “I can see the whites of your big eyes shining in the darkness. Come out now Mister Wolf.”

Now it was an angry Big Bad Wolf who emerged from the cave.

“Who the hell are you young lady?”

“I’m Little Red Riding Hood,” she gasped, stepping back as the rage in his voice shook her to the core.

“And what, may I ask, are you doing all alone in the woods?”

“Why, I’m on my way to visit with my grandmamma.”

“Well, Miss Little Red Riding-bloody-Hood,” he growled with teeth bared as he moved menacingly towards the girl. “I suggest you get a bloody move on then and stop interrupting me. I’m dying for a shit.”

[19] Natural Bridge

2006-04-09T11:16:00.000+10:00

Sunset on Kings Beach, Caloundra on the Sunshine Coast

Kerrianne at the Natural Bridge waterfall, NSW.

Nerang River approaching Natural Bridge

Nerang River

Underground waterfall at Natural Bridge