Wednesday, 29 July 2009

On the Bog




I'm not sure if I need to clarify this for my North American readers (apologies if you already use this word) but here in the UK one of the euphemisms we have for the toilet is "the bog". Where this comes from I wouldn't like to speculate. Well, actually I would. For what it's worth I'm thinking that our ancestors denuded our forests thousands of years ago, effectively turning many of them into bogs. Ergo, we didn't go into the woods to take a dump, we went into the bog. Makes sense, non?


Where am I going with this, I hear you ask. Let me answer...I received a letter today from the Shetlands Islands Council. They have chosen two of my poems, Within Reach and Eisenhower's Mother for their Bards in the Bog project.


The poems will be posted in toilets around Shetland for the next three months, and on the Shetland Library website. For a wee look go to www.shetland-library.gov.uk.


How cool is that? Spend a penny (another euphemism - this time for taking a piss. We Brits love to discuss our bodily functions, but only in the most inoffensive of ways) and you get to read my poems. Beats reading a shitty tabloid. See what I did there?


And no, the "poem" above is not one of mine.

Monday, 27 July 2009

Impressions from Harrogate Crime Writing Festival 2009






...favourite sessions? George Pelecanos, David Simon. George was on his own Saturday morning in conversation with Simon Kernick. Not only is George a talented writer but he comes across as a good guy. His latest novel (which I reviewed for crimesquad.com) The Way Home, has fathers and sons at the heart of it. When he started to talk about his own father, he had to pause before his emotions got the better of him. Bless. Not a dry eye.


A surreal moment followed. I was in the bar at lunch time (drinking water, aye right) and reading one of George’s books. I looked up and there he was just in front of me with some mates.


After a half hour’s debate with myself I approached him for a signature and then did the whole flustered fan thing. Spot the numpty whose tongue has swollen in his mouth and all he can do is mumble “signature, please”. And here was me thinking I’d gotten over that kind of behaviour. Eventually I managed to string a sentence together and George told me how much he’d enjoyed visiting Glasgow (he recognised the accent) and the whisky gantry at Malmaison. Talented and with good taste, what can I say?

The session with George and David Simon was on the next day and was about their experiences on The Wire. Fascinating. I’m only on series 2 and they mentioned a character’s death in series 3. Someone I like. I’m gutted and trying not to show it. Here they talked about pleasing the viewer or being true to the story. A good lesson for wannabe screenwriters. In fact, the programme itself is. The attention to detail, the depth of the characterisation, the dialogue etc etc etc.

...Laura Lippman (Mrs David Simon) has an impressive ability to do press-ups while reciting the entire Marx Brothers’ movie list. The circumstances under which this became apparent are frankly, none of your beeswax.

....Chris at Crimesquad says he doesn’t watch The Wire. He pretended to be all offended at the language saying that nobody ever heard the word motherfucker on Miss Marple.

....Daniel Depp’s, Johnny’s brother is a crime writer. He was on stage talking about his new book. I’m betting he looks in the mirror every morning and shouts, “Bastard”. And I would only be a total bitch if I explained why. So this is me zipping my lips and throwing away the key. You had to be there.


...meeting up with the gang at Crimesquad.com was fantastic. Getting a press pass because of my work with them was also pretty cool. I enjoyed pulling it from my pocket and flashing it at, well everyone really.

...mingling and having blethers with the likes of Denise Mina and Caro Ramsay. Great writers and good people.

...the Saturday night quiz show was a laugh. The Crimesquad Squad came up with a respectable score. What let us down was the series of questions on pets in crime fiction, cos really, who gives a fuck?

...the session run by Simon Brett with a panel including Roger (RJ) Ellory and Christopher Brookmyre was another highlight. The panel were given an opporchancity to vent their collective spleen on issues that arose in crime fiction, like clichés etc. Simon was very naughty and tried to get the panel to mention those writers who annoyed them. To a man/ woman the panel refused to diss their fellow professionals. Good on ‘em, I say. There’s enough of that going on out there.

This brings me on to my Fanny of the Week Award which goes to David Cameron, Politician (ish) who noted to a reporter that he was going on holiday and taking a “really trashy novel”. Speculation was that said piece of “trash” was Patricia Cornwell’s latest. Cameron keeps a copy of Evelyn Waugh’s novels on his desk in Westminster apparently. Wot a fanny.


BTW, RJ Ellory is about to be launched in the States, so anyone reading this from that side of the pond, give yourself a treat and buy any of his books you can get your hands on.


Favourite stories/ comments from this session? Roger talking about a writer who’d been asked to provide a comment for the blurb on another writer’s new book. This new book writer had slagged off the other guy for years, but he was a big seller and his name on the cover of his first novel would help, so new book guy swallowed his pride and asked for a cover commendation. Revenge, however smells of violet and is as sweet as pie. The comment from slagged-off writer guy? “Of all the books I’ve read this year, this is one of them.”


Chris Brookmyre talking about the superior attitude of “literary” writers. He said that often when he is on a panel at a book event and one of these writers gets all precious about WRITING, he is filled with awe. As in - “Awefurfucksake, get your head out your arse.”

Love it.

...overhearing an English couple (just before a 9am session – what’s that all about?) talking about a Scottish crime writer they’d met who was a teetotal vegetarian. A teetotal Scotsman, questioned the wife in a shocked soprano. Have you ever met a teetotal Scotsman? We don’t all conform to the cliché, I slurred huffily while spraying a mouthful of Stella Artois all over her face. Well, it was 9 PM somewhere in the world, right?


...talking to an inebriated Irish writer (a Dubliner more than happy to conform to his own set of clichés) at the bar on Saturday night about Glasgow Celtic and the one and only time he took his wife to see the ‘tic. It was at Tynecastle in Edinburgh and behind him a group of fans had climbed on to the top of a wall and were pissing over the other side. Needless to say his missus was in no rush to get back. He looked right past me the next morning and had no clue he’d even been talking to me – and there was me thinking we’d bonded. Bastard.


BTW, please don’t be thinking we did nothing but booze all weekend. Two bar staff at any one time serving hundreds of thirsty crime readers and writers at the bar? Don’t think so.

...meeting a commissioning editor from one of the big publishing houses who has had my novels for a year now. She apologised for half an hour and then told me she was still very much interested in my work. She was very impressed and felt I was an accomplished writer. The compliments were welcome, but amount to less than a hill of beans until an answer is forthcoming. She was lovely though. Someone I could work with. Her issue is the amount of Scottish based fiction they are about to release over the coming year. Not the first time my nationality has led to a London publisher thinking twice. Whassat all about? Is Scottish Crime Fiction a genre into itself and nobody told me? Basically, the book is good enough, but I need to emigrate. Not going to happen. Still, there IS hope. Watch this space.

...meeting a commissioning editor from another large publishing house who Roger Ellory did a good job on of selling my virtues (as a writer, cheeky) at 3am. Happily, the next day at noon this editor still remembered me and is keen to read my stuff. Watch this space as well.

So this is me feeling cautiously optimistic. This is my year, right?

Thursday, 23 July 2009

This picture has nothing to do with what follows, I just liked it




This is me covered in excitement. Whassat look like? Lots of body hair, but like, invisible. Doh.

The reason for this unreasonable excitement? I’m off first thing tomorrow to the Crime Writing Festival at Harrogate.

Yowsa.

Some of the papers refer to it as a Crime Festival which is another thing entirely. Brings to mind a requirement for the local police force to temporarily increase their numbers and suspend all leave.

No. It’s Crime Writing and some of the world’s top crime writing talent will be in attendance. Guys n’ gals like Lee Child, George Pelecanos, Val McDermid, R J Ellory, Denise Mina etc etc etc. On the Sunday the guy who wrote The Wire, David Simon will be taking the stage. How cool is that?


I was thinking about taking my laptop away with me and blogging/ twattering (yes, I know I’ve misspelt it, but I’m trying to start a new fashion. Think it will catch on?) about the event while I’m there. Cannae be arsed though. I just wanna take in the vibe, man and hang out with the big names. And hope that some of their success rubs off on me.


Anyway, there I was on the way home from the office daydreaming about meeting the publisher of my dreams and I accidentally tripped and fell into a Chinese takeaway place. Nobody got hurt, thankfully, but seeing as I was there I ordered some of that sweet and sour stuff. It would have been rude not to.


Again I would like to add that I am a man of balance. Regular readers of this blog will know I like to lead a balanced lifestyle. And no, that does not mean a doughnut in each hand. So later (much later) I headed off to the gym.

Strictly entre nous...something that happened on the way home has me worried. Really worried. The radio was on and the song In for the Kill by La Roux was playing. OK, the lead singer might be a nice girl, but jeez does she have an annoying voice. The last time I heard that kinda voice it was the local church choir and some wee lassie was singing Adeste Fideles like she was auditioning for the “Worst” outtakes on The X Factor.

For anyone who doesn't know it the song has an 80's retro feel with said caterwhauling over a synthesiser tune type thing. Why anyone would want to go for a retro on the 80's - the decade that music forgot - beats me.

So there’s me shouting at the radio – can you no get someone who can sing, and getting louder as the sentence finished (what's that all about?) when it struck me. I’m becoming my father.

Nooooooooo!

Thinking about it ...our generation grew up with pop music so (I think) popular music feels much more inclusive. It’s a big old smorgasbord of influences where anything goes and anyone can dip into it, or come and stay for a few weeks. My Dad and his peers were used to Perry Como, Sinatra and Andy Whatsisname. Nice wee songs that told a story, where each word was enunciated with care and where the singers wore cardigans and sat on rocking chairs. The most controversial it got was when somebody whipped out a pipe and started smoking. When Pops was faced with glam-rock, punk, heavy rock etc ... it must have seemed like somebody had popped a hallucinogen in his tea (strong, two sugars) and melted an ekky over his toast.

Back in the day (here in the UK) Top of the Pops was required viewing. While the “pop star” was doing their thing, the old fella would be sitting in his chair giving it...
...you cannae even work out what they’re singing. Then he’d mutter under his breath...what a buncha poofs.
...awfurfucksake, would you look at that?
...is that man wearing fecking make-up? Buncha poofs.
...that fella’s trousers are so tight I can tell he’s been circumcised. Poof.

And then he’d carry on watching, making no effort to turn the TV off. Car-crash TV long before the term was coined.

Thing is, the Pops I am talking about would have been younger than I am now. And as things stand I am totally down with the kids. Kinda. Times they are a’changin’.

Other ways that I am becoming my father? Eeesh, I’m not admitting to anything else. In any case everybody suffers from wind and has hair growing out of their earlobes. Right?

Tuesday, 21 July 2009

Cakes n Cricket




Something weird happened at work today. It was someone’s birthday and as is customary the birthday girl bought some cakes – lemon cupcakes yum (you don’t look a day over 21, D). So, the desktop was looking like a bakery and I’m standing there chatting to someone...picking at a bunch of grapes.

WTF!!!!

I actually ate the grapes and didn’t give the cakes a second thought. AAAAAAAARGH. What is going ON?

In order to offer some balance back into my diet, I a) rushed to the nearest loo and washed my mouth out with soap and then b) drove straight to KFC for a 3 piece Colonel’s meal.




(the England team experience the pain of not beating the Aussies at Lords for 75 years)

Caught a little cricket on TV the other day. Something or other called The Ashes. Andrew Flintoff, sorry England versus Australia. We Scots don’t really do cricket. We’re way too busy running up and down the hills in kilts, chasing haggis and shouting “Och aye, the noo” on a continuous loop.( It’s tiring, but fun and allows us to burn off all that deep-fried food.)

I only watched for like a minute before the yawns threatened to dislocate my jaw. But that was long enough for new information to reach me and it struck me that only the English would have a sport where a break in play was denoted by the word “Tea”.

It occurred to me that if the Scots had come up with this game the break would have been known as “Whisky” . Much more civilised methinks. And you wouldn’t have to eat those pesky cucumber sandwiches with a dram.

Sunday, 19 July 2009

Apache Blessing




BLESSING OF THE APACHES

A good friend and fellow Makar Press Poet, Rowena M Love recently got married on a sun-drenched Isle of Skye (I know. Sun on Skye!). As part of her marriage ceremony with Mark they had the celebrant read out this Blessing of the Apaches. Which I thought I should share with you.

Many congratulations, Rowena and Mark and may the sunshine never stop.



Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be
shelter for the other. Now you will feel no cold, for each of you
will be warmth to the other. Now there will be no loneliness,
for each of you will be companion to the other. Now you
are two persons, but there is only one life before you.
May beauty surround you both in the journey ahead
and through all the years, May happiness be your
companion and your days together be good and long upon the earth.

Treat yourselves and each other with respect,
and remind yourselves often of what brought you together.
Give the highest priority to the tenderness,
gentleness and kindness that your connection deserves.
When frustration,difficulties and fear assail
your relationship—as they threaten all relationships
at one time or another—remember to focus on what is right
between you, not only the part which seems wrong.
In this way, you can ride out the storms when clouds
hide the face of the sun in your lives -
remembering that even if you lose sight of it for a moment,
the sun is still there. And if each
of you takes responsibility
for the quality of your life together,
it will be marked by abundance and delight.



Good, innit? You can never have enough romance in your life and regardless of whether you are just starting out with your partner or you’ve been together for yonks there is much worth considering in this piece of timeless wisdom.



Now, go and get jiggy.

(FYI – the photo is of Superstition Mountains, Apache Junction. Ignore the “supersitition” bit here. I wanted a photo that went with the post and this was the best I could come up with. Apparently the Indians who lived in this area thought the mountains sacred, hence Superstition Mountain. So we could stay with the word “Sacred” as being pertinent to this post, no?

Oh - and ignore the giant cactus giving the V-sign in the forefront. Alternatively you could go with the victory inherent in this. Eeesh, I foken think to much.

The mountain - he says changing the subject - was known to the Pimas as "Ka-Katack-Tami" meaning "Crooked-top Mountain. So there you go. Do I not push the envelope in terms of keeping you guys informed?)

Saturday, 18 July 2009

True Blood




(Sookie gets her mitts on Bill, the Vampire)

Saw an Undertaker today. Don’t worry, nobody died. (Well at least, no-one I know.) He was walking across the road as I passed the other way...and this guy was freakishly suitable for the job. It looked like he was straight out of central casting. Even without the sombre suit you could tell he was in the life...of dealing with death.


White hair, a jaw that could shovel snow and a complexion that suggests putty tainted by jaundice.


He trembled a smile in my direction as I passed him and I swear I heard a choir, violins and crows. Somewhere in the distance a Rottweiler barked.


I’m still shivering


Talking about spooky things, I watched the first episode of True Blood. You should check it out. It gets the Best Vampire Programme since Buffy/ Angel Award. It is written by Alan Ball. Not the old footballer, but the screenwriting genius who came up with Six Feet Under and it’s streets ahead of what we get fed on UKTV.

Based on the novels of Charlaine Harris and set in a steamy Louisiana, it’s brilliant, sexy and should wash it’s mouth out with soap. All of the main characters are gorgeous, fit and potty-mouthed. Except the one called Sookie. For real. Sookie’s not too shabby on the looks but she’s the one character always giving the rest a row for using profanities.

Apart from a dislike for coarse language Sookie (for real) is psychic. She can hear you think. She also has a major thing for a new vampire who just rode into town. Well, he didn’t ride in. He just kind of appeared. I‘m thinking Sookie would like to get her hands on his boabie. And in the world of True Blood this is possible. Vampires are real people too, y’know – with civil rights, synthetic blood and a neat line in smouldering.

Sookie’s best pal is a gorgeous, fit and STROPPY. She don’t hold with stoopid and she’ll waste no time in telling you.

Sookie’s brother is handsome, fit and a mad shagger. But now he’s got himself into trouble. The last lady he was showing a good time was murdered. But not before she secretly filmed him giving her a good time. The po-leece now have a copy of this film.

Sookie’s boss is handsome, fit and besotted with Sookie. Which just isn’t going to end well. Give it up, dude. She’s after the bloodsucker.

The only characters in the cast who have been assaulted with the ugly stick are the odd peripheral character and the bad guys – a married couple who deal in drugs and vampire blood – and who are out to get Sookie, because she stood up to them and saved Bill the Vampire from getting the blood drained out of his veins in the carpark. Silver comes in very handy when you need to restrain your vampire, dontcha know.

It’s on FX – the satellite channel where they hid The Wire for yonks – but it’s due to appear on Channel 4 in the autumn. So watch it now and you can brag to your pals later in the year when they are just catching up with its genius.

Thursday, 16 July 2009

Buy a book today!




The crime novels I read are all reviewed on www.crimesquad.com, but I thought I’d give a mention to some of the excellent books I’ve read recently that don’t come under their remit. Go buy one. Try a real bookshop, not Tesco or Asda. Don’t get me started on supermarkets selling books.

The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson
- Young fella crashes his car. His car bursts into flames. He suffers badly. We’re talking hideous burns -oh – leaving him like a gargoyle (geddit?). Woman comes to visit him in hospital. She says she has visited him through the centuries each time he gets burned. She says they were once lovers in medieval Germany. He says WTF, lady? Fascinating, imaginative, compelling, loved it.

Assegai by Wilbur Smith
- Africa in the early 20th Century. Romance/ wild animals/ history/ wild animals/ some more romance. Typical Smith. A great read.

The Man In My Basement by Walter Mosely
- A guy whose life is going nowhere takes in a lodger. The lodger is willing to pay wads of cash to stay in the basement (where did they get that title?) under some VERY strange rules of his own devising. Now if I let you know that the house owner is black and the lodger is white, that gives the story a whole different dynamic, innit? Very clever, provocative... a story about power granted willingly but accepted with difficulty.

Scottsboro by Ellen Feldman
– shortlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction – which made me think twice about buying it because I don’t hold with exclusive awards - don’t get me started. But I’m glad I ignored this compulsion. This is a true story set in Alabama, 1931. A posse of white men stop a freight train and arrest nine black youths for the fuck of it. Two girls alight from their carriage and are convinced to accuse the black boys of rape. They get caught up in the attention and oblige. The boys are convicted and given a date to be sent to the electric chair. America is divided and the subsequent court case became the kickstart to the civil right’s movement. Beautifully written and painful to read. An important book. Oh, and by the way there are times when people really suck.

The Other Hand by Chris Cleave
- this is about a young girl who escapes a terrible situation in her native Nigeria only to be caught up in a British detention centre. She escapes with tragic consequences. If you are not affected by this book then you should just carve out your heart with a butter knife ‘cos you clearly don’t need it. Nuff said.

City of Thieves by David Benioff
– during the siege of Leningrad a teenager called Lev is caught looting, which is pretty much understandable when you’ve had nothing to eat for days apart from grass and shoe leather. Except the army see looting as grounds for an on- the- spot execution. Lev, doesn’t get shot but is sent on a quest with another guy the soldiers don’t want to waste a bullet on - to find a dozen eggs. The army commander is about to marry off his daughter and his wife wants to bake a cake. Only it seems that all the hens in Leningrad are dead (along with the cats/ dogs/ horses) So, Lev has a mission if he wants to save his life. You could make the mistake of thinking the search for eggs trivialises the situation – au contraire – it highlights the have’s with the have nothing and on the verge of cannabalism. Loved it. Compelling, humourous and pacy story-telling.

Killing Johnny Fry by Walter Mosely
– a second for Mosely on this list. I love his stuff. The main character , Cordell is stuck in a rut. He is forced out of said rut when he comes home from work one night to find his girlfriend (ahem, how can I say this politely?) taking it up the ass from Johnny Fry. His reaction surprises him, to say the least. He ‘s thinking murder, but he can’t settle on the actual act because his libido is running riot. This man has got serious wood. Mosely does great dialogue and great characters and he does the sex stuff pretty well too. If this was a movie and filmed accurately it would be rated XXX. Suffice to say, one of your hands might be busy while you read this. SIDEBAR – this will undoubtedly shock some people who read about gruesome murders, decapitations, dismemberment etc etc without raising an eyebrow. Whassat all about? Blood and gore you can take by the bucket but an act of lust leaves you scandalised?

Nocturne in Chrome and Sunset Yellow by Tobias Hill.
This is a book of poetry rather than a novel. The blurb says it is a “book-length love song to the fabulousness and ragged beauty of Hill’s native London.” I say, surely the copy-writer could have come up with a better word than “fabulousness”. That aside, quality stuff on offer here.

Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell.
Since her father left, Ree has been forced to look after her mother and her two brothers. She finds out her father has put their house up for bail – bastard – and that the house will be sold from under them if the shit, I mean her father doesn’t turn up in court. Ree needs to find her old man, and pretty fast. Ok – I’m going to wax lyrical for a mo. This guy can write up a storm. Every page is a delight. Deserves a HUGE audience. And in the blurb, Daniel has a kickass beard. Buy it. Or I’ll come and post dog-poo through your letterbox.

Tuesday, 14 July 2009

Containing Nuts




Today I am assisting the BBC as they promote information on public health. In their efforts to provide an excellent public service they offer all sorts of information on their website. News, opinion, information, education etc etc.

I read a piece of info on their site this morning that I just HAVE to share with you. It really is ground-breaking! News that will put many minds across the world at rest.

Here it is.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Take a deep breath. And exhale slowly...and as you read this remember that it came from the BBC. That is -for the avoidance of doubt - the British Broadcasting Corporation.

And I quote...

WOMEN
Testicular Cancer does not occur in women.


Wow. Unbefuckinglievable.

It’s so good you need to read it twice.

Testicular Cancer does not occur in women.

Holy scrotum, Batman.

As I read it this morning I heard a noise across the world. Like a soft exhalation. Female hypochondriacs all over the world breathing a sigh of relief ‘cos they have one less thing to worry about. ..

...they are never, ever gonna get cancer in their testiculars. I know. Good innit?

Now we just need to get cracking on the research that will prove once and for all that men with a droopy labia are not more prone to hayfever.

Saturday, 11 July 2009

Snaps

Never thought I'd see myself doing this...but wanna see some of the snaps I took on holiday?





A tree, but not as we know it. Do you see the alligator in the wood? The alien species that has come down to watch over us...until the right moment Before it strikes and asks for 10%. Guess what I was watching last night?





I'm liking this one. Note the composition. Note how the trees frame the epic skies. Note how the small yellow sail (man made)acts as a counterpoint to the scale of nature. Note how full of shit I am.





There's something about this tree. What is it with me and trees?




This was taken at the pen that contained the Amur Tigers at the Highland Wildlife Park, Kincraig. Note how I skilfully caught the reflection of the people staring at the tigers and how they in turn become the exhibit. The tiger becomes hidden. The more we strain to see it, the more difficult it becomes to see. Like breathing, the more you focus on it the harder it becomes. The tiger becomes your breath and mists on the glass. Gawd, I am SO full of shit I should be locked up. But just for a moment you were going for it, right?

Wednesday, 8 July 2009

Prunes and tigers




Today, I’m like a prune. I have wrinkles on my wrinkles. I took son for a swim at a Leisure Centre at the McDonald Highland Resort in Aviemore. The cost for non-residents was £15. I explained to the receptionist that I only wanted a swim, not to take out membership. Her smile was frayed with impatience. Then, “There’s a wave machine.” She made a token effort to sell it to me and then raised an eyebrow that articulated exactly what was going on in her mind – “like I could give a shit, you wanker.”

My son was hopping up and down in anticipation of a dip. I handed over the cash and asked the receptionist if they provided staff with masks along with the uniform. She didn’t hear me. Probably because I’m a feartie and only asked it in my own head.

I was determined that we should get our money’s worth and we were in the water for ages. The wave machine was great fun and there was a slide that the wee fella pronounced the best he’d ever been on. Two hours later - the prune effect was achieved.

Yesterday was awesome. We went to the Highland Wildlife Park at Kincraig. They specialise in animals that are suited to the weather conditions locally and those whose numbers are in decline. Indeed many of the animals in situ are either extinct or approaching extinction in the wild. There are yaks, european bison, red panda, eagle owls, lynx, beaver, reindeer and loads more.

There is an area where you are able to get out of your car and walk about to look at the animals. There is also a stretch that you drive through and this is where many of the grazers are given space to roam. Driving through the main reserve we passed the Bactrian Camels, the Yaks, European Bison, red deer... and then we parked by the roadside to watch a small group of Przewalski’s Horses.
They are strikingly similar to the horses depicted in European neolithic cave paintings. Fossil evidence in Scotland indicates that wild horses survived here up to 3000 years ago but after the last Ice Age, the horses’ range became smaller and smaller until its last wild population was in Mongolia.
The Przewalski is presently being reintroduced to two main sites in Mongolia and they have re-established themselves well. Przewalski’s horses differ from domestic horses in a number of ways. Their skull is heavier and they have a thicker jaw as well as an upright black mane and no forelock. They are stocky with relatively short legs and a yellowish brown coat with black lower legs and a black tail. Just in case you were wondering.
And we can testify that they are also nosey feckers. We had the window down so I could try and take some photographs. One of the horses took this as an invitation to have a wee look at us – splendid specimens I could hear him say. I managed to get the window up just before it had a nibble at the wee fella’s hair. I have the horse saliva staining the length of my car window to prove it.

Headline act at Kincraig is undoubtedly the Amur tiger pair and their 3 cubs. They used to be known as Siberian tigers but apparently their numbers have retreated to a smaller area of the region; you guessed it, known as Amur. These are the largest tigers on the planet and to be mere feet (through thick glass) from ma and pa while the cubs (born on the 11th May this year) clambered all over each other was a thrill and a privilege. Pa Tiger was HUGE. Awesome is a word that is over used nowadays, but in terms of being able to watch these tigers so closely it is absolutely appropriate.

The WWF website says - In the 1940s the Amur tiger was on the brink of extinction, with no more than 40 tigers remaining in the wild. Thanks to vigorous anti-poaching and other conservation efforts by the Russians with support from many partners, including WWF, the Amur tiger population recovered and has remained stable throughout the last decade or so.

But poaching of tigers and its prey, increased logging and construction of roads, forest fires and inadequate law enforcement are threats that affect the survival of the species.


Another delight was the troupe of Snow Monkeys who have recently arrived. They were the most physically active attraction on the park and contentedly carried on with their lives in full view of the hairless bipeds on the other side of the viewing glass. Could’ve watched them for hours.

The wee fella was trying to work out the gender of several of the monkeys walking past. One large male turned away from us to present a close-up view of his hairless pink arse and a large pair of equally pink and hairless cojones...and this is why actors are always saying your should never work with kids or animals...
- Well he’s...my son began to say with the voice of a TV announcer.
- Don’t go there, I said quietly, trying to head him off at the pass.
- He’s definitely male, announced my son to the crowd around us.
- Yes and just leave it at that. I spoke quietly.
- ‘Cos I can see his big pink balls.
I should just have given in to the inevitable.

Oh – and for the record, two hours writing time yesterday and 1.5 today.

Monday, 6 July 2009

Holiday Stuff




It is now day 2 of my staycation and I am happy to report that I have indeed stayed in touch with my current novel. That’s 2 hours yesterday and 2 hours today. Woop, woop.

What else has happened during my Highland holiday? Yesterday was 23c and sunny/ cloudy. Today is 13c and raining sporrans and claymores. Where other than in Scotland can you get a summer weather variation like that? One blessing provided by the rain is that the pollen count is a good deal lower and I am able to move about today without feeling that the only way to stop the itching is to gouge out my eyes with my thumbs.

Other impressions of the holiday so far? Yesterday we were at the Osprey Centre at Loch Garten. They have a small building sited about 500 metres (actually it could be 600, 700, 1000 or even 1005 I have no clue and didn’t bother to ask, ok?) from the bird’s nest. The birds have some hatchlings and there is a CCTV trained on it (at last, a good use for one of these things) with live feed streamed onto a bank of TVs for the two-legged to watch. There are also a number of binoculars available for you to have a gander yourself. When I walked in to the centre the first thing that struck me was that the place had an almost reverential hush. Although it was full of people, they were all speaking to each other as if they were in a church or a library. Made me want to walk up and down the place doing a John Cleese walk while singing Waltzing Matilda. I settled for telling my son loudly TO COME AND LOOK AT THE BIG BIRDIES. To which, his reply was, you’re weird.

Red squirrels are being displaced all over Britain by those loutish, large, loud and greedy grey ones and lo it came to pass that a wee red one was sat right in the middle of the path to the car park. Around twenty humans stood at either side, afraid to move forward. We pointed cameras and spoke (again) in hushed tones. The wee red squirrel was completely oblivious to the giants that surrounded it, while he poked at a seed/nut/piece of crap on the ground. We humans were like cars lined up at either side of a level crossing. Eventually, with a swish of its big red tail the squirrel decided it had messed with our heads long enough and ran up the nearest tree. Where I like to think it had a right good giggle to itself.

BTW, the photo here for all of the common sense challenged is of a BLACK squirrel, courtesy of a Canadian chum. Apparently black ones are all the rage over there. See, I told you, Canadians are the nicest people.


Monday, and we popped in to Inverness ‘cos the wee fella had some holiday money and it was BURNING a hole in his pocket. He HAD to spend it. Oh – and I confess I went in to a bookshop and bought a book. I know, I know after I said I wouldn’t, but it was so lonely sitting there, on the shelf with all the others and I just had to pick it up and take it to the till and pay for it. For penance, I wrote 500 words when I got back to my lodgings.

I’m liking the new visitor centre at Culloden. On the way back from Inverness I managed to fit in some proper tourist behaviour with a wee detour to see it. My son asked who were the goodies and who were the baddies. Weeeeeeel, says I, glad you asked. I can now do my dad thing and try and educate you. See what I do to bring history alive for you? The Hanoverians had the British crown and the Stuarts wanted it back. So, Bonnie Prince Charlie sailed in to Scotland to try and raise an army against the government...but who were the goodies and who were the baddies, asked the wee man. ‘Sno as simple as that, son. His eyes glazed over until twenty minutes later he read a sign on the wall saying that although the battle lasted less than an hour it was actually extremely bloody.

If you ever have the chance to walk across the battleground itself – we didn’t today, it was still chucking it down – you’ll find it is an eerie kind of place. Muted. I was thinking of all the men who died there and wondering how silent the place would have been after the battle had ended and the dying had died - and how that sense of everything being a little more dim still shrouded the place centuries later. On the way out of the car park, my ipod was on shuffle and “chose” to play Fragile by Sting. “On and on/ the rain must fall/like tears from the sky/ like tears from the sky”. Can ipods on shuffle sense your mood, I wondered? In my head I put forward this theory that I have a sentient music machine. Until the next song totally disproved it – Marvin Gaye singing, the world is like a great big onion. Which, in case you don’t know goes like this...the world is like a great big onion, but with music and stuff.

Anyway – I have a book to read. See ya.

Friday, 3 July 2009

On Staycation




I’m having a “staycation” for the first week of my holiday this year. Like all words that become too popular this word annoys the feck out of me, but as a descriptive term it works.

And I had all these writing plans while I was off work. I was SO full of good intentions. As it happens, I am so full of shit. The weather was awesome for the main part of the week, so who could lock themselves on to their computer? And I had all those books to review for the website. And...and...and...

And this book isn’t going to write itself. Dammit.

So on week two of my vacation - the part that is not a staycation - when I head up to the Scottish Highlands, I have a plan. My son is not a morning person - frankly, he’s been a teenager in waiting since he was about 4. For the greater part of the day he is charm itself, but in the mornings ... Not So Good.

By the way, any prospective burglars out there. Don’t waste your time. Apart from having to tidy up before you find anything of value, I have a watchdog neighbour. She’s lovely but does “withering” very well and has the local police station on speed dial.

The plan for the awaycation is this...I set my alarm for 7 each morning. Write for a couple of hours by which my son will be stirring like some bear coming out of hibernation. I’ll feed him berries an’ shit like that and plank him in front of his Play Station for another few hours. Then lunch. Then we go out and take in the sights for a few hours.

In case you think I’m a crap parent, this suits him perfectly. He gets to sleep as long as he likes. He gets to play his games. He then gets to visit places on fast forward – just as he likes it. Everyone’s a winner.

Another part of this cunning plan is not to take any books with me. I know, I know, it will kill me. This is me gnawing on my knuckles at the very thought. No books. It’s like fish without chips; KFC without chicken; a romantic comedy without cheese.

I can do it.

Another distraction is of course, continued contributions to this blog. The plan here is to see how it goes, ‘cos the blogs don’t really take up that much of my time. Noooo, I hear you protest, they appear so carefully constructed and perfectly worded that they must take HOURS.

There maybe the odd post. So don’t stray too far. I don’t want to lose y’all. Sob. Missing you already.


Other questions have been pushing themselves round my head this morning. Like, where did the sun go? Who sent all this rain? (It’s like a freaking tropical storm.) And who has been wearing all my clothes and leaving them in the wash basket? Since I’ve been on my staycation (is it annoying you yet?) I’ve worn nothing but shorts, t-shirts and sandals. Yet I have a washing full of socks, shirts, jeans, jumpers etc etc. Frankly, I’m sick of it. Heretofore, from hereonin and going forward the plan is just to go about naked while I’m in the house. Think of the planet. I’m saving on water and on the soapy stuff. Besides the only people who ever come to my door are my son, the postman and door to door salesmen. My son has seen it all before, for the postie I’ll cover up with a towel and the salesmen deserve everything they get.

I have this trick I do. I call it The Lassoo.

Speak soon, Peeps.

Thursday, 2 July 2009

Brown Balls


I have a head like a malteser. After four days of dragging the wee fella up and down the Ayrshire coast in the sunshine, my bald napper has gone a deep brown. The rest of me however, has only edged from enamel-white to vanilla. If you can think of a suitable simile for what this apparition might resemble let me know.

I digress, as is my wont I hear you say. Sue me, is my reply.

See. I can have a conversation all to myself. Any similes for that one?

Talking about having a conversation to yourself – yes we were, keep up - one of my American bloggy friends intrigued me the other day with one of her posts.
Marley talked about how one such version of this ongoing conversation can be quite harmful to a writer. How those internal voices inhibit our writing and stop us from getting on with the work.

We all know this isn’t particular just to writers, don’t we? How many time have you been on the verge of an action and that little voice has pipped in just at the right/ wrong time. The things your internal critic might say can range from...
- Man, that sucks. What are you thinking about?
- Go watch telly, you don’t have to expose yourself to the possibility of failure while doing that.
- Dude, you are basically just crap. Go find a cave and hide.

You can bet your sweet life any entrepreneurs out there don’t allow this voice to stop them getting on.

In this blog Marley opined that she doubted if her poet friend (moi) would allow this voice to interrupt his creative endeavours - I had to consider this for more than a moment. Do I? I certainly used to. What changed?

It’s how you train the internal voice to phrase the question.

I used to walk into Waterstones and think, Holy Book Covers, Batman look at the number of books in here. How the fuck am I going to get published when all of these writers are vying for publishers attentions?
Now I walk in Waterstones and think, Holy Crime Section, Batman, if these guys can get published so can I.

I used to send out poems for publication while thinking, who wants to hear what I have to say? Who’s going to be interested in my sad wee efforts at poetry?

Now I send it off, or read it at public events while thinking that my opinion; my work is as valid as anyone else’s.

I trained my brain to re-frame the question in a way that I would seek positive results. I didn’t arrive at this thought process overnight. It took some work. The first thing I had to work on was “the work”. If I’m going to be sending out work or reading it at public venues it has to be the best I can make it. So I worked on my craft, attended workshops/ conferences; read books on the subject and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. And then wrote some more.

What was key in this process was assessing where I was along the way. Were my poems being received well by the magazines I sent them to? BTW, I remember my first submission to a poetry mag as if it was yesterday. The poems came back with a comment that my subject matter bodes well for the future, but at times my choice of words were clichéd and too everyday. I was fecking furious. Who the feck was he to say this to me? A friend pointed out that most people just get their poems returned without comment. What did this mean, I asked myself? A Good Question. That somewhere there was merit, I just had to dig it out. It was only a while – a long while later I could see that this guy had given me excellent guidance.

The next part in the process was finding someone whose opinion I valued and who was willing to read and give constructive feedback on a regular basis. A First Reader. The crucial part in this process is listening to the feedback – I mean listening to, and considering the feedback while ignoring the whimpering little worm of your ego that is squirming on the skewer of your FR’s opinion - and that ain’t easy. The trick here is to separate the work from the ego. The feedback is ALL about the work. ONLY about the work. The ego should only be allowed access once the poem is accepted for publication and then it can do cartwheels in a tutu. But not in front of my neighbours. Again. And if you decide to ignore the feedback be sure that you’re doing so because you disagree, not because your little ego is hurt and you need to ignore the FR to make yourself feel better. As Stephen King says in On Writing if you hear yourself saying, “yes, but...” to such feedback then really you are trying to defend the indefensible. This is surely a time when you should STFU and take the feedback on the chin.

Next in the process is listening to this horrible little internal chatterbox and asking yourself if what it is saying is valid. If it is voicing a “belief” that is limiting then you should find a way to re-frame the question/ statement as I showed you earlier.
More examples...

Why am I such a failure? Could be changed to ...What will get me what I want?
Why aren’t I better at this? Could be changed to ...What can I do to improve?

Asking yourself the right questions will send the boys and girls in the boiler room (your sub-conscious) off looking for a solution, instead of focusing on the problem. Repeat those last few words a hundred times...looking for a solution, instead of focusing on the problem.

Eeesh, I’m coming over all Life Coach here and that wasn’t my intention with this blog. Still. Its’ relevant. And valid. Do with it what you will. Make the changes, or print this off and wipe your arse with it.

Did I say I had a head like a malteser?

Tuesday, 30 June 2009

The Good Life

It’s Tuesday. Day two of my annual leave and I showered with a smile on my face this morning – and the smile has barely left my face since.

Sloth was the order of the morning. Sloth and caffeine. And the Herald. And a croissant with jam. And then some more sloth. The most energetic I got was to press the lid down on my coffee bean grinder and then to turn the nozzle on the milk steamer. Meanwhile, the wee fella was brushing up on his American accent with some cartoons. (An excerpt from a subsequent conversation: In Scotland we cut the grass, son, we do not mow the lawn. And for the record, a trunk has got feck all to do with a car.)

Eventually I raise myself from this stupor to actually do something. Which I manage with unerring precision, to time with when the sun decides to blast off the clouds. How good am I? When we arrive at Culzean Castle the sun is doing its hammer on an anvil thing and the day is glorious (just the way it started, actually).

We go to the duck pond and believe it or not we have prepared. With bread and everything. If it was an outing where a woman was present we would have had sandwiches, crisps, fruit, water, a rug, a hat, possibly a wee fishing pole, a ball, suntan lotion, wet wipes, plasters, disinfectant, anti-histamines, a change of clothing for the wee fella, a portable loo and a minesweeper. And it would all have been in her handbag. No wonder women can never find their car keys.
What were we carrying? Four slices of the white stuff for the ducks.

A swan was the first to approach, followed by a cluster of ducks. What is the collective pronoun for ducks? I’m liking cluster. Can we change this convention on this one? Anyway, my son got a wee bit nervous with the size of this swan and threw the bread a tad too short. He’s sizing up the length of the swan’s neck and the size of her beak and feeling kinda unsure. I suggest he edges closer and pushes the bread forward with a foot. I would have done it myself, of course, but he was nearer. At this suggestion he just looks at me and says -hell no, the swan can freakin’ starve before I get any closer. Just what cartoons were you watching this morning? I ask. He mumbles something and points out a group of ducklings. A cluster.

Bread spent, we head back to the car. Whenever we do any sightseeing it’s at breakneck speed. See the ducks. See the swans. Right, let’s get the hell out of here. On the way to the car park we pass a family of twelve. Mum, Dad and cluster of weans. I’m liking this word cluster. They’re carrying bags and bags and boxes of food and drink. Mum sees me sizing up the goodies and smiling says I can join them if I want; they have enough to feed an army. I look at the kids and think that’s exactly what they have and leave them to it. Ten kids! Let me repeat that exclamation mark!!! Mum looks like she is in her element. Dad looks like a haunted wraith. He looks like he stepped out from behind a desk only five minutes earlier to find himself wearing shorts and a t-shirt and to have suddenly acquired a life’s worth of children.

Next stop is at the opposite end of the Culzean estate. There are 125 steps just beyond the visitors centre that lead down to a white cottage, called Segganwell where I used to go for my holidays when I was a kid. This always prompts memories... like the time me and my cousins tried to walk along the coast to Maidens but got caught in a cave when the tide came in. Apparently the adults were worried sick about us, but we just climbed our way out to safety singing Patridge Family songs.
I am a slave to this blog am I not, admitting shit like that?

Today the tide is out, way out and we walk to the water’s edge. We spot a pair of herons; a couple of swans and a cormorant perched on a rock with its wings out to dry. I have a moment. I am in the now. Life is good. I’m in a beautiful setting. The sun is strong and warm on my back and my son is hale and hearty and quoting some crap from a cartoon he watched earlier.
-nice to see you, Mrs Jones, he says in one voice.
-it’s Mr Jones. I’m a man, Doctor, he says in another.
-you just keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.
He giggles.
-Son, exactly what cartoons are you watching?

I’m wearing shorts. I know, I shouldn’t. Frightens the horses. At one point in the day I look down and notice that my legs are SO white they look like they’ve been covered in enamel. There is a local phenomenon called an Ayrshire tan. Brown face, neck and arms, while everything else is so pale it’s almost translucent. Actually, scratch the Ayrshire and go for Scottish. Apart from the folk who live along Dumbarton Road in Glasgow. It’s one of the longest streets in the city and it has a tanning parlour every twenty yards. And each tan shop has a Chinese takeaway on one side and a kebab shop on the other. It’s so the local population can look healthy while they eat their way to a heart attack. (Did you hear our Jessie died last week? Clogged arteries. She looked great in her coffin, but.)

We walk for a couple of miles – I’m sneaky and take the long way back to the car – he’s giving it, are we there yet? Just round this bend, son. An hour ago it was just at the top of this hill, he moans. As he says this he’s making quotation marks with his fingers.

Got home. Got pizza and salad. Got a movie. “Get Smart”. My son laughed himself into a coughing fit.

He’s now in his room settling down for the night while I write this. As a parent there can’t be a more pleasing sound to hear than their child, safe and secure and playing in their room overhead. He’s making those lovely wee noises he makes when he pretends he’s murdering aliens. Bless.

Time for bed and I’m still smiling. Ain’t life good?

Saturday, 27 June 2009

the state of TV

Krod Mandoon and the Flaming Sword of Fire. If you haven’t seen it I‘m about to save you the effort. Watch something else. Paint a wall and watch it dry. 'Cos Krod is crud.

For those of you who are blissfully unaware (my advice, stay that way – apart from while you are hanging on to my every word, of course) it is a fantasy spoof. You know, warriors and wizards and trolls and a sword that bursts into flames. Which I’m guessing makes it particularly difficult to wield. Singed fingers doth cripple the fighter methinks.

Krod Mandoon should work. It has a strong cast, excellent production values (even to my unpractised eye) and sets and costumes that must have cost a few bob. The problem is a collection of characters displaying all the conviction of a tranny with a goatee and a script as funny as a kick in the danglies.

Think Terry Pratchett after he’s had his sense of humour removed and replaced with that of a random schoolboy.

Now I’m venturing this opinion as someone who is more than happy to dip into the toilet to tickle his funny bone (strange metaphor; hey it works for me) but this is pretty much the sole source of the show’s jokes and frankly it’s shite.

Example one – a group of important looking individuals send Krod and his mates on a quest involving a Cyclops to retrieve some blah (sorry, I zoned out here) and they ended up debating the difference between “normal” hair and pubic hair around the table. Laugh, I couldn’t start.

Actually, at the cyclop’s pad we veer away from the schoolboy humour for just long enough to fit in a couple of “eye” jokes. The cyclops? The big guy with an eye the size of a satellite dish in the middle of his forehead – get it? Example – go on let me give you an example – the Cyclops and his father – wait for it - didn’t see eye to eye. Boom boom.

As a nation, we seem to be stuck on pointing the finger at public bodies who waste our money. Let’s raise a shitstorm on this colossal waste of cash. I have no problem with my money being used to produce TV programmes that the BBC might want to sell around the world. But can we make it good? Pretty please?

It’s time to take stock and re-direct the money being used on this car-crash of a show to a scriptwriter who knows what they are doing and who might have the ability to raise a laugh from an audience over the age of thirteen.

By the way, my son loved it. Aged 11. And now I feel like a bad parent. Not because of the adult content – although that did raise a couple of awkward questions – but because he now thinks that this is what grown-ups should be watching on telly.
-You don’t think anything’s funny, dad, says he when I moaned halfway through.
-I know, I’m a humourless drone who had his funny bone removed at the age of two by a nun wielding a plastic ladle and a dessert fork.
He pauses, gives me THAT stare and then gives me his considered opinion -You’re weird.

In an ideal world? They get hold of Joss Wheedon and the gang at Dollhouse – this is imaginative, well-produced, intelligent television with a script that sparkles with wit while managing to engage and intrigue – and give them every last bit of wallah they have and maybe they will be able to retrieve a few of the licence payers pounds along with their self respect.

‘Nuff said.


Wednesday, 24 June 2009

Chavtastic!

I’m a member of an online forum of Scottish writers and we “blether” on an ongoing basis about a mixture of writerly stuff and other, well...stuff. Sometimes we amuse ourselves by writing up little skits where we take the piss out of writing guidelines or the world or even each other. During one such session a while ago the target was a certain section of our society that seems genetically hampered. Like how they dress, talk, drink, give their kids the worst names possible.

In my defence I didn’t do this to appear superior or anything, it was simply that they were easy targets. And if you don’t think that is any kind of a justification, you can bite me.

Anyhow, this particular session started off when someone mentioned a crazy name they had come across. It reminded me of the midwife’s relief at my son’s birth all those years ago when she heard we were giving him a “normal” name.

The reason for her concern was a movie. A Disney movie where a young Native American squaw had helped to avert a war with foreign soldiers. It seemed to her that following the success of this movie that there was a rash of wee girls in Ayrshire being given the name of Pocahontas. Which might be fine when you live on the other side of the Atlantic, but not when you have a surname beginning with Mac, red hair and the complexion of a ball of putty.

This started me off...

In a shopping mall, on a planet parallel to earth on the time continuum thingy, Pocahontas McGlumpher was glad she’d left the bairn in the pram outside the shop. It wouldn’t do for Burberry to see her in such a state, ‘cos she was pure beeling. The world was pure going tae hell in a pushchair, so it was.

Pocohontas considered herself a prime example of her tribe – and don’t dare try and shorten her name – Pocohontas also considered herself a nice young lady, but shorten her name and she’d chib you. Which her neighbour recently learned to her cost. No sooner was the word “Pokey” out of her piehole and Pocahontas stuck her fist in it.

Pokey, sorry, Pocahontas adhered to the tribe’s traditions: earrings at six months, first child at thirteen and celebrating every weekend with the tribe’s favourite wine – the fortified variety made especially for them by the monks at Buckfast Abbey. The reason for this last tradition kinda passed her by, for there was nothing to mark the weekend as different from the rest of the week.

She’d followed the tribe’s ways for all of her fourteen years and six months on the planet Chavcoats and now to be spoken to by the shop assistant (who was pure old enough to be her mother – must be at least twenty eight!) in such a way, made her blood fizzy.

The shop assistant looked at the young girl before her and ignored the indignant toe-tapping, the crossed-arms and the stream of curses. She’d seen it all before had Hilton Midnight O’Connor. Having everyone able to guess where and when she’d been conceived, at the merest mention of her name, made her able to face anything.

Hilton put on her favourite expression and waited for a pause in the young girl’s impressive list of curses. Hilton so wanted plastic surgery, but it had become so popular the waiting list was forty years and counting. But the shop assistant could wait. She had her ambitions. Or was it pretensions. She was always getting them two mixed up. In the meantime she’d perfected the look of permanent surprise so favoured by the top surgeons, and it was with this face that she stood before Pocohontas.

‘Sweetheart,’ she said as she wiped a fleck of spittle from her cheek, ‘I didn’t think that this was going to be, like, such bad news for you. But it’s the truth. Shellsuits are like, so last century.’ She pulled at Pocohontas’ arm and directed her to the clothes at the front of the shop.

‘Sweetheart, this is what you should be wearing.’ She lifted a pink crop-top from the rail and held it in front of Pocahontas’ chest. ‘You need to, like, make sure you show off some belly. The whiter and fatter, the better.’ She smiled. And thought she should have been given some sort of service award for making the effort. People don’t appreciate how difficult it is to smile when you’re also aiming for a look of surprise. She’d practised the other night in front of the mirror and for the first half hour only managed to look like she was suppressing a fart.

Then Hilton lifted a tracksuit from the rack. It was in a cream sort of check, sort of tartan. ‘And this is like, the piece of resistance, babes. Any self-respecting member of the N-ed Tribe wouldn’t be seen without it.’

‘Does it, like, have a name?’ asked Pocohontas, as she craned her head to check if the bairn was ok. The wee lamb, bless ‘im chose that moment to gob at a passer-by. Some daft old biddy had bent forward into Burberry’s space and got some phlegm on her face for her trouble.

‘Awww,’ Pocahontas said to the shop assistant. ‘Right oan the coupon.’ She said this in the manner a darts announcer might shout, “One hundred and eighty.’

‘The wee soul.’ Hilton agreed, hoping the old biddy would spit back. ‘Anyway, sweetheart,’ by this time she was getting face-ache as well as a headache. Looking surprised and happy all at the same time fair took it out of you.

‘It’s a designer called Burberry. Everybody’s wearing it.’

Pocohontas was incredulous. As incredulous as Mandela McConnachie when she told him he was the father. She looked over at the wean. Looked back at the shop assistant. Eventually she managed to speak.

‘You havin’ a giraffe? Burberry? That would be pure tacky!’

Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental (aye, right) however, if your sensibilities have been offended please register your disgruntlement with our customer services division at http://www.awayandboilyourhead.com/

Friday, 19 June 2009

Rambling On Random



It’s another Friday night and the only thing warming my lap is a computer. Never mind. Or should that read, Never Forget, Back for Good, Patience, Rule the World. Dinnae worry, “Babe” I hope you had “The Greatest Day”. You can “Relight My Fire” another time.

I love hearing about the daft names that people saddle their children with. I heard today about a brother and sister called Catriona and Douglas. The names were of course shortened to Cat and Doug. I should explain to those with the misfortune of not being born Scottish that “Dug” is Scots for Dog.

Enough with the celebrity TV. PLEASE. I guess that’s one of the blessings I’ve received since I’ve taken up blogging – watching less telly. When I did turn it on tonight, what was the first thing to hit me? Celebrity Masterchef. With a groan that was surely audible for miles around I switched over to MTV thinking some RnB would be a better bet – only to find a trailer for Kerry Katona’s “reality” show. WTF, MTV? She might be a nice lassie – and she has the plastic surgery scars to prove it, but really, who cares?
Actually, who can blame these so-called celebrities for clinging on to another five minutes in the spotlight? I might be tempted if I used to be famous and I didn’t have enough cash left to fill the Chelsea Tractor with diesel or pay for my Orange, Mango and Cinnamon tea down at the Deli.
I’m going to run a campaign. It will be called “Turn Off Celebrity TV”. It will be hugely successful. People in their droves will switch channels as soon as a celeb’s haunted and desperate face appears on their box. Then the programmers will get The Message and make interesting television featuring people who actually have talent. And Elvis really is working in that cafe. He fries the eggs and burgers that Marilyn serves up to the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.

From the sports pages it’s looking increasingly likely that Shunsuke Nakamura will no longer be gracing the pitch at Celtic Park. It appears that the Japanese footballing genius is about to sign a 2 year contract with Espanol. Sayanora, Naka. You were an absolute pleasure to watch. (By the way, if you have a spare couple of minutes go to YouTube and search “Japanese Binocular Football”. Swear to god, you will laugh yourself silly)

The most recent download on my ipod? George Benson’s version of Unchained Melody must be the best version of that song, bar none. We love you George, but we loved you more when you looked normal. WTF George? Did you see Barry Manilow’s frozen expression of surprise and think, that’s for me?

I had another one of “those conversations” with the wee fella the other day. In the car after school he was quiet as usual then he asked me about the boy in the local academy who stabbed a fellow pupil and was given a custodial jail sentence.
- The boy who was stabbed must have been a real bully.
- Still doesn’t give the other boy an excuse, son.
- But I’m just saying maybe the boy with the knife was being really bullied, Dad.
- We don’t know what happened, buddy, but you should never, NEVER turn to knives. If somebody bullies you come to me, your mum and your teachers.
- But what if he doesn’t stop?
- Then you kick him in the nuts and run away.
- Daaaad.
- Seriously though. Being bullied is nasty. He might have felt he had nowhere to turn, but think of the situation now. The boy he stabbed nearly died and he’s in jail. He won’t see his mum and dad for years and his Play Station and ALL his games will have to be given away to some charity. (I’m thinking the threat of the latter would have more power)
- How do you think that boy would have felt if the bully had died, Dad?
- I think he would have felt really, really, REALLY shitty.
- Did you say...?
- Yes. Sorry.
- Whoa, Dad, he says and swivels in his seat to face me – you’re making me want to say the freaking F word.


Wednesday, 17 June 2009

The Answer is...



Got home from work tonight. Had a cup of coffee. Paid the cleaner. Yes, I have a cleaner. I’ve decided the world of books deserves my attention more than my manky house does, so employing a cleaner allows me to devote a little more time to my work while keeping the environmental health from my door.

Cooked a meal – well took stuff out of a package and warmed it in the oven. Took some other stuff out of another package and stuck it in a microwave. Presto. A delicious and nutritious meal containing all the food groups. Again, all time saving life choices are being examined. I am, am I not, a slave to my work? Phoned a friend. Exchanged blethers. Arranged to meet.

Everything done that I needed to, I decided I should write some more of my book. Managed about five hundred words. Which is quite frankly, crap.

I’m at a tricky part of the book. It needs some historical details added. I have the research and the trouble with research is using it to give context to a novel rather than allowing what you feel are “the fascinating facts” to take over. When it does that section of the story reads like a report and becomes one of those bits that your reader skips over. I try to avoid writing those bits. So I have to use the research in a way that gives context, engages the reader and moves the story along. It’s all about “showing and not telling”, innit?

When faced with these conundrums I find that the best tactic is procrastination. I go and do something else and let the boys in the boiler room, ie my sub-conscious, come up with a solution. No, really.

That is a long and convoluted explanation for this blog... needing a distraction I was looking through some old emails and found a list of exam answers where the students, having not bothered to read the syllabus went for invention rather than accuracy in their answers. This either takes a certain kind of intelligence or a level of idiocy that is beyond even the most obtuse, grass-chewing village idiot.

1) Classical StudiesQuestion: Name one of the early Romans' greatest achievements.Answer: Learning to speak Latin

2) BiologyQuestion: What is a fibula?Answer: A little lie

3) General StudiesQuestion: Jeff has been asked to collect data about the amount of television his friends watch. Think of an appropriate question he could ask them.Answer: How much TV do you watch?

4) Classical StudiesQuestion: What were the circumstances of Julius Caesar's death?Answer: Suspicious ones

5) BiologyQuestion: Give an example of a smoking-related diseaseAnswer: Early death

6) GeographyQuestion: What are the Pyramids?Answer: The Pyramids are a large mountain range which splits France and Spain

7) BiologyQuestion: What is a plasmid?Answer: A high definition television

8) EnglishQuestion: In Pride and Prejudice, at what moment does Elizabeth Bennet realise her true feelings for Mr Darcy?Answer: When she sees him coming out of the lake.

9) GeographyQuestion: What do we call a person forced to leave their home perhaps by a natural disaster or war, without having another home to go to.Answer: Homeless

10) Religious StudiesQuestion: Christians only have one spouse, what is this called?Answer: Monotony

11) BiologyQuestion: In the Hawaiian Islands, there are around 500 different species of fruit fly. Give a reason for thisAnswer: There are approximately 500 varieties of fruit

12) PhysicsQuestion: Name an environmental side effect of burning fossil fuelsAnswer: Fire

13) GeographyQuestion: Define the term "intensive farming".Answer: It is when a farmer never has a day off.

14) MathsQuestion: Change 7/8 to a decimalAnswer: 7.8

15) GeographyQuestion: What does the term "lava" mean?Answer: A pre-pubescent caterpillar

16) General StudiesQuestion: Redundancy is often an unpleasant and unexpected event in someone's life. Give two examples of unexpected life events.Answer: 1) death 2) Reincarnation

17) HistoryQuestion: What was introduced in the Children's Charter of 1908?Answer: Children

18) Business StudiesQuestion: Explain the word "wholesaler".Answer: Someone who sells you whole items - eg, a whole cake

19) GeographyQuestion: The race of people known as Malays come from which country?Answer: Malaria

20) GeographyQuestion:What artificial waterway runs between the Mediterranean and Red Seas?Answer: The Sewage Canal

21) GeographyQuestion: Name one famous Greek landmark. Answer: The most famous Greek landmark is the Apocalypse


Tuesday, 16 June 2009

Introducing...guest blogger, Sara Bain


I thought it might be fun to have a a different perspective now and again in the pages of May Contain Nuts. The first guest spot goes to Sara Bain, a talented writer and a wonderfully generous and supportive friend to other writers. Over to Sara...

Write Place, Write Time

When I first began writing my epic fantasy 14 years ago, I had no idea that the journey would take me to more unreachable shores than the map I had invented.

Many writers will affirm that, when those first lines are on the page, the story takes on a life of its own and the astounded author can only sit back and let it unfold beneath the finger tips. From the onset, my enthusiasm and passion for my story grew each day. Juggling jobs, kids, housework and dinner with one hand and a keyboard with the other, there was not a day that went by that I did not steal a few moments or hours to write.

I am the ultimate optimist: when the National Lottery first started, I bought a ticket in absolute certainty that I would win the jackpot. When the six numbers were called in the first televised show, I was sure that the announcers had made a mistake when none of my numbers came up — not one of them. I suppose this terrible disappointment should have taught me a lesson in realism but, even before my precious manuscript was finished, I sent it off to a publisher in New York, convinced that they would beg me into entering into a three-book deal by return of post. When the polite rejection came, I could hardly believe what I was reading.

Shrugging it off and trusting that perhaps New York was not quite ready for me, I telephoned a publisher of a London fantasy imprint and was horrified at what she told me. The editor, in her brutal description, enlightened me on the difference between the solicited and the unsolicited manuscript in the same way that a prosecution lawyer differentiates between an eminent judge and a low-down, good for nothing, psychopathic child murderer. It was then I learned about the dreaded slush pile — the pauper’s grave of aspiring authors — an unhallowed place where the filth of dirty little non-entities, ie the manuscripts of unpublished writers, takes up precious floor space.

Outraged and eager for a second opinion, I telephoned another publisher who re-affirmed the testimony of the first but encouraged me to find an agent. Agents, she said, were far more likely to get you a publishing deal than going it alone and only take a tiny 15 to 20 per cent of your tiny royalties which, in turn, amount to a tiny percentage of your tiny sales. She recommended that I purchase a copy of the current edition of the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook and choose an agent to represent me.

She said: “From your sample chapters, it looks as though you can certainly write, the characterisation’s great and I like the story. Get yourself an agent and I’ll consider the manuscript.”

Me (in tiny voice): “But why do I need an agent if you are already expressing an interest in it?”

Her: “All writers should have an agent. You need someone to negotiate on your behalf. Sorry.”

Perhaps, if I pretended that I was an agent, she wouldn’t have put the phone down so quickly.

I did as she told me and sent samples to three agents. One of them said no; another said lovely things about my book, how well it was written and how great the story was but that he was into stage-writing and couldn’t take me on; and the third didn’t bother to answer me at all.

A change of tactics was drastically needed, so I sent one sample page, a synopsis and covering letter to a big London publishing house and squealed with delight when the editor asked me to send the full manuscript. On hindsight, I really should have finished the book before sending it off and should have at least revised it once, but enthusiasm extinguished all good sense and, of course, she ended up rejecting it.

Many chapters later, I batted off the moths and sent it out to a few choice publishers or agents and received varying degrees of refusal in return. One told me that no one was buying new fantasy these days; one used the excuse that they were “a bit full up with fantasy at the moment”; one even told me that, although my manuscript exactly fitted the bill of their publishing ethos, their offices had been hit by a hurricane and they were too busy relocating to take on any more manuscripts — now that’s what I call an excuse!

My latest effort, about three years ago, was to walk about 20 blocks of New York’s Fifth Avenue (which is about a thousand miles in three-inch heels) and hand over my first three chapters and synopsis to one of the editors of a fantasy publishing house. She was polite in a non-committal kind of way and didn’t appear at all impressed that I had come all the way from Scotland just to present her the manuscript in person (which wasn’t exactly true, but how could she have known that?) A spectacular delivery via Fed Ex made me feel quite important, even though it carried with it a covering letter saying "thanks, but no thanks".

A few more sequels down the line and I have learned that many authors, like artists, find a publisher purely by being in the right place at the right time. Even if the stars did converge to cause such a fortuitous turn of fate, your sample chapters must then land on the right desk, ie an editor or underling who can empathise with your work. Should your proposal get this far (and this is only half way to the moon on a Honda 50 by comparison), then your full manuscript must run the gauntlet of an external reader who must also be someone who likes your work. Say the reader loves it: the editor will then need to speak with the editorial department, the marketing department, accounts, circulation, the shop keeper down the road and their next door neighbours, as well as take a look at the future lists which are fully-packed with spurious biographies from Z-list celebrities up to the year 3001.

There’s a moral to this tale: enthusiasm is a curable psychosis, the treatment for which is the bitter pill of rejection. I, however, refuse to swallow my medication. I have taken the time to reflect, re-write and get things perfect before I dare to tackle the great wall of publishing again. It might take another year or so, but another editor once told me to keep trying and don’t ever give up: “a good book will always find itself on the shelves” he said — that’s if it ever finds its way out of the slush pile, the odds of which still remain lower than winning it big on the lottery. I suppose you have to be in it to win it.



Sara Bain is a journalist, writer and photographer based in south west Scotland. Her evocative, intelligent and witty blog is called Life’s An Idiom. Do yourself a favour and have a wee peep. The address is - http://lifesanidiom.blogspot.com

Sunday, 14 June 2009

Celebrate Ayrshire

“Interesting” is an interesting word. As is “nice”. They are both dipped in positivity, while at the same time being non-committal. Yet there are times when no other words will do the job. Take today at the “Celebrate Ayrshire” event in the grounds of Culzean Castle. It was both nice and interesting.

The whole event was part of Ayrshire’s year-long run of events for The Homecoming. If this event has passed you by, this is the Scottish government’s big thing for 2009 to remind the rest of the world what a fabulous country Scotland is. The message is (more or less) if you haven’t managed to visit, get your arse over here, you’ll love it.

Early summer is often the best part of the year, weather-wise in this corner of the globe and to prove it the sun was in attendance. As were we Makar Press Poets (Sheila Templeton, Rowena M Love and moi). We were part of the entertainment throughout the day as a variety of groups showed off their wares. Strathclyde Police and Fire Brigade had displays as did Ayrshire Beekeepers, Organic gardeners from Stair, Ayrshire Ice Cream from Catrine House, and a Rare Breed butchers was flogging rare breed burgers and steaks.


There was also an archery exhibition and few others bibs and bots. Among the bibs and bots was a cow. A muckle beastie tethered to a trailer. Why? Not sure. The cow, let’s call her Jessie was just hangin’ out taking in some rays and nibblin’ a few shoots of grass. She was positioned next to the ice cream stand so maybe they were going for a before and after thing. Sheila was for standing behind Jessie with an arrow pointing to her udders, while I was to make the milking motion, with Rowena bringing up the rear (so to speak) making shivering shapes and noises. We decided this might be misconstrued and decided to satisfy ourselves with oodles of the after product.


The Marquee was where you could find the poetry and we featured in 20 minute time sandwiches between Maybole Pipe Band and Johnstone Silver Band throughout the day. The day ran from 11am till 4pm. We also had a Robert Burns impersonator kitted out in the gear we’ve come to associate with Burns, complete with ponytailed wig and a ploughman poet’s sideburns and he pitched in now and again with the likes of Tam O’Shanter and My Luv is Like a Red, Red Rose.


The presence of “Rabbie Burns” had a confusing effect on some people. Not with Rabbie himself, but with us. One Irish guy said that one of my poems was so good he thought it was a modern rendering of a Burns classic. Which was nice (oh, there’s that word again) but we had to state on several occasions that we were readin our own original work.


This next comment might be tantamount to treason, but Scottish poetry has more to offer than just oor Rab. Wonderful as he is and absolutely something to be proud of, the danger is that as a nation we concentrate on him just a tad too much. There are a great number of fine writers living and working in Scotland today who could do with some attention and the wherewithal to make a decent living. By all means we should celebrate Burns and the impact he has had on the world, but let’s listen to other voices. Right, that’s me off my soapbox.



It is fair to say that I’m knackered. It takes energy to read poetry in these surroundings, dontcha know. Normally our readings are in confined spaces and we build up an atmosphere in which we and the audience feed off each other’s energy. Reading in a marquee to a transient audience is quite a different matter. First off the acoustics are shit. Secondly, at an invited reading the audience tends to have chosen to be there; in this kind of scenario the attendees were mostly taking a seat and shelter from the sun. There was also the odd barking dog, screaming child and whoosh from the flames at the Fire Brigade stand to compete with.


To be fair, there were lots of people who fully appreciated what we were doing and clearly enjoyed it, particularly earlier in the day. But there were also lots of bemused expressions. Some of which set Sheila off on a teenage giggle. You could see the thought – but it diznae rhyme, passing across some people’s expressions.


There I was reading my poem about the woman whose teeth fell out when she was eating a scone (I cover such a wide topic range. Nothing is sacred, not even the regal scone) which normally gets a big laugh. I got to the funny bit and this elderly couple right at the front (who had just arrived, nursing an ice cream cone each) were looking at me as if I had just announced that Christmas and Easter were changing months, but Santa and the Easter Bunny would stay as is. They were sitting mouths open wondering what the hell was going on. I swear I could see the vanilla ice cream melting among their fillings.


Being brutally honest, by the time it came to the last set, I really couldn’t be arsed. After 4 hours of intermittent poetry readings I’d had enough. I was all for untethering Jessie and asking for a ride home. Sheila was on the fence (yes, you were) and Rowena was up on her feet brandishing one of her collections, with all the energy of a zealot.

However, I am nothing if not a pro and we performed our last set for the afternoon.

Did I enjoy my day? Yes. It was nice. And interesting.