Kier of Hermiston

The Minutes of the Ardbeg Committee Members Meeting

Sun, 08 Mar 2009 19:59:05 GMT

Present:
Adam
Kieran
Nick

AWOL:
Andy

Blasda

AG: Malty

NS: But sweet, and classic ardbeg

AG: Touch of blueberry and vanilla on the palate

KG: Punch. Stays on the back of the throat. Long finish

AG. Smokier than talisker. Lighter than memory suggests. Looks lighter.

NS: Summer barbecue whisky.

AG [After sampling the ’77]: Lemonade, cream soda

NS: Lemon curd, and more medicinal

KG: And the smoke is more sulphuric.

The ‘77

NS: Fabulous colour. Rich. Must be the influence of the wood. Bourbon cask?

AG: Toffee. A Big wave of toffee.

NS: Tar. And Sweetness is still there

NS: Ardbeg’s own maltings.

AG Raisiny on the nose. And more toffee than usual.

KG: The texture is firing on all cylinders. Three experiences at once. Forces itself to the front of your palate.]

AG: A sunset on the tongue

NS: Sweetness stays right through to the finish. Tarry rope in the middle palate

KG: Treacle. Peat is ever-present, but unimposing, in the background.

AG: All the flavours are bouncing off the peat, and there’s a touch of smoke there too. In a bourbon cask? It feels like there are sherried elements.

KG: I’m gonna add water, to see how it changes. But I don’t think it needs it.

NS: Looks like a Speysider.

KG: Adding water was a good idea. Caramel comes to the fore, and the oils are more expansive.

17 year old

NS: Very delicate, colour is much darker than younger stock

AG: More purple fruits

KG: Cereal character in the finish

AG: Watered down compared to the 77

KG: Smoke more present

NS: Short finish

KG: Lifted and opulent

AG: Airy nose

NS: Characterful texture

KG: Very structured, comes in stages. Lightness of touch, fruity, cereal towards the finish.

AG: Cereal and vanilla on the palate.

Kildalton, 1981 52.6%

AG: Floral on the nose

NS: Candy

AG: Cream, alcoholic, sulphury (pleasantly so) [Nose]

NS: Colour is deep

NS: Distilled when distillery was closed down. They must have been playing around.

AG: Very fruity, gorgeous.

KG: Lemon meringue

NS: Spicy little bugger

AG: Brilliant, fullest and most pleasing malt I’ve ever had.

NS: Puts a smile on the face.

AG: Like Ardbeg at Woodstock

KG: Wood, like an old desk or snuff box. Old Wood.

NS: Very dry.

KG: For 52% the alcohol doesn’t present itself on the palate at all. Lovely mouthfeel.

AG: Supremely supple

Very Young

AG: Raspy on the nose.

KG: Very spirity nose

AG: Awfully shrieking note of fruit.

AG: Level of peat is fantastic

KG. Peaty aftertaste is immense. The alcohol level tickles the tongue, but does not kill it. Tolerable, even pleasant alcohol content

NS: Water lightens up the nose. 3 drops of water. Much more fruity.

Still Young

NS: Loses smoke, honey and toffee

AG: A lot of fruit

KG: Cornish vanilla ice cream, very pronounced. And smoky finish

NS: Wet wellies

AG: Briney finish

Almost There

NS: Smoke coming back

AG: Stewed pear, sultana, Demerara sugar.

KG: Vanilla ice cream still there

AG: Crushed blueberries and olive oil. Or, at least, the matt texture of olive oil.

AG: The younger ardbegs seem a lot ‘cleaner’ than the olds.

KG: Very hot finish

AG: Toast

NS:: Lost smokiness

NS: Buttered, scorched toast. Crumpets.

Renaissance

AG: Rush of vanilla on the nose. Most concentrated of the bunch.

NS: smells lighter and less alcoholic

AG: Small berries

NS: Camp fire smoke the morning after. Creamier.

KG: Very hot whisky

NS More balanced.

Uigeadail

AG: You can smell the sherry

NS; Baked apple pie

AG; The woodiest of the bunch so far

NS’ very robust

KG: The smoke has disappeared.

NS: Burnt rubber

AG: The fruit has been suppressed

NS: Mum’s apple pie

NS: Boysenberry pie

1990

NS: Grapefruit...

[The notes fell by the wayside here. But we tasted on, in peaty pleasure]

The Ardbeg Committee

Wed, 04 Feb 2009 02:19:25 GMT

The first time I ever tasted malt whisky was behind the counter at Oddbins. The shop was quiet and Duncan thought I could do with a tutorial. He poured me an Ardbeg, said things I don't remember and then added a minute amount of water. I can still recall the cloudy impact it had on the whisky, and the way the oils in the dram separated and lifted to the surface. Of course, the smoke was a new and unique flavour, but it was the raspberry sweetness on the tip of the tongue which added wonder to the drink. There and then I was fascinated. Islay whiskies are the business, full of peat and smoke. Ardbeg is something else. The distillery uses short stumpy stills which allows heavy particles to survive distillation and contribute to the rich flavour; it's a very dirty whisky. As a descriptor for its taste I often say 'engine oil'. For a very long time I had little patience for softer whiskies. Islay was the place, Ardbeg was the best.

Since, I have tasted a shitload of malts, and my appreciation of whisky has expanded and rocketed. Now I don't have favourites, I revel in diversity and I love to explore. Ardbeg has lost a little of its sheen because some recent releases have pandered specifically to the collector's market . The sleekly packaged Blasda, for example, is chill-filtered and bottled at 40%, in spite of some characteristics which set Ardbeg apart from the pack. But I let it pass, they are running a business after all. On the other hand, and younger bottlings recently made available testify to this, the product is still exceptional. Over the past five years they have released four different bottlings which traced the development of their maturing nectar: A six year old, 'Very Young'; a seven, 'Still Young'; a nine, 'Almost There'; and finally 'Renaissance', the first ten year old produced since the distillery re-opened in 1997. This illustration of the way the whisky developed in the cask is of particular interest. Problem was, each snapshot was staggered by the long wait for the next.

Meanwhile other changes have occurred. The lauded seventeen was discontinued as older stocks dwindled. This was sensible. Ardbeg has had a turbulent history and its warehouse did not have reserves of seventeen year-old casks ready and waiting to be plundered. As the whisky got older it got more valuable, presenting the distillery with a choice: Continue to bottle older whisky as a 17 year old, thus retaining market share but devaluing the product, or sell their mature whisky as a vintage rather than an age. In 2006 'Airigh Nam Beist' appeared. It was distilled in 1990. Two years later a second edition came out. But how did they compare with the seventeen?

The difficulty that led to the discontinuation of the seventeen year old from shop shelves also approached the ten year old, Ardbeg's standard release, it's entry-level dram, its flagship whisky. Ardbeg's closure through the 1980s, and some limited production before re-opening in 1997, meant that whisky guaranteed 10 years old was not readily available, especially as the years crept by before the new batches reached maturity. Older whisky would have to fill the gap. But the Ten had consumer confidence and it had market share. To change the bottling, and the label, could jeopardise sales; to raise the price and charge the appropriate amount for older whisky would have the same effect. So (and it is unlikely anyone from Ardbeg would corroborate this) it is highly likely that Ardbeg ten year-old sold prior to 2007 was in fact older. (The laws that govern malt whisky specify that the age statement on the bottle need not be accurate, it need only guarantee the whisky is no younger than the stated age). Wouldn't it be interesting, then, to see how different the new Ten tastes compared to one bought a few years ago?

So this brings me to my point, and I am very excited about this. Myself and a few friends have put our heads together and learned that between us we have a wonderfully full repertoire of open and good-to-drink Ardbegs. We have therefore decided to pool resources and have an Ardbeg tasting session. We're calling it an Ardbeg Committee Members Meeting. I've had many a special malt session before, but never revolving around just one distillery. The three other lucky beasts are Nick, who is my boss, and a whisky collector (specialising in, of course, Ardbeg); Edom, whom I introduced to Ardbeg several years back and who now has a fine whisky shelf of his own; and Andy, my oldest friend, who has spilled many a malt with me. We have booked the first Saturday in March for the occasion, better halves have been warned, phones will be switched off, thorough tasting notes will be taken.

One final thing, though we have an excellent range to sample, each of us is bringing something. This means that none of the malts on offer will be a completely new experience to all four of us simultaneously. It also means that most of the whiskies, though often rare, are entry-level to mid-price. We're missing something. So the four of us have agreed to chip in a decent sum of cash and purchase for us, for the occasion, and for the experience, an old and expensive Ardbeg. Preferably we will have something distilled when the MacDougall family still owned the distillery, at the least we'll get something from the days when they did their own maltings. I'm thinking The Lord of the Isles. Here is the Menu, in running order, as we imagine it:

Apertif
Ardbeg BLASDA. A lightly peated, chill-filtered Ardbeg, bottled at 40%, released 2008.
Ardbeg LORD OF THE ISLES? We'll sample our something special early, so appreciation and tasting notes won't be blurred. 46%, 25 yo.

First Course
Ardbeg VERY YOUNG. Cask Strength, 6 yo.
Ardbeg STILL YOUNG. Cask Strength, 7 yo.
Ardbeg ALMOST THERE. Cask Strength, 9 yo.
Ardbeg RENAISSANCE. Cask Strength, 10 yo.

Second Course
Vegetarian haggis pies.

Third Course
Ardbeg 10 yo. 46%, distilled? Bottled prior to 2007.
Ardbeg 10 yo. 46%, distilled 1997/8, bottled 2007/8.
Ardbeg 17 yo. 46%
Ardbeg AIRIGH NAM BEIST. 46%, distilled 1990, bottled 2006.

Fourth Course
Ardbeg KILDALTON. Unpeated, Cask Strength, distilled 1981, bottled 2002.
Ardbeg UIGEADAIL. Heavily sherried, Cask Strength, 'Very Old'.

Finale
The 'something special' bottle is a co-onwed treat, bought purely for this occasion. So we shall finish it.

If we survive, I shall probably put pictures on Flickr and the tasting notes here.

An uneasy dream I had about Ewan.

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 20:49:58 GMT

I dreamt a few things last night. I had a very broken sleep. In the end, in my dream, I was in a hotel. My friend Ewan (whom I have never met in one of my dreams before) and I were due to check out at the same time, but thereafter to go our separate ways. I had a plane to catch. But then Ewan fell ill (he got a flu), and so I had to check out alone, which I had to queue to do. It was a bland task and I began to feel agitated because I wanted to buy Ewan some food and medicine before I left. I also had a plane to catch in a short while. I got Ewan his stuff from a kiosk at some station or underground. It was a grey, dirty place, with the air of dust and engine oil, lit harshly (and occasionally insufficiently) by fluorescent light. Back at the hotel I jumped a queue to get into the elevator. I was becoming very concerned that I may miss my flight. I had times written down in my pocket and reassured myself that in planning my journey I would have given myself a contingency; specifically, the time on my piece of paper would be the time I had to get the train to the airport, not my flight’s time. Ewan’s room was number 702 so I got off the elevator on the seventh floor. Long corridors with lush carpets were nothing compared to the doors. The doors were made of one single solid piece of wood and spoke of the tree’s trunk. Incredibly, the door numbers appeared to be written in the grain of the wood itself. I couldn’t find Ewan’s room. By the time I had covered the whole of the seventh floor I had passed through a restaurant and an Irish bar (where the stools were sections of tree trunk – bark and all – and the usual menus and fruit machines were lying around). I even went behind the scenes of the hotel where the white walls were dirty and covered with notices for staff and the fire escape was clogged with boxes. Back in the corridor I eventually found Ewan’s room half way up the stairs between the sixth and seventh floors. I knocked on it and it felt as though it was coated in sponge. Nevertheless the noise was made and Ewan (more quickly than I expected) called me in. He was sat on the edge of the bed; he looked like Danny DeVito as the Penguin, except he had his own face. The TV played, the room was warm. Ewan was ill and sweaty and sombre and used tissues were strewn across the bed and floor. The stuff I had got him was quickly added to the mess. I told him to order room-service and he indicated a cooked chicken in a box by the door.

Before I was older

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 14:52:07 GMT

I’ve had a bike ever since my fifth birthday. I remember going to a two storey bike shop on a busy back road in Stockport with my parents. My brothers and sister were there too, though Edom would have been a toddler at our mother’s side. Russell and I ran about making judgements on the various vehicles. In the end there was no competition for the white bike with the red tyres. That break with convention was too attractive to resist. I was allowed it.

When we got home I had to take it for a spin and I did down Leigh drive, a long downhill residential street with a dead-end. My mother wanted me to make a judgement, for it wasn’t actually yet my birthday, that came a week later; so I had to choose whether I wanted the bike now, but nothing on my birthday, or to wait. With patience and maturity I have since lost, I chose the latter. My mother was pleased.

With my bike, I explored. I went far and without hesitation. Woodley, the town we lived in, was stopped at one end by the canal. That was where we lived. The school was central and beyond it I was a stranger to the residential faces. On the other side of the canal was a council estate and I explored its streets too. Soon, I knew the whole place street by street as well as by short cuts.

That was my first bike. There were subsequently others which were better suited to main roads and to canalside tracks. Aged about nine we got cycling proficiency instruction from school and afterwards I felt qualified and confident to use the roads. I cycled for several miles along a main road to Stockport. I only turned back when the roundabouts were too choked with lorries for someone my size and age to negotiate properly. I don’t know where the canal led but I followed it until the path ran out at some factory preceded by a bridge. Over the bridge I lay in the sun and watched barges come and go. One time I abandoned the canal path and followed a footpath instead. Along from it there was a tree that must have been a hundred years old. It took slight climbing to get off the ground in the first place, but thereafter one could roam around its branches for hours. I stayed for a long time, utterly seduced by the solitude it granted. I sang aloud very loudly because I could. Thereafter, when I needed to be alone (and I was that sort of child), it was that tree I would go to.

I never consulted a map. I had a homing instinct so that even when I did get lost I could circle until something recognisable came along. Say ‘Stockport’ or 'Greater Manchester' and one thinks of the urban space, but around Woodley, Bredbury and Hyde the green space was broad and I found rivers, and little hamlets with cobbled, mossy streets which had trees overhanging so densely that the whole place was in shade. There were one storey white harled houses that looked like, and possibly were, old smithies and the like. One place was remarkable. A cobbled road emerged from a footpath that had led me through some woods. High and damp stone walls were on either side and the road led to a river. There was a low but broad and quick waterfall. The woods continued and were thick and dark and there were signs of old steps. Following them, there was a network of overgrown paths; further into the woods more steps. Unmistakably, there was some form of cellars or dungeons. Fascinated from above but unwilling to delve within, I never found out what the compound actually was.

I didn’t always cycle alone. With friends I would find old factories and play hide-and-seek; we would rumble down Werneth Low; we would bang about mountain-bike ranges like the best of them. But I enjoyed exploring alone and I was good at it. Parents, one gathers, do not like their children to stray so far from home these days. I was eleven when we left for Scotland, and joined a rural community. There, there was greater potential for exploration and greater freedom. But I didn’t do it. It was too vast and I felt it belonged to someone else. I allowed friends to show me places, I learned about the region that way. It was a different form of introduction.

Burns' Nicht

Wed, 23 Jan 2008 12:30:19 GMT

Fit's that I heard the poet say?
Some 'Chieftain o' the puddin' race'.
Within it a' they tak their place:
Guffin', stinkin' meat.
But stomachs and bollocks, mutton and brains
I canna eat.

But that's nae need to turn aroon',
Though ye'll nae see me force it doon,
Instead I'll play a diff'rent tune
I'll mak it we Quorn.
And should ye think that's nae fer you
Ye've ne'er be born!

Wi' ready slight the onion might
Fair better than that stomach shite
And veg'tables they'll tak tae fight
Cholesterol
And toast it wi' whisky if ye like
Slainte Mhor!

Abundh them a' this pudding fair,
But dinna graet if ye dinna care,
Auld Scotland taks nae stinkin' ware
She'll skelp yer luggies!
But ach aye fine, fer they that dare,
Veggie Haggis!

01/01/2008

Tue, 01 Jan 2008 11:05:10 GMT

On Christmas Eve Galloway was cloaked in thick fog from Moffat to Springholm. Edom and I drove in late at night at a slow speed and with lights bright. There was a blue hue. It was a mellow end to a frantic week and in Castle Douglas we were reunited with loved ones, puppies and cats. For me, Christmas offered the opportunity for reflection and introspection. These were necessary things. And thus, here are a few things you can hold me to:

i. Get out of debt.
ii. Drink less booze and don't get drunk.
iii. Work more and work harder. Write.
iv. Visit Sulwath and visit Bladnoch (while still respecting no. ii).

I hope 2008 will be a great year, for me and you.
Slainte.

Time and love have branded me as their whore...

Thu, 09 Aug 2007 22:44:59 GMT

I felt at home when I went around Scotland. Of course, why shouldn’t I? For Scotland is my home. But I’m a Lowlander; raised and brought up on the Solway plain. That’s south of Glasgow, ken? I’m a Sassenach! And there I was in the Highlands and Islands. Out there I got this feeling; a feeling which is clear in my chest but the word that comes to mind is absolutely wrong: Proprietary. This is my country, ken? I have been to places before and felt like a tourist or a visitor. In some other places I have had the pleasure of being a guest. But on Skye, on Mull, through Glenshiel and even (by some misadventure) Sauchiehall Street, it was simply a natural and reasonable thing to be there. And the whole time I took in very new things. I absorbed and regarded other ways of life and every detail appeared like an extension of what I already understood to be. Nat, Scotland didn’t surprise me. She blew me away, right enough. She charmed me; sheltered and seduced me; she smiled upon me. In some moments I had to be seated and watch the mist move and slowly dissipate and it was awesome and calming. In other moments I was giddy and ran and jumped and danced and sang. Scotland can impress; just like she can frustrate and compel and comfort and inspire. But after ten days amongst lochs, heather, hills and harbours with Edom and funkyplaid, do you know how I feel? I feel like I have just had an amazing conversation with a friend. You know the type: where you stay up all night talking and by the end of it you see depth, complexity, and beauty and you have understanding you didn’t have before. From my Lowland eyes the Highlands and Islands were as expected, and beautifully so.

It was a holiday in fast-forward. A primary memory is the green going by at some speed. Sometimes the road was winding through forests and trees hung over it and the road was anything but straight and coming round corners more of the same: branches and leaves leading the way. More often than not we were in some glen or other and mountain embankments on either side loomed. Some dark summit on the horizon would be brooding and clung to by mist and that would be our target. And the Astra would glide towards it. Imagine these mountains and mind it’s the Scottish summer we’re talking about. They’re a matt green like clover but there’s a hint of yellow to the colour, because they’re covered in moss. They’re sharp mountains, so they are. Rock sits underneath the moss by centimetres and the shape and jagged texture of the rock defines the mountain. They all look like some form dipped in dulux and left out to dry. Aye! Rich and surreal. From the road down at the bottom of the glen we sped along, map on lap, and we plucked the names of the hills from the page.

In many of the towns we went to we saw harbours. It brings home how this country operated and grew in years syne. They charmed the socks off Darren, Edom and I. It’s easy to judge a town by its harbour and we judged them all, mostly favourably. Portree on Skye is a bonny place and we rested our giddy, sozzled heads in a pink house right on the harbour. There was a gey and typical buzz about the place with workers, fishers, boat tour folk doing their thing. Pubs and houses down by too and they were all painted some bright colour or other. From the window of one, one night when we dwindled down from dinner, drowsy after driving, fiddles, drums, flutes and guitars jigged and like the children of Hamlyn we unquestioningly went on in and got rounds of ale and whisky and rapped our fingers on the table and ‘yipped’ and ‘yapped’ and did other silly things one hypnotically does to trad. music. Hours later, back at the hotel, Edom ripped the top off a bottle of whisky destined to be a gift and that wasn’t the only time we did such a thing over the course of the tour.

The next time it happened we had better reason for recourse to the warming spirit. I’ve said how the roads wound. The bastards really did. Single track things that, back in the day, were probably built around boulders rather than go to the effort of moving them. Aye, it’s rugged land and it’s not over populated, so the roads have presumably evolved rather than have been planned. The road to Kilchoan has to include many wee hamlets and it also has to navigate its way around the back side of a mountain. We learned the hard way that forty miles as the crow flies is not a drive that can necessarily be done in under a couple of hours. We missed the last ferry to Tobermory. So stuck on the most westerly point of mainland Britain, the beautiful, if bittersweet, Ardnamurchan peninsula looking over to (feasibly rowable?) Mull we decided that the best course of action was to throw away the top of the bottle of Aberlour, walk a beach, lay a castle to siege, catch the sun setting, then finish the night (and the bottle) on the harbour exchanging embarrassing stories. All the while Mull’s silhouette was close and black and the moon reflected calmly on the water between.

Anecdotes aside, that sort of shit can blow a holiday. It took the wind out of our sails a wee bit and Mull was a haven in which to recover. Tobermory is a model town of beauty, character and sufficiency. Dear Aisling had lent us her house on the hill from where even the majesty and history of nearby Iona could not lure us. In Tobermory I detected an insularity, a uniqueness, a gentle gravity all of its own which I didn’t (and haven’t ever) noticed elsewhere. And by insularity I don’t mean ‘closed off’; I mean to say that in the topography there is a sense of shelter and that extended to the community that was so welcoming to, and trusting of, strangers. Aye, Mull is a calmly assured place. Gey bonny it is. Iona could surely only add to that sensation, and I must visit the auld kings and saints there, as I must also return to the place that charmed and pleased me so much.

Charles Edward's liquer.

Wed, 14 Mar 2007 00:04:22 GMT

Today I received an unexpected and very kind gift from two of my supervisors, Jane and Peter. It is a glass beautifully etched with Jacobite sentiment. It is a wonderful thing, beneath a picture of the Prince it says "I will go daringly". These words not only encourage me in my studies, they indulge my Jacobite geekiness. The glass injects fun into my subject and Jacobite flavour into my whisky. Academia cannot be straight-laced all of the time. History is part fantasy, this article lets me imagine and laugh.

How privileged I am to have such a society around me, where a tongue-in-cheek dram is absolutely encouraged! As if whisky didn't taste good enough already! My first toast will be to Jane and Peter and, of course, the King over the water.

On my attitude as a consumer

Mon, 12 Mar 2007 23:00:24 GMT

It has been years since I had a Kit Kat. I turned in my Tesco Clubcard when they refused to answer my questions about their ethics. I have never shopped at GAP. The last dozen-or-so times I have been through the Golden Arches has been to pee, not purchase. My T-shirt is organic; my chocolate fairly traded; my vegetables grown locally and in season. But the other day, in need of a wee and wireless access I breached a threshold and stepped into Starbucks.
“Hello. Do you guys have Fairtrade coffee?”
“Uhm, well, all our coffees are fairly traded.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard. Do you have the one with the logo on it?”
“Uhm, not just now, but…”
“Yes we do. One Caffé Éstima” says a second barista. I look around distrustingly for the familiar logo on the coffee a third barista dutifully begins to prepare.
“I’ll take this bar of chocolate too.” I say.

The toilets were also minging. But the chocolate I bought was fairtrade. The guy that served me was polite and nice seeming. The whole All our coffees are fairly traded sounded scripted for sure. God knows whether he believed it or not. Wireless turned out to be non-gratis, they wanted £5 for 60 minutes. Balls to that. Instead I sat and listened to three pimped up, groomed, suited, strapped and booted businessmen talk about shares. It was quite depressing really. I was aware that my face was breaking out in a huge ironic grin.

So clearly Starbucks don’t have to worry about attracting my custom. In Aberdeen there’s a place called Ki:lau which I go to. The coffee is cheaper (or as cheap as) Starbucks; everything is certified fairtrade and organic; they have wireless. The folk there are all nice and, in fact, a friend of a friend owns it, and he works on the ground. Ki:lau is a good example of shopping local: it’s better than the corporate alternative and it doesn’t cost more. My custom ends up in that guy’s pocket, that one over there, with the beard. Yeah, him.

One wonders where the money in the Starbucks till goes. One can probably guess. Here’s what I know about Starbucks: I’ve had emails from Oxfam asking me to email the CEO in a bid to pressure him into changing some corporate policies. Starbucks refuse to treat their suppliers with respect. That is to say they pay very little, they get their growers on short/temporary contracts, and all that. While the company make billions on the coffee the producers remain in poverty. Recently the growers began a legal assertion of their rights to the name Arabica. Apparently that could make them rich, at Starbucks’ expense. It sounds a bit shrewd and I wonder whether some Lawyers are taking advantage of them to have a pop at the big corporation. Who knows? My understanding is typically simple: there’s a lot of exploitation going on.

Aye, it’s a problem and I wonder what I can do. If Starbucks provided a better service than Ki:lau should I instead go there? I avoid so much on ethical grounds, but I wonder where does one draw the line? Should I first find the best thing for me and afterwards think about others, charity begins at home and all that? You could find a problem with anything if you really want to. A friend said to me that he used to be vegan, but he came to dislike the mentality of it. He said veganism was nothing but one-up-manship, other vegans will come up to you and say “Those shoes aren’t vegan. They kill rabbits to make the glue that attaches the sole to the upper. And the company that made them are owned by so-and-so who test on animals.” As a consumer one cannot know everything; there will be occasions where one spends their money unwittingly. That cannot be helped. But here’s a question: are ethics worth the hassle of spending time and effort of scrutinizing our purchases? Put it like that and the answer seems obvious.

It could be perceived as a conflict between responsibility and choice. We all have the right to choose, and that includes the choice to be (or not) morally responsible. Our choices are guided by other factors. Let’s face it, choice shapes a consumer-driven market. We consider cost and quality just as much, if not more, than the moral reprehensibility of our purchases. The ethical choice can often cost. My boycotting of Tesco has definitely tapped my wallet over the years. But other times a conscientious consumer can and will benefit: Starbucks with lacklustre coffee, the paid-for wireless and the ethical baggage is a much grimmer place than the Jolly Judge, a pub in Edinburgh, where I recently sat fireside with gratis internet and a local ale.

I needed to reaffirm to myself why I shop how I do. It has not been my intention to preach. Convenience or loveliness are temptresses trying to lure me from my principles. Thankfully my Starbucks experience reminded me my habits are worth the effort and restored my peace of mind.

Mark Twain (1835-1910)

Mon, 26 Feb 2007 23:36:08 GMT

I didn't have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.

Mark Twain (1835-1910)

The sexiest man alive?

Thu, 14 Dec 2006 21:56:32 GMT

Hi Niall! Happy Crimbo in Oslo.

Call to Americans!

Mon, 23 Oct 2006 21:16:29 GMT

Thanks to the very generous funkyplaid Mo and I have some lovely Londer Pinot Noir to enjoy.

We have invited a delightful couple, Mr & Mrs Glidewell, to dine with us on Saturday evening, when we shall open the Londer as well as the wonderful, as yet unknown, American bottle our esteemed guests have agreed to bring. We sent out an invitation to them by post, and within we said the evening would be one of fine American wine and cuisine. The wine is covered. What I want to know is what food to go with it? And so, dear American friends, what should we serve? Vegetarian suggestions are invited and encouraged!

Them good auld Mercers, always keeping it real.

Fri, 28 Jul 2006 13:46:33 GMT

From James Mercer to Captain Patrick Campbell, 1764:

...he is still the same gentle benevolent Sir James, sent into this world purposely to show what a damned undiscerning Bitch that dame Fortune is [!]

The Long Night March

Thu, 22 Jun 2006 14:02:48 GMT

Some months ago two friends, Cameron and Darren made a strategic assault on my sensibilities. By disarming my better judgement, that night they would coerce me into their cult of the Caledonian Challenge. The evening had begun ordinarily. We drank lovely ale, made typically pointed philosophical arguments, played chess and discussed means of self improvement. Darren then says he had seen something. Here Cam became enthusiastic and I felt on the verge of something grand, something formative, and they laid before me, with no obligation, the Caledonian Challenge. It combined indulging my humanitarian side and rising to Scotland's challenge. As a daft and sentimental patriot dear Caledonia's challenge I cannot refuse. I haven't the resources to let the gauntlet lie. I cast a naively flippant response - a shake off the head, a far in the future dismissal.

And so I set about raising sponsorship money. Cam, Darren and I took occsaional jaunts out to the Grampians where we got a few Munros under our belt, took a dander to the very spot where Mar raised the Jacobite standard in 1715, we checked out crashed RAF planes on top of those barren windy mountains, but most importantly we fooled ourselves we were ready for the Caledonian Challenge: 54 miles of the West Highland Way from Fort William to Ardlui to be completed in 24 hours.

With a Support Team of two, Darren and Cameron's heroic partners Susan and Lindsay, we drove off to Fort William on Friday night. Staying in a hostel overnight there was positively a school trip feel to things. In the morning we ate porridge, packed supplies and got to the event characteristically ten minutes late. But we were at the start line on time and to the sound of a Scots Pipe Band we marched south from Fort William towards Kinlochleven where, 12 miles later, our dear support team would furnish us with muchies, coffee and ever so valuable words of encouragement. At first the walk was crowded, congested even, but morale was high and the scenery beautiful. At points it got warm and tiring, but largely we were lucky to have a gentle breeze, the occasional dash of rain. When Kinlochleven, nestled at the foot of several mountains, became apparent it was the bonniest, most picturesque sight. I felt good, and so did the boys.

When we set off again the whole pack was more spaced out. We could make good time because we weren't necessarily blocked by bottlenecks of folk infront. Particularly on steep inclines which winded up hills and wound back down the other side one could set their own pace. We did well to begin with. The problem with the terrain like that though, it continually puts pressure on the same muscles and joints, then as you reach the summit and start heading down you bang and bang other joints. I was foolish, I ploughed ahead without a second thought to slow and steady... About four miles beyond Kinlochleven, two to three miles before the Devil's Staircase and a long way from the next pitstop my ankle reprimanded me for abusing it so. Before long every step hurt like a bastard and with every step the thought ran through my head "I've another thirty mile-odd miles to walk on this". I started swearing aloud and stopping to rest frequently. No solace to be taken from the environment. In those conditions you have to stick your head down, adopt a rhythm and just go. I'd take a song and repeat a line over and over, moving my feet to the song's beat. We got to the top of the Devil's Staircase. Our route would lead us down it battering those knees all the way. Here's Cam and Darren at the top (check out the colours in the clouds):



Here's me by the time we get to the bottom:



All it took was a change of footwear at the next stop and we were marching again. Leaving behind our angelic support team at the second pitstop it would be twenty miles and 9 hours before we were to see them again. Our third stop was targeted for Inbhirorain at eleven, the girls weren't allowed in because such a small place could not handle the traffic. We arrived at dusk. I drank some Bowmore and the three of us nursed our feet, changed our socks, that sorta shit. The organisers put on some hot food and a band that jeered us with songs of our distant destination, the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. We left before midnight and outside the tent it had become dark outside. With torches strapped to our heads we started walking. Momentarily it started raining.

Rannochmoor in the rain in the pitch black is a grim grim place to be. It saps enthusiasm. If you lose your party you get scared - were they ahead of or behind me? - You can't see the puddles and your feet go right in them and then you're wet for the next ten miles. Your can't watch the path and plan your steps and you keep stepping on the rough and it takes its toll. Markers along the way tell you how long you have left until the next waterstop,or pitstation. It was the lowest point to reach one such marker thinking we'd put five or six mile behind us only to learn we were only three miles into a twelve mile stretch. The walking's a funny one. You need to switch off and just go. You can train yourself to do this, like picking a song and marching your steps to it. Other time conversation comes, jokes keep you bouyant. Other times introverted thought.

By dawn our sodden clothes had increased in weight and cold tired bodies dreaded a further twelve miles after the final pitstop near Crianlarich. If ever there was a point we would not get our task done it would probably have been here. Darren and Cam may object, but for myself, revitalising my enthusiasm and my tired corpus for another stretch was daunting. I don't walk twelve miles in a day often, let alone after just doing forty-two, the last leg was particular forbidding. Still, our sterling support made us porridge for breakfast and enquired with concern for our wellbeing. Ibuprofen was swallowed. Some more Bowmore. Clean dry clothes.

Amazingly it took only forty minutes and that adopted frame of mind , the kind one takes when they must rip off a plaster (you just get on with it) and we were away. The birds were singing, we hit upon some woodland with the most perfect purples and oranges colours and equally vibrant smells. The rejuvenation of morning. Yes wew were in pain, yes the midges were at it, but we were beyond any point (excepting broken bones) where we would not complete our walk. By our clock we had six hours to do twelve miles so could steadily take on the last furlong. And something incredible happened: Whereas in darkness and rain twelve miles feels like eighteen, in this brisk, bright morning we were surprised to reach a marker telling us we had done five miles in a little over an hour. Theoretically the end was less than two hours away...



And aye, so with knackered knees, limbs utterly dependent on walking sticks we limped on. And eventually, through swarms of midges and tears of relief we saw the end:

Loch Lomond and our camp. The finish line on this side, a waiting speed boat and a jaunt over the loch to a cold beer. And that was it. Fifty-four miles done and dusted in twenty-two hours and forty minutes. Legs buggered in less time than that. My left knee has since bruised from the inside and still hurts. But let's not dwell on the negatives. Big ups to Cameron and Darren for completing such a dificult and worthwhile task and for dragging me along with them. Their encouragement, our readiness to walk as a team, never to pull ahead and leave one lingering was what pulled us through. Between us over £1500 pounds will be raised and donated to those that can use it. Our success would never have been realised without Lindsay and Susan, unsung heroines who gave up their weekends, sacrificed sleeping patterns, embraced boring inbetween hours, nursed whining boys and drove strange cars all for our benefit and the good auld cause. I remain indebted to them. Many generous sponsors quietly and ungrudgingly threw their gold and encouragement behind me. Committing to raise a set amount of dough was something of a burden since I feared failure. That I surpassed my target figure is a testament to the good nature of my friends.

All that said, I'm never doing this bastard again.

Genesis

Tue, 13 Jun 2006 11:54:45 GMT

On one sunny Friday afternoon, in the mid summer when the days were long, Jack left the garage where he worked. His friend and colleague, Bill, left with him and drove him back to the house owned by his father. Before Jack got out of the car Bill said ‘I’ll be back in an hour. Have your stuff ready. I’ll beep the horn.’ Bill was a short man who wore a tufty beard that would fill out, eventually, with maturity. Jack walked to the house and Bill drove away. Jack took little time with his father, just a few comments and he said ‘I’ll be back on Sunday night.’ He went upstairs and put an LP by Queen to play on his record player. Humming along he packed a leather satchel with a clean shirt, two pairs of socks and two pairs of underpants. He went and shaved (leaving his top lip), took a shower and sprayed himself with an aerosol that made him smell pleasant and mature beyond his seventeen years. Back in his bedroom he put the aerosol and his toothbrush and razor in the satchel as well. He put his brown envelope containing his wages deep into the bag too, though he held on to three five-pound notes that he put into his wallet. He wore tight brown flannel trousers that were flared below the knee and a pink shirt and a striped tie that matched his trousers. From his dressing table he took a piece of paper that had an address written on it and he folded that and put it into his wallet too.

When he heard the horn beep he jaunted downstairs to the door.

‘Bye Dad’ he called on his way out. His dad could be heard to say ‘say hello to Betty and Jock for me.’ In the car Bill was dressed in denims and he was also listening to Queen on the car’s stereo. ‘To Scotland!’ said Bill, revving the engine and they skidded out of the estate. Jack got out of the car at some time past eight o’ clock and stood up straight in a tenement street of Glasgow. He handed Bill a five-pound note and wished him the best for the weekend.

Jack went through a large wooden door with ‘46’ indicated on it by two metal symbols screwed tightly on to the wood. Inside were further wooden doors, with letters screwed to them differentiating what and who lay behind, and a long high flight of worn but solid concrete stairs. At the far end of a small passage there was a creek of light and the smell of a midden. Jack remembered the letter ‘H’ and swiftly climbed the first flight of stairs. He reached a landing offering another two doors, another two letters, another flight of stairs and a similar, but more dusty, smell. He continued upwards until eventually, at some altitude, he reached a door which identified itself clearly with an ‘H’. Jack knocked upon the door and an unfamiliar Glaswegian man with a large belly and brylled greying hair. ‘I’m Jack, Morag’s son’ said the visitor who was brushed inside in an understated fashion where he was presented to his kin
When she had come to understand the situation Betty said ‘Of course you can stay’, but she was looking toward her husband and rubbing her face. ‘We didn’t recognise you after all these years’, she said.
‘Malcolm will take you out to see some of the town.’ Said Jock with a face that didn’t stray from the paper and Malcolm promptly appeared from another room.
‘Yes Dad?’ offered Malcolm, a tubby ugly boy whose physical features including thick black-rimmed NHS glasses and a robust smile were familiarly attractive.
‘You’ll take Jack here out around Glasgow. Any Sassenach ought to see the great industry of our city.’ Jock spat into the fire, returned his glare to his paper. The sound of the wireless came to the foreground.

‘How old are you now Malcolm?’ asked Jack as they walked along streets overhung with large stone buildings clung to by grime, aside metal railing and drops to basement flats.
‘Fourteen’ said Malcolm, ‘fifteen in July. Are you twenty?’ Perhaps Malcolm, with youth’s naivety, was fooled by the moustache Jack wore. Jack also wore his hair, which was uncommonly long for the household he had lately entered, in a side parting that crossed his forehead.
‘I’m seventeen, but I get served in pubs.’ Said Jack. Jack was walking quickly, energised by the excitement of being in another country, and Malcolm, who was supposed to be leading, struggled to keep pace. The reserved welcome Jack had received from his relatives had not dampened his spirit at all, he felt he was heading somewhere new and that meant exciting, though in truth Malcolm was directing him in circles until he could think of somewhere to take him. Jack talked easily, a little about cars until he realized Malcolm knew nothing about them and cared less. He changed the topic then to women in the pictures, and when Malcolm seemed to care not Jack decided not to talk about feeling Sylvia Springbottom’s boobs two weeks ago. Malcolm said ‘Would you like to meet Laney?’ and Jack said yes and then they both strode forward with purpose.

Laney had hair that was orange rather than ginger, cheeks that were red, a crooked front tooth and bright lips, all of which made her modest and humble. Despite being made to feel stupid by her father she was a hard working and scholarly lass. Nevertheless she did, with teenage immaturity, follow a handsome lad called Chrissie around the school grounds at lunch times with her friend Margot. Laney and Margot were both sixteen and neither had ever kissed a boy.
The two of them were lying on their tummies in Margot’s bedroom listening to a David Cassidy record. They were flicking through comic books and magazines revealing interesting facts to one another, such as what Donny Osbourne liked to do when he was at home. When the doorbell rang ears pricked up but neither of them moved to answer it. A short while later Margot’s younger sister appeared at the bedroom door and she said ‘Malcolm’s at the door Laney, and he’s with someone, I think it’s Chrissie.’ Laney’s moment had come and she acted conventionally saying ‘I’ll come down’ and Margot’s sister disappeared. Margot herself was on her feet and had a brush in her hand ready to prepare Laney’s hair but Laney wasn’t vain and merely stood up and with her heart beating fastly headed for the door, eagerly followed by Margot.
The house was a semi-detatched two up two down in the suburb of the city. The banister of the carpeted stairs consisted of two long strips of glossed pine and behind the frosted glass door stood two silhouettes, one short and fat, the other taller and lean. Laney inconspicuously ran her tongue across her lips, ready to bear children. Margot stepped before her at the bottom of the stairs, pulled the frosted door open and from her vantage point was able to drop her excited face before Laney knew why. Upon seeing Jack Laney thought immediately ‘this is the man I am going to marry.’

meme

Mon, 20 Mar 2006 13:49:44 GMT

Thanks to Name ten of life's simple pleasures that you like most, then pick ten people to do the same. Try to be original and creative and not to use things that someone else has already used.

1. When have salad for my lunch I make it as varied and colourful as possible. Knowing it contains my recommended five portions really satisfies.
2. Coffee, when it's perfect.
(porn star version: alongside pain au chocolat, a GrandPrix, quean, puppy, cat, all on a Sunday morning).
3. dreams.
4. memories.
5. hugs, cuddles, embraces. Everyday, spend some time in the arms of a loved one. it's a therapy.
6. pressing 'snooze' on the auld alarm. those last ten minutes in bed are the warmest, most blissful, most sacred & with a warm body next to me.
7. and the inverse - the electric blanket.
8. Pippa and Mano, my puppy and my cat.
9. The smell and feel of a new book. The sentences they can contain. the reverberations of words...
10. I've not the voice fer it but I sing. In the shower; when I'm cooking, vacuuming. It gets it all out, could be cathartic. It's a happy thing to do and I do it all the time.

mrfailure and justpaintitred (Mister Fister) make your debuts, and dazzle me. isitliveorshake think positive. Other interlopers take this as an invitation.

Thank Crunchie it's Friday!

Fri, 03 Mar 2006 12:59:11 GMT

Thank Crunchie it's Friday!, originally uploaded by hermiston.

Aberdeen in March. Cars are sliding down the street. it's six inches deep. I'm working from home, but will find time to go out and throw snowballs at Pippa

and it all comes round again

Mon, 10 Oct 2005 21:37:53 GMT

Returning from Paris we were met by Aberdeen in autumn. Aberdeen in autumn; look up and see the trees ablaze like some great tricolour against the pink and grey sky. The leaves whoosh from their branches and collide with your face and coat. By the kerb the leaves mount in collage. On the sidewalk they come up to your knee and should you choose to walk through them they crisp under your foot. Children kick their way through them and the wind picks them up and they carry, everywhere you look. The wind is fierce and alive and in your face, it challenges you to climb that hill, it challenges you your hat, and it wins atleast a smile. Ever hear that story of the wind and the sun? The wind says "I bet you a fiver I can get that coat off that guy" and the sun says "You're on". The wind huffs and puffs and the guy holds on harder and harder till the wind's all puffed out. Then the sun comes out and beams and beams on the guy till he takes off his coat to enjoy the heat. So the wind owes the sun a fiver. In Aberdeen the sun doesn't stand such a chance against the wind; it's his domain and you've got to fight it and respect it. For the summer never was, seldom ever is, in Aberdeen. But the autumn with its colour and its life is no half measure. It lets you know immediately when it arrives and it serenades you. Around King's College the sandstone is reflected in yellows and pinks and purple. Look up High street to the Town House and there's a frame there - Green Ivy close on the old corner house, then leaning over browns reds and purples. It's one dream of perspective . The Dee and the Don, normally so bold but latley low, get their grandeur restored. Life comes back, you get that sense of movement, not just in the wind, but the seasons, time and his cycles...
Paris had had a revitalising effect. The beauty of distance allowed a reflection and perspective unachievable in the midst. When I had applied for a PhD a month earlier it had been on a whim and once submitted I had mixed feelings over whether it was what I wanted. I spent a lot of time trying to consider this and came to no conclusion, my indecision added frustration to confusion. Outwith one's normal setting priorites and values and advantages are much easier to perceive. Returning from Paris and I was met by a letter sitting humbly on the mat. The familiar university coat of arms on the envelope. Of course I knew what it concerned, but I didn't know what it would say. It seems however, that I am worthy of someone ele's money for the purpose of my own education. I have been invited to research Jacobitism and Scottish Nationalism in Aberdeen Town and County for the purpose of furnishing myself with a doctorate, and, as I put it in my proposal, to raise Aberdeen's profile as the intellectual and cultural cradle of ideas that would develop into the Enlightenment.
Azra likes direction. I have been a frustrating partner over the last twelve months for not knowing which way I am facing, not knowing even which way I would like to face. The next three years I will spend in this familiar corner of the globe, nestled comfortably between two rivers, among trees that turn from green to yellow or ruby or brown. They hibernate and they re-awaken. It's a happy feeling, for I can plan, for I know what I do and why. It's a decision taken and the consequences offer security and possibility rather than monotony and restriction- I'm not sure I've ever felt that before.

Fri, 26 Aug 2005 21:57:50 GMT

If you haven't seen angledge 's entry do! So we took Mo's name and here's the goods: "google the phrase "--------- is", where the ------ is your first name."

Azra is eminent master of this nearly imperceptible magic

Azra is remembered as the Father of Judaism

Azra is a red world with three moons

Azra is an invention of your own

Azra is one that America does not want to hear.

Azra is a fairy/human mix who loves her sweet son dearly

Azra is now in paradise and there is nothing men in this world can do about it

Azra is an aquired taste

AZRA is Pure. The origin is Hebrew

Azra is the realm of the Angels

Azra is fearful, but she is also hopeful

mum always said chain letters are ill-fated...

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 21:35:37 GMT

does such ill-fate rub off on the gypsies that send them? Who cares! funkyplaid lays down the gauntlet:

Name six songs that you’re currently digging. It doesn’t matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they’re any good – but they must be songs you’re really enjoying right now. Post these instructions and then list the six artists and the songs in your LiveJournal. Then tag six other people to see what they’re listening to.

So here goes...

"Summer Days" - Bob Dylan. Auld Bob forms a regular part of my diet, but just now I'm listening to his latest album, Love and Theft daily. As soon as it begins to come to an end I impulsively think "Hmm, I could do with listening to that again". Maybe I ought to cold turkey, but the old troubadour's rocking as wiley as ever these days. Anyway, why this song in particular? Well, it's the fastest, liveliest song on the album, the one on which I hiked up the volume after I shut the shop doors just an hour or so ago...

"Anything You Want" - Roy Orbison. I've never really listened much to this old crooner, apart from where he crops up on Travelling Willbury's. This classic has all the essential ingredients though- unreserved romance, pop prowess, that ace drum lick and of course Roy's inimitable voice. I've been singing it unfailingly to my my lass, Blogless Mo, since it got stuck in my head over a week ago, and I'm still not sick of it. Moreover she's beginning to like it!

"Coutler's Candy" - Donovan. "give it to Donovan" said the Jester in Don't Look Back, but this has nothing to do with Donovan. A week or so ago my man at work was playing a cd with obscure, weird songs. It was interesting and I had one ear on it as I was doing my thing. Then, out of nowhere "Ally, bally, ally bally bee, sitting on yer mammy's knee". Scots children'll mind it, and it caught me out. Alex says "you look like you've seen a ghost", but rather the song uncovered a long lost memory, at once sad, at once blissful.

"English Girls Approximately" - Ryan Adams. I don't know how I went as long as I did without discovering Ryan, and if I got this chain a fortnight ago it woulda been his La Cienga Just Smiled, or if a month ago I'd've gone with Dear Chicago. I've been lucky to get a whole, exceptional back catalogue placed before me. Anyway, English girls, another twist to the relentless number of angles this guy can look at the same old issues, and this one's fun, raw, acoustic moodiness.

"Gardening at Night" - R.E.M. I used to look forward to new R.E.M. releases with huge anticipation, lurk around record shops looking for obscure releases. Nowadays it's not worth bothering. Lots of people think they're boring, that they always have been. Of course I don't agree, and I won't hear a bad word of dear Michael. But rather than tolerate recent efforts I exhort folk to look back to the earlier, so called IRS Years, work. I've been making a CD fer my Mum, who's familiar with the Out of Time onwards stuff, and there's a wealth of material. It's interesting listening to them develop into the band they were destined to come. Their debut Murmur is incredibly strong, but the sound that made them famous doesn't begin to emerge until album no.5 Document, but that doesn't matter cause it's all good anyway. Gardening at Night is the very first R.E.M. song ever, released on E.P. and Young Stipe sounds nervous singing, clearly holding back (he reputedly turned his back on the studio from the vocal booth as he sang) "They said he couldn't be a man...!" Says it all. Go see for yourselves...

"Blind Willie McTell" - Exceptional artist himself, but I'm referring to the song penned by Auld Bob. Am I allowed to include two songs by the same guy? Do I really want to when I could put in Villanelle for our Time by Leonard Cohen. Truth is I've not listened to Blind Willie for ages, but I have been mucking around with tunings on my guitar (something I seldom do)and I've been developing a version of this song. I've been sticking closely to the original, but getting some great sounds to go down that road with. I'm a bad guitarist and when I do play well it's because I stick to the basics; but with this song, and it's a nice change, I've been having some real fun lately.

So there you have it. As the latter part of this chain gang demands it ah've to pass the gauntlet to six other live journal users. However, I'm lonely Joe, and haven't enough livejournal buddies. However perhaps angledge , isitliveorshake justpaintitred mrfailure and seolta will club together and form great enough six tracks to make up for the missing person...

the second bit of the my stealing spree. how much is dé ja vu?

Wed, 10 Aug 2005 10:38:59 GMT

“Love and Theft” or The most unfortunate histories of WEIR and HERMISTON of Greenlaw, a true tale from this ancient burgh of Gelston in Scotland.

(PART THE SECOND)

Young Broon was hard at it from the start and yer man Chae was now often up there at Greenlaw fitting electrics and gas and plumbing. As ye made the rounds ye’d sometimes see that Talker Thomson walking home from there late at night, and auld Chae said Broon had it written into his sale of the old place that Thomson had to do work at Greenlaw. At weekends Chae would take Rosie up the road and help out Broon if he could, laying floors, plastering walls and what have ye, but the truth was that place was Broon’s wee baby, he’d be working at it alone more than he had help, and he’d been the planner of it all. Once Broon was used to seeing Rosie up there at weekends with Chae ye started taking her her walks that way again, through the gate with the No Trespassers sign on and ye’d dander up the path by the burn till ye got to the house. Broon’d be there, up the ladder or leaning over wood with a saw, his roll-up over his ear or held between his lips as he worked. His muscles all tense and brown against his mucky white vest. “Aye aye Mistress Melon” he’d sometimes shout and give a wave if he saw you. Often he didn’t and ye’d watch him working away, singing old songs as he did and he seemed to have no worry and no fear. Ye pitied him so ye did, the puir bastard with the whole town thinking him a daft loon under the delusion that prettiest quean in Gelston was his fiancée. But to look at him, ye thought the boy had some smeddum, the way he soldiered on, and aye, ye quite fancied that.

Until he had built a bathroom he bathed and shat in the burn (one further downstream than the other). Until he had built a bedroom he slept in trees, or on wet nights under the half demolished staircase. He grew vegetables on the land and cooked them by fire out doors for over two years until eventually he had a kitchen with a cooker. In summer he worked atleast fifteen hours daily and wouldn’t have a dram until the light gave up on him. In the midst of his forest he found a ganja plant some loons had planted back when they’d tak their lemans to Greenlaw fer a kiss and cuddle and he and Chae smoked some after laying drains. Kelton was silhouetted out west, an angular outpost dominating the horizon. Chae says “Aye man Pete, yer doin’ a braw job oot here. What ye want’s tae sell it when it’s done, mak yer deposit back and mair and then awa fae this pit”.
“Ah canna dae that Chae, ah’m tae marry Christine Menzies. That’s what all this is for man, the graft and the long days, and ach, Chae she’s worth it! Have ye seen her lately? The way the sun brings out patches of freckles on her cheeks, ach ye should see the shape of her
“Aye Pete man, ah’ve seen her and aye she’s a bonny leman. If ah were twenty year younger ye’d mibbe hae a rival in me. But man, ye’ve rivals enough already and they all say you’ve gone clean skite, they follow that Menzies quean aroon like puppies and wha’s tae ken if she heeds them or no.”
“Ach, she heeds naeb’dy man, that’s why ye goattae love ‘er. ‘Havers what people say!’ That’s how we both think, ‘s’why we’re so goddamn right fer eachother. Ah’ve only tae convince her; aye she’s a stubborn bitch, ah’ll give ye that. But ah heed what you say Chae man, mibbe we’ll no stay here, but ah’ll no be awa without her. She’ll be ma wife Chae man, aye she will…”

And the sky was orange then pink, then purple then black and it became dotted with stars. Pete Brown and Chae Melon sat on a solid floor, backs leant against a wall looking through a roofless building and Chae told Broon the pot-holes he’d found in marriage so far and how to be aware of them.

Well, it took years and more money than Broon had anticipated but eventually Greenlaw was complete. It had a broad yellow façade with a staircase like Whitehall’s Banqueting House and it was four storeys high, plus a basement. It was grand so, as you’d expect, interest in it developed. First tourists would dander up there thinking it a hotel or an old estate they could wander around but soon after Gelston folk were making up excuses to go hassle young Broon and have a nosey around his triumph. He would show them around and tell them it had been a lot of hard work but he couldn’t take the credit because much of the money belonged to the bank, he could make maybe only fifteen, twenty percent on his investment and to get that he’d have to sell and so on, but folk just gaped at him and they seethed with jealousy. ‘That English pauper fair thinks he’s gentry’, they’d say, ‘him with his mansion and Jezebel’, and they meant Chris Menzies.

Chris grew fair angry knowing she was the speak of Gelston, all because that loon Broon had taken a shine to her. She could hardly bear to think of him, fair furious she was with the daft loon. But she could hardly get away fae reminders of him, walking, as she did past his old workshop, from where, in days syne, he’d called over to her, back when. Him, all lanky and brown, all canny and cock-sure with his poems and roll-ups, his dark fringe and his boyish remarks. It’s easy fer a young quean tae get herself all worked up, even those as composed as Chris, and she got more fired up over yon Broon the more the rumours spread, the more folk sniggered at her in the street, until she was pretty sure she hated him.

So Chris these days would fair hurry down the wynd, and ye’d see her holding her head up and looking forward, fair defiant, as she’d on to Abercromby. Through the back door in the kitchen her ma was sat puffing smoke out the side of her mouth, ‘Ye’ve a visitor’, she says abruptly and eyes over the table towards Peter Broon sat with an empty mug.
‘And what do you want?’ Chris says turning to face him from the other end of the kitchen, she slams her books down and shoots a brown-eyed glare at Meg who takes her cigarettes to the garden where the washing line needs attendance. Chris thinks he looks less lanky, as Broon says to her he now has enough equity to marry her.
‘Will you come up to Greenlaw to discuss it Chris lass? Ye can see the place, see what I’ve done, and it was all fer you!’
‘Ye damned fool’, she says to him, ‘haven’t ye the slightest bit of sense? What are people going to say when they see you dandering into my house one afternoon, and then me hiking up the road that same evening? Mistress Melon next door sees everything, she has eyes in the back of her head, bloody woman, I’m even sure she writes it all down! Have ye no idea that I’m already the speak of the town and it’s all thanks to you!

And with that Chris spun on the ball of her foot and left the room. Aye, and that Broon, so struck by her passion, just sits there dazed, the whiteness of her teeth on his mind and her toffee skin, her freckled breastbone. He doesn’t want to stir; he wants to be sat in the room disturbed by her! But then he spies Chris has left her college books on the worktop. He takes the top one and opens it at the first empty page and he writes that he’ll be at Greenlaw waiting. Then he leaves with a Cheshire grin that Meg assumes must mean marriage.

Chris sits on her bed with her eyes bright fresh from crying. How dare he? How dare he make her feel like this? She’s not his to control, to influence to have, marry, to tempt. She hated him, hated him for sitting so timid and so humble while he tempted her. Hated him for sending her like this, another greating lass in her bedroom with a sodden hanky.

And she hated him because he intrigued her. What had he done at Greenlaw, was it really all for her? She wondered what was this man capable of, him all dark, looking right at you from under that black fringe of his, like a cat. And he looked stronger now, less lanky, and the dark skin of his muscles suited him, she thought. And Chris quean hated admiring him, but began to see some fun in it too. Let folk talk, or speculate, because only she knew the truth. And she thought you’d be fair affronted to see her go a roving up the road towards Greenlaw, such a scandal a lassie out at a man’s house of an evening, wi’ the two of them not married yet. And then she got to thinking of Greenlaw. She’d aye seen the ruin but not the restoration, though she’d heard folk there wasna a finer house this side of Stirling, but then folk would say anything.

So Chris took a cigarette from her bag, opened her window and smoked out of it. From the street you could see her, blowing the smoke out of her mouth into the open air, her wrist over the sill. On the wynd a dog was barking and the day was getting dark.

Chris showered and eventually she was stood before the mirror in her room not thinking, just yet, what she would wear. What if this was her time for her man? And she looked at herself in the mirror, her face no longer a child’s but blithe, with cheekbones defined, her nose narrow and a wee patch of freckles on one cheek and the other. Her body too was now a woman’s, though still with the freshness of the young, and she imagined if peter were to see it and touch it he would be pleased. And maybe he would be shy as he felt for warmth, and if he was maybe then she wouldn’t be, and she blushed as she thought of leading him. A chill passed through the open window and caught her shoulder; with a shudder Peter was Broon again, the loon she’d to examine, and Chris wasn’t the type to afford daft fantasy, to let it sway her judgement. With that in mind she dressed then left for Greenlaw.

Well, when Chris got there she was overcome. Such a beautiful building, and so big it was; she could hardly contain her excitement or her imagination with aye, all the grandeur of it. And with every room, the dining hall, the drawing room, the master bedroom, she could quite see herself as gentry. Broon eventually took her to a room way up in the loft, up bare wooden stairs and through a tiny door, which you had to bend to get through. It opened into a room, small by Greenlaw’s standards, smaller even than her bedroom at home, but it had a wide window that opened over Gelston. He says to her that this is his office and he sits her down on a Queen Anne chair by the window. The poor quean hardly heard what he was blethering as she looked upon the view of the town twinkling around the harbour in the star and streetlight. She could see Gelston in its entirety, three church spires raising, the war memorial on Porthill to the north, the firth of Solway reflecting the moon. She could see the train station at the top of the town and with her eyes she followed the route she took through back wynd to her home, and she minded how she used to see Broon, who stood silently beside her now, sitting there in the sun as she would walk past him, half ignoring his calls to her. The town and the house. The boy that came up fae England and the man stood before her now. No longer lanky, all dark and bearded, wearing jeans and shirt and a velvet jacket fitted tightly over broad shoulders. And Chris, nimble and fine, brown like he, but subdued and miserable in the big chair in the small room. And Broon pours some red wine into a glass and hands it to her and she sulkily drinks a sip and then takes his face in her hands and kisses him face to face and he drops to his knees and keeps kissing back.

But Young Broon wasn’t a rich man, though he could be, everybody knew that. His house was the most valuable in town and if he were to sell it he could walk away laughing, aye, and maybe he should have, but what did the daft loon do? Aye, true to form he proposed to that Jezebel Chris Menzies, up in Greenlaw. Half the town had seen her walking up there and not coming back until after dark, and maybe the bitch had planned it that way, get wi’ bairn and then he’d have no choice to marry her.

"Love and theft" or "The moste lamentable historie of WEIR and HERMISTON of Greenlaw.

Fri, 22 Jul 2005 08:21:20 GMT

“Love and Theft”
or
The most unfortunate histories of WEIR
and HERMISTON of Greenlaw, a true
tale from this ancient burgh
of Gelston in
Scotland.
(PART ONE)

A mile or so out of Gelston there is the ruin of a once grand hotel. It perished in a huge fire that could be seen from the Royal Burgh one November night, and in it so did the owner, Mr Hermiston. In the toon some said he started the fire himself as an insurance scam but ye didna ken to believe that or no because if he had how could he have been stupid enough to get caught in it? Folk said he maybe couldna bare to carry on the state his money was in, but then folk would say anything. Aye, well, he left a wife, an old crow that didna even bother to wear black except upon the funeral, and there, when the minister comes up tae her and takes her hand and says "Aye, Mistress Hermiston, dinna worry, ye'll be reunited in Heaven" she goes "Christ, am ah no rid o' him even yet?" and the poor minister didna ken what to say to that!

Aye, but that was twenty years ago and the sorry Hermiston bitch is probably somewhere in Hell alongside her husband noo. anyways, the hotel has stood empty and ruined since and the loons and queans sometimes go there and play hide-and seek and the older lads will maybe take their bonny lemans there on a Sunday afternoon for a kiss and cuddle amongst the burnt out fireplaces and rooms. Ye'll mibbe hear a lassie gan "aye, gan on, but be quick Robert" and ye'll hope it's naebody ye ken and ye'll be fair affronted if it is,

But there'll be nae mair of that noo because when ye passed by there the afternoon ye saw it had been all fenced up and a 'No Tresspassers' sign had been put up in all big red letters, so ye said to the dog, "Ach Rosie, ye'll hae tae shite somewhere else" and ye turned aroon' and when ye got back ye went and chapped on Meg Menzies door. Auld Meg Menzies was a coarse-like tink of a woman, always smoking her cigarettes and talking out the side of her mouth, but she'd a big mouth and just as big ears and she always kenned what the gossip was, so she goes:

"Aye that English bastard has bought it, fair wants tae impress oor Chris. He says he's gonnae do it up all genteel like and sell it on at a fair profit. Chris says tae him 'ah'll believe it when ah see it, and ah'll hear nae talk o' marriage until it's sold and you’re gentry'. I said tae her she was right enough, fer that place is aye a bad omen, and ah telt her the story o' auld Hermiston, but she just laughed and said tae me she wadna marry an English pauper like yon Broon if he were the Prime Minister".

That Brown loon. His father had been the joiner years syne, but he'd run off fae the toon wi' the minister's daughter when she was but sixteen, though he'd already a wife and three bairns of his own. Of course he'd said many a time before then, sat in the Kings Arms with a dram or four in him, that the bairns werena his and his wife was a whore. And to look at the bairns, they did appear awfa' fair tae have come fae such a dark billy as auld Broon. But havers!, a man shouldna just up and leave their wife like, it isna proper, after ye've said fer better or fer worse in the eyes of the Lord and all. Well, once he'd scampered with the quean fae the manse that auld whore of a wife of his left fer her daddy's up near Greenock and just lately Peter Brown, the child of auld Broon's second union, came up fae Carlisle. Now he's a man saying his father's dead and he's come up tae handle his dad's old shop. He seemed a fair daft loon, so ye sent Chae, yer auld man, tae check him oot and he'd come back saying the boy was a lanky drunk with neither strength nor smeddum. He'd opened the door to yer Chae, so he had, and Chae says he and took him through tae the workshop. The boy had a dram there and was fair whacking bits of scrap metal wi' a hammer and reading out silly poems he'd written.

Well, mibbe his shop didna take aff, but by then all the body's had gotten used tae giving their custom to Billy Thompson the talker who lived just a mile out of Gelston at the foot of Kelton. But lanky Brown didna seem tae mind so much, he’d nevertheless seem to craft stuff from wood, apparently for the sheer pleasure of it, and when he wasn’t ye'd see him sat their outside his auld shop on back wynd, smoking his roll-ups and writing his bit poetry and ye'd ask him how business was going and he'd laugh and say it gave him the time to do what he wanted. Aye, and ye kenned what he wanted. He'd be sitting there outside his shop come five-fifteen when Christine Menzies would get off her train and walk through the back wynd to her hoose on Abercromby street. "Ach aye Chris Quean, ye're looking fair bonny the day”, he’d shout to her, “would ye like tae hear ma poetry?" And she'd shout back "See if you get them published first!" and she'd throw a wee bit smile as she flung her hair back behind her shoulders and she carried on walking in her direction, and young Broon would watch her from under his dark fringe, all sweet and young in her college uniform, her legs the colour of toffee with the sun on them He'd watch her all the way until she turned her corner, and then he’d relight his roll-up and take to jotting in his book of poems again.

It had been a good summer fer it, and ye could tell Broon had been taking it easy- faith!, ye thought, he must have been left some mighty inheritance to be working so little and sleping till near five each day! Aye, well; guaranteed, daily at five he'd crawl outside, sit in the sun, and watch that Menzies quean go dancing past, and the eyes on him, ach ye should see, shameful, the two of them!

But then one night when the last train had been and gone and yer Chae still hadna come home fae the market at Threave ye thought tae tak a wander up the road and meet him walking home, and ye were hurrying doon the back wynd when ye noticed that of all the houses ye'd passed young Broons was the only wan wi' the lights still on. This was past midnight mind, but though ye thought it uncouth it wasna so strange him being but a bachelor and all. It was the two silhouettes behind the window ye stopped and thought about. Ye stood and wondered, looking into the window when Chae came around the corner and he poked yer waist and said "Aye aye lass; ach, ye shoulda waited in the hoose quean, ah only missed the train having a wee dram", but he so shocked ye in doing it ye entirely missed the face leaving Broon's house and only saw the black shadow walking off around the corner. Ye said "Get aff me Chae, have ye nae shame?" in anger and then ye saw Broon himsel' stood in his doorway with a face like a cat, grinning as canny as ever. "Good night mistress Melon; how are ye Chae?" and Chae says "Awa taking the wife tae bed, Broon lad, ah'll see ye when ah see ye", and ye gave him an elbow in the ribs fer that, the coarse tink yer man was.

Well, ye stop taking Rosie up to Greenlaw, and instead ye decide to go up through the back wynd to get to Torrs forest, let yer dog get her exercise up there, and hope the pheasant farmer doesn’t see you there with a spaniel. It’s a fierce light as you turn into the wynd and fer a wee minute ye’re blinded and so ye walk right in to that carpenter creature Thomson while he’s carrying all sorts into Broon’s shop. “Aye Mistress Melon, how are ye? How’s Chae?” he says.
“Aye, fine”, ye say, “what are you doing lurking around the competition?” as ye shade yer eyes with yer palm and move into the doorway.
“No competition, Mistress, ah’ve gone bought me this place from yon Broon…”
“Really?”
“…Aye! Well, ye ken ah’m no wan tae gossip, but it seems yon Broon is engaged to be marrit tae the Menzies Quean (though God knows what she sees in him), onyways, he needed some cash fer his new arrangement and though ah’m not rich ah couldna exactly let this opportunity tae gan by…”

Aye, he couldna half talk could that Thomson but this was a scandal if it was true and why wouldn’t it be, Young Broon had sold up after all. But then Meg Menzies herself had told ye her quean was having nane of it, so ye turned aroond.
“Meg, lass, ah’ve just seen that Thomson the talker and he’s spreading vicious rumours aboot yer quean Chris” ye said. And when Meg had heard ye repeat what auld Thomson had said she lit one of her cigarettes and drew in deep. Then she puffed the blue smoke out the side of her mouth and said “We’ll see what Christine has to say, but then ah’m marching straight over to that tink Thomson..."

Ye’d nae, and neither would she, trust that daughter of hers. So ye took a keek at the clock and yer tea cup and thought if ye made it last ye might be able to stay on and assist Meg a little, in her choice of words and her advice. You were explaining to Meg how one might read tea leaves when Chris came dancing through into the kitchen. No wonder that Broon boy wanted his way wi’ her, with her cheeks all pink, her eyes deep brown and shiny and her so tall fer a quean would probably make him look less lanky ye thought. These boys always thinking for themselves.

She says aye Peter has proposed to her but no they’re not engaged. She answers no she’s not lain with him and she’s not wi’ bairn. She’s forced to repeat it, "I thought I'd told you all this!" the lass says and Meg lights a cigarette and blows the smoke out of the side of her mouth.
"Well, why has he sold up and moved on to Greenlaw anyway madam? Explain that to me".
“Nothing to do wi' me Ma! Ah’m no fer bothering wi lads,” she says. “Ye needn’t worry, nane’ll lay wi me, nane’ll even marry me, (and ah told Peter Broon this too) unless they’re rich. Ah’m no fer struggling like ye’ve had to!”
And hearing this Meg lights another cigarette, blows the smoke out the side of her mouth and starts to say “We’ve always tried…”
But Chris quean just carries on “Anyway, if the fool sold everything he owns to buy that ruin upon Greenlaw that's his problem, not mine. But let's just wait until he’s been at it; and if he makes it the finest house in all Solway and he can always sell it and be rich and then mibbe ah'd let him marry me. Aye well, we’ll see! Ta-ta!"

An unlikely story

Tue, 17 May 2005 22:33:50 GMT

At school I wasn’t especially popular. This was in part a conscious doing of my own. I had been on the football team, easy-going and what have you, but as things evolved I realised I wasn’t a stand-out and so cultivated, instead, an aura of moody solitude. I thought that if I presented myself as a poet, distinct and intelligent, independent, I’d be acknowledged from a distance. I took to smoking cigarettes, walking in the hills and composing pastorals. I dropped the tea milk and sugar from my hot water and brewed fairtrade macchu picchu coffee in it instead. I looked on lassies with lust but felt superior when they fell about loosely at the jokes told by vermin who sat at the back of my classes.
I was largely ignored and after two years I became frustrated with the lack of apparent success. So I took the lessons of Marx I had been learning and decided to ‘hang out’ with my peers, for though I had a tendency to feel superior I was a socialist and knew if I wanted to influence others I needed their trust. My experiment was a failure. Their idea of fun was dancing in a hall filled with the odours of tobacco, sweat, spilt sticky sweet alcoholic drinks. Bodies amassed around one another and though some were seductively scanty, studs occupied them with threats of violence to would-be competitors. My fellow proletarians revelled in looking anyway, but I could not for I fear physical pain as well as embarrassment. So sat at a table I could not enter into discussion because the sound of drums bass and electrically manipulated sounds was far too loud. I realised that I was trapped within the persona I had began cultivating two years earlier and could not escape it. I had a pint before me and had little else to do but sit and drink it. As I did I wondered why anybody in their right mind would voluntarily enter into such occasions when they could sit at home. They could read books and muse on Ophelia or Chris Guthrie rather than the vagrant queans here. I’d rather have been at home enjoying a bottle of chianti, or if I felt flash some Margaux, rather than the pish I was currently consuming. I could listen to Leonard Cohen or Beethoven’s ‘Archduke’ at my own chosen volume rather than the narcotic shite pounding.

As I was considering this one of my comrades from across the table, a loon called Luke, thrust a second pint before me and said “Drink up ye cunt”. Perhaps I had not heard him properly because the whole table was staring at me. I looked at my first pint glass, it was one quarter full, so I held it up and necked it, then focussed on the fresh one. As I was drinking this I watched the clock closely. I considered possible excuses to enable me to leave without losing face and I then became aware that at some point I would have to buy Luke a drink in return for the tennents I hadn’t really wanted. I especially didn’t want another drink because I was already feeling light headed, a condition I put down to the stuffy atmosphere and the drilling music. To amuse myself and to pass time I considered the folk at my table and how, as a socialist, I was obliged to consider them equal, to defend their rights to behave so basely, drinking, letching, laughing crudely. These are the rank and file, I told myself, and I am the leader. By the time my third pint had finished I was thinking aloud trying to organise a revolution. I was forced to shout loudly so that the people at the end of the table could hear me, but this meant the strangers at the near end of the next table could hear me too. I became the centre of attention and gladly received another drink from and admiring comrade. Soon I was on the table loosely quoting Marx and rallying troops when the music stopped and the lights came on. The near by tables erupted into laughter as my final sentence, workers of the world…blah blah blah, reverberated around the hall. Realising I was a fool I fell off the table and took myself home.
Afterwards at school I was briefly notorious as an eccentric who couldn’t take his drink. My face was known but I was lonelier than ever. Before long I was forgotten and moved in backgrounds. I had learned some lessons. Remain dignified in public and private under all circumstances. The common man is shallow and cheap. I took pleasure more in literature, history, art, coffee, wine, whisky, vegetarian diet, the natural world, republicanism (not the United States variation), than in fellow humans. Especially those I had grown up in proximity to. I was a year older and conducting a Bakhtinian reading of Dylan’s Desolation Row in my usual café about half an hour before the school day ought to have been done. The waitress kindly brought me my usual coffee and an ashtray as I scored notes in read ink on a photocopy of the lyrics. I said to her then that I desired, as a treat, a sweet nourishment of some sort. I described to her caramel and puffed rice and chocolate and she chuckled yet nevertheless promptly returned with something almost exactly what I had asked for. Then I was left in peace.
My attention was disturbed a short while later when the school children came buggering in. They were noisy as they always were and I began preparing to leave. However, as I was a beautiful woman entered the café. With her each step into the café she put my life’s obsessions into contrast. She walked over to a seat and I observed her. I took a gauloise from its packet and did what one does with those things. I let it pepper my observation. I looked upon her cheek bones as she looked away. As she busied herself with her bag, or with her coffee, I saw the light on her shoulders, the sphere of the light, white then golden then brown. Her hair dark, black, tied back, and it would’ve been reckless let loose, I saw it when she wasn’t looking. But she did look, occasionally. She’d deep brown eyes, and with them she caught mine and I looked away, or pretended I was trying to look at a poster on the wall behind her. But I couldn’t look away for long and I’d be drawn back again. Drawn back again and her eyes met mine again. Bashfulness went to a sort of belief this wasn’t incidental or one sided. And I held them then, through the walk of waitresses and steam from mugs and shafts of light. Resolute upon holding this attention I knew not what to do. My father’s voice echoed in my head: 'See a nice girl, just talk to her', and I tried to locate words. I failed and instead stuck my tongue out at her, like kids do. She stuck hers out back at me and I smiled an unconscious smile which she reflected. 'Just talk to her', and so, my inhibition evacuated, I went to get up. Then fate intervened.
Into the café walked two young men. Rugby shirted public school voices puffy hair fake blonde bits and tall and broad. I knew the bastards and I hated them, even before the present. Fucking bourgoise all backpacking in Thailand with dad’s visa. One see the sort everywhere and here walking in were my local pair home from university, as if Oxford was the centre of the universe, and straight onto my patch, though of course they felt it was theirs. It was actually a fairly interesting spectacle, like mercury groups together if you put it in blobs on a surface, these two guys see our lass, all high street bohemian and sandled feet, and they sit themselves down at the table next to her. One takes the menu, the other whips out a Daily Telegraph (the telegraph for god’s sake). My arse takes to its seat again with embarrassment averted but my lass opposite throws a sympathetic look and flicks her hair over to the other side of her head. It covers the shoulder I had admired and it is no longer between her and the two men. My invigoration ceased but I still felt warmed by her shallow beauty. I returned to my close reading and focussed entirely on that.
Some minutes later I noticed one of the gents was casually leaning over to the lass. She smiled showing her teeth and handed him the sugar from her table. The Telegraph reader took it and spooned a little into his mug. Stirring. Before long he was asking her something else but this time he wasn’t leaning, he had turned his chair round slightly toward her. He spoke quietly and she smiled with teeth. By the time I had smoked another Gauloise, finished my coffee and organised my notes into an outline of structured paragraphs the three of them were in conversation. I felt bewildered by the bogus talent of these boys, disgraced at the lass who’s attention so swiftly turned on so little grounds. But mostly I felt superior for having sidestepped their sordid little enterprise and instead engaging in intellectual endeavour.
I fell into wonder on the matter during the summer when I would regularly see this lovely lass walking side by side hand in hand with the telegraph reader. This boastful athletic well dressed not particularly handsome not particularly intelligent had achieved what I could not and I questioned whether the posture of a poet that I had cultivated since my mid teens had been worthwhile after all. If I had been sporty or had endeavoured to be a hairdresser would I have greater ease with women and some romantic fulfilment as a consequence? For despite my cultural and intellectual learning I still felt intense emotional and sexual longing. For all that I felt intellectually and culturally superior, and despite being reassured that she was shallow and fleeting I felt a profound sense of loss. For it was Telegraph that got to hold her hand, know her fragrance and hear her voice; and even if she were to jilt him he still would have had his cake and eaten it. I felt base and a victim of my own persona. At once I was supremely jealous, but then also light and easy. I had acquired information and I could use it.
Incidentally, on a leg of his never-ending-tour, Bob Dylan came to a neighbouring town and being a fan I bought my ticket early and got a seat near the front. It meant nothing to me when I noticed a little down the row there was our happy couple. However, I did find it mildly amusing when, during the interval before the encore, a security person approached the lass. I watched her get led to the back stage with Telegraph following, both with amazed happy faces. But at the door Telegraph was refused access. The lass went in anyway and a fuming Telegraph, who actually kicked stuff, stormed out in the other direction.

Eddie Morgan tribute found in a public toilet in Glasgow Central

Tue, 19 Apr 2005 23:22:26 GMT

AH WAS PASSING THROUGH GLASGOW YESTERDAY AND CAME AROSS THIS, QUITE THE EDDIE MORGAN WANNABE. HAD TO NOTE IT DOWN FOR POSTERITY...

Altnaharra? ah forsinard the elgin just inverbervie...

But mounthooly! Maastick the Johnshaven? Mary Culter!

Mary Culter? Ya wee threave! Just Castle Douglas the Gelston and dinna kirkcudbright it, for ayr's sake!

Tae Glasgow wi you! What the westerhailes moray torridon glentannar knoydart?

Ay, mibbe. What's yer wick?

Pulteney.

Lochnagar.

ye can shove it up yer bridge o' Don

That's Balgownie to you, ye bag of glenfinnan ye.

Glenfinnan? Whiggamore.

Ca' me whiggamore again and ah'll murray yer...

Ma what? Preston pans?

Na, yerauchentoshanjimmiecrankieewanmcisleofhoymcgregorobiwankenobes

that's nae a meikle alba

neither's derby

fuck off.

vanity perhaps. silly stubbornness certainly

Sun, 27 Mar 2005 22:16:20 GMT

i've been wasting valuable hours in some frustrated ploy to put a picture in the box beside my entries? 'Error' it says everytime I try, too big, too many pixels. How do I do this? Help if you can...