Jun 242011
 

 By Bob Smith.

A fence it his bin biggit
Aroon David Milne’s wee hoose
Trump the bully boy is back
Tryin hard ti tichen the noose

Haaf the cost o iss fencie
He wints pyed bi David Milne
Faa says “awa ye go min”
Yer bank balance we’ll nae fill

A garage wa he wints teen doon
It’s on ma lan Trump says
Bit David he his nae doots
The bliddy wa it stays

Noo Trumpie he disna like it
Fin fowk dinna dee his biddin
Michael Forbes stuck twa fingers up
An winna tidy his so ca’ed “midden”

At PR wark Trump’s nae eese
He kittles a fair fyow locals
Aye treatin fowk wi disdain
As tho’ they’re kintra yokels

O coorse Trump’s o aat breed
Faa see themsels as go getters
It’s time ti tell him ti —- aff
The missin wird his fower letters

© Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2011

Note:  Voice’s ‘poetry mannie’ Bob Smith reviews ‘You’ve Been Trumped’ in Scottish Review – click here( See ‘The cafe 2’ column. )

 

Jun 182011
 

Voice’s Old Susannah casts her eye over recent events, stories, and terms and phrases familiar as well as freshly ‘spun’, which will be forever etched in the consciousness of the people of Aberdeen and the Northeast.

The wait is over.  The skies have cleared, and the planets are aligned (or at least we had an eclipse this week).  It is launched.  The streets are deserted as people flock around computers to read what our future holds, and to add their comments to the website: Genius loci is here.

”What is she on about?” I hear you ask.  The Aberdeen Chamber of Commerce enlisted the talents of its leading lights (as well as John Stewart), and have created a wonderful website where they actually ask for – wait for it – the opinions of humble non-business folk like you and me on how we want our City to be transformed.

We are told first and foremost to forget all the negative stuff – ‘it is easy to criticise’ they tell us.

“The Chamber wants to turn the debate about the city centre from the negative to the positive. We should stop talking about what’s wrong, and concentrate our efforts on putting it right”. – See:  genius-loci-in-30-seconds

Old Susannah was never one to criticise or make unkind comments, and I hope you will take a page from my book

Obviously, if we just simply stop talking about the tiny problems this city has, then the elephant will leave the room.  Let’s just forget about politicians, millionaires and quangos behaving badly.  Minor things like councillors being jailed for theft, city government selling real estate at less than market value, school and service closures and cuts, etc. can all be swept away.  Let it go.

Now that’s done, let’s figure out how to fix the real problem.

What will make everyone rich, successful, happy, well-dressed and content?
Answer:  We must build something in place of Union Terrace Gardens.

Who knows?  With a bit of planning and the right quangos, Aberdeen might just even become the Scunthorpe or Milton Keynes of the north.  Just because we are three hours north of Glasgow and Edinburgh is no reason to think our location will be any hindrance to the hordes of shopping tourists we desperately all want to attract.   Let’s think outside the box and start thinking inside the dome (which is a City Square proposal). Let’s look at some of the exciting possibilities on offer.

Genius Loci:

Latin phrase – ‘spirit of the place’.  A brand new initiative by the Chamber of Commerce.
Hooray.  It’s time to do some architecture.  You may remember that John Stewart, head of Aberdeen City Council, complained not long ago that there wasn’t much of anything in UTG but grass and trees.  Thankfully, this disgraceful situation will be solved by the combined efforts of ACSEF, the Chamber of  Commerce, Aberdeen City Council, and let’s not forget Malcolm Reading and a host of international architects eager to get their hands on taxpayer money – sorry – eager to improve the life of each and every citizen by building stuff.

The business sector says that making new buildings improves peoples’ lives.  (It’s a good thing that we have a strong local government which balances the educational, health and social needs of its citizens against any conflicting interests of big business).

having a monorail will be like a dream come true

Back in the day, St Nicholas House was celebrated for its modernity and shiny blue bits.  I am sure that people travelled to Aberdeen just to look at it, and then went shopping.

Union Square is also going to make us prosperous.  Any day now.  Some might think this latest mall has only added a new set of multinational stores and sucked the life out of local commerce in the city centre while encouraging more urban sprawl.  But that’s not the kind of thinking we want right now.  Let’s do as the Chamber of Commerce wants:  Let’s forget the past, let’s not think about the negatives – let’s only focus on how exciting – nay vibrant lots of new buildings could be for all of us.

Some 150 people were asked to contribute essays on the city’s architectural (and hence cultural, social and economic future we’re told) for this Genius Loci thing.  About 50 essays came back, although it seems they are all from business people or city councillors.  I guess the elderly, people with mobility problems, unwaged and young aren’t up to the job of making comment.  Old Susannah couldn’t wait to read as much of the proposals as possible; let’s share just one with you now.

John Stewart, head Genius has some big plans – and strangely enough they involve the end of the Denburn Valley:-

“I remain convinced that the raising of Union Terrace Gardens, to create a larger garden, with performance space, public art, water features, and cafes is a vital part of this. We should not be afraid to remove some of the worst eyesores to deliver this new space. There is the potential for new space on the St Nicholas House site when it is demolished, to improve the Castlegate. Could the St Nicholas Kirkyard be opened up more? …”

This is brilliant stuff, thanks John.  I’m all for throwing the kirkyard up to development as well.  I for one will be at the water feature watching the mimes perform in February as I have my baguette and cappuccino.  But it gets better:

“…The Union Terrace Gardens development allows the opportunity to route buses onto the Denburn dual carriageway….. I’d love to see a monorail. And do not underestimate the importance of communications in terms of connectivity. A free wi-fi network across the City Centre is a must”.

I have a confession to make:  as a child: my brother was mainly in charge of the toy train we had at Christmas, and having a monorail will be like a dream come true.  Monorail construction in Aberdeen will enhance our architecture, and take us from A to B in style.  People will come from around the world to see it, particularly people from the States, where monorail building programmes have caused more financial disasters than the sub-prime market did.  Just go look at the ‘Marge Vs the Monorail’ episode of the Simpsons – not that I am insinuating any of our august councillors and businessmen are cartoon characters or dishonest.

“Would it be possible to take control of, large parts of the City Centre, consolidating ownership of numerous older buildings, gutting the insides to create the flexible space desired by modern retail, while retaining the facades and features, a little like the council has achieved with Marischal College?”

Now we’re talking!  I like it when a man takes control, John – particularly if they’re using compulsory purchase orders.  Maybe the City could just ‘take control’ of everything, and give control to ACSEF?  If that’s what’s going to happen anyway, this would be a time- and money-saving idea.

So I urge everyone – go download ‘Genius Loci’ and have a look at the website. Make your comments.  Read the ‘visionaries’ comments.  After all, I don’t want to  be feeling dizzy, nauseous, intellectually insulted and ill-used all on my own.

One final point to stress:  this ‘Genius Loci’ initiative is definitely not the product of any group with a vested interest.

Vested Interest:

(Modern English phrase) a personal concern in maintaining or influencing a condition, arrangement, or action especially for selfish ends.
If Old Susannah didn’t know better or if I were just a bit cynical, I would ask the question:  do any groups have a vested interest in ‘improving’ Union Terrace Gardens?  Good thing I’m not cynical.

All that the international architects in the design competition want is for Aberdonians to have a fantastic life in a vibrant city.  They are not interested in winning competitions or making money.  Architecture is a higher calling, as can be seen in our beautiful bus station, Torry ‘hen houses’ or majestic Union Square mall.

All the local construction companies want likewise is for you and me to be happy.  If they happen to make a few million during the process, than everyone’s a winner.  I sigh with happiness when I picture the future:  we will travel the monorail from shopping mall to shopping mall, drinking cafe latte on concrete patios as we admire the city’s new dome from the safety of the culture zone.  Who needs a rapture when this is heading our way?  What will you do with all the extra income this will generate for you personally?

the organisations which want us to forget the past are pretty much the same ones that got us to where we are today

Does anyone own any city-centre property close to a culture zone or commerce zone which will skyrocket in value?

I hope so.  If for instance any millionaires owned land near say a railroad that is set to quadruple in value if these schemes go ahead, then more power to them.

What if such a person were lucky enough to be involved with the decision-making process of our great construction schemes to deliver our new open space thingy?  Maybe they had some power within ACSEF or the Chamber of Commerce itself?  Would it constitute a vested interest if they used their influence to get rid of the Denburn Valley, and coincidentally got very rich as a result for owning nearby land and possibly picking up a few million in construction work?  Hmmm.

It is coincidence that the Chamber of Commerce released its Genius Loci document at the same time the design competition to ‘improve Union Terrace Gardens is on.  It is also coincidence that ‘vested interest’ should appear in this week’s definitions.  It is also a big coincidence that the organisations which want us to forget the past are pretty much the same ones that got us to where we are today.

I’m afraid the excitement is just too much for me; I feel faint and can’t continue.  Let’s leave it there for now until the enormity of our great future fully sinks in – I definitely have a sinking feeling.

I’m off now to a presentation on ‘rebranding the city,’ I am sure you are looking forward to hearing all about it next week.

Jun 182011
 

George Anderson bravely shares with Voice readers his tutor’s feedback on his less than adequate attempt to pass the ‘Aiberdeen words and phrases’ exam paper as part of his Northeast Scotland Indigenous languages course.

Open University of Bogfechel.
A level II Course from the Faculty of Language.
AB-277 Aiberdonian words and phrases.

Feedback from Assignment One.

Well done Dod. Overall a decent assignment. You were asked to give the Aiberdonian equivalent of an English phrase and provide examples of its everyday use.

Q1: The English translation of the Aiberdonian phrase ‘Kintit’ is of course, ‘I just knew it!’ But when pronounced by a native speaker, which other messages does the phrase also communicate? (25 marks).

Tutor’s Notes.

You started with a good example; husband and wife in dispute over the correct route to Lidl. Husband insisting he is right.  Wife falling into a silent smoulder in the passenger seat. The couple’s car pulling into a building site two hours later next to an advertising hoarding proclaiming the coming of a new Aldi’s supermarket in 2015.  After the silence of the last 90 miles, a single phrase is uttered by the wife: ‘Kintit!’ The emphasis of course on the first syllable.

Unfortunately, you listed only 2 out of the 8 messages implied by the gentleman’s spouse. The full list is as follows:

  • I was right
  • You were wrong
  • I’m always right
  • Your always wrong.
  • You never listen to me
  • If only you’d listen to me
  • God knows why I married a loser like you. I should have known, when you told me you’d left Summerhill Academy in 1969 with an ‘O’ level in juggling and a character reference fae the janny.
  • If you are still considering a 1/4 of chopped pork and a side plate of crinkle-cut beetroot for yer tea, you can get it yersel; I’m takin the bus hame.

Marks: 6/25

Better luck perhaps with assignment two Dod when the phrase will be:  ‘You and fa’s army?’

Alma Duguid,
Tutor

 

Jun 182011
 

By Bob Smith.

As ye growe aul dis yer brain retire
It sure dis cause ye frustration an ire
Ye myn fine fit happened in 1952
Fit ye did last wikk-ye hinna a clue

Ye meet an aul freen fin oot a walk
And aa ye can dee is taak an taak
In the hope ye can myn the mannie’s name
An ye dinna hae ti hing yer heid in shame

At the bottom o the stairs ye ken fit ye wint
Fin ye reach the tap yer brain its got tint
Were ye up for a hankie or maybe a purse
It fair maks ye hae a bit sweir or curse

Ye watch an aul film an the leadin lady
Her name Ah’m feart it is a bit shady
Is it Jane Russell or Yvonne De Carlo
Her hair is dark so it’s nae Jean Harlow

Name aat song-ye  shud ken it fine
No it wisna sung bi Sydney Devine
Wis it maybe written bi  Rodgers an Hart
Or Sammy Cahn or yon Lionel Bart

Ye can myn faa scored in the final o’ 59
The twa teams involved comes ti ye fine
Nae sae sure faa played last ear
Neen o them comes ti myn – oh dear!

Yer ain name of coorse ye myn it weel
So maybe yer nae sae bliddy feel
Bit faa’s aat wummin ?- it’s got ye licked?
Forget yer wife’s name an  yer erse’ll get kicked

©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie”
Picture © Pathathai Chungyam | Dreamstime.com

 

Jun 182011
 

By George Anderson.

We can never predict when a sudden insight into the workings of our innermost selves will light up our consciousness like an 11 Watt low-energy bulb.
We imagine that such events occur in mysterious places such as Ayres Rock or the luminous bowling alley at the Codonas funfair in Aberdeen.

But in my experience, the location of your average flashbulb moment will be as ordinary as chapped tatties. A place like the freezer cabinet of my village shop last Thursday.

I was leaning over the rim of the cabinet contemplating what life must have been like in the days before we could blast freeze our garden peas within ten seconds of hauling them out of their pods. I was considering whether to go for the leading brand (‘satisfaction guaranteed or your money back’) or the Value Pack (‘please see rear of packaging for list of disclaimers.’).

The Value Pack was a pound cheaper but the contents even when defrosted had the density of buckshot. I reached for my choice. And that’s when it happened.

I first became aware that something wasn’t quite right with the world – well, with my trousers actually. I looked down to discover that in my haste to get to the shop before suppertime I had pulled on the wife’s tracksuit bottoms instead of my own (why, oh why are pastel shades so unbecoming to a man in his late fifties?).

The realisation that shunted into the rear of that first thought was that not only were the leggings incongruous, they were outside in!

This would never do. I live in the heart of a rural community. It is a place where a man is a man and is expected to behave – and dress – like one. Let me explain.

Imagine this: A farm worker with a dodgy watch relaxes behind a hay stack during a lunch break. He sucks on a chut (singular of chutney) from his ploughman’s sandwich. Suddenly he realises that his watch has stopped; that he should have been back in harness twenty minutes ago. He leaps to his feet and bolts off spitting Cheddar. He is thrashed to the ground by the mercilessly flailing blades of a combine harvester which breaks both his arms like cheese straws.

Now, in an episode of Casualty, an air ambulance and a battalion of parachuting para-medics would descend fom the sky and the lad with the two broken arms would be whisked off to the heli-pad at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. But you would be hard pushed to find anyone within a thirty mile radius of my village shop who would not expect that lad to get on his bike with a wobble-free lip and pedal to the ARI using the ‘Look-Ma-Nae-Hands’ technique.

How, I thought, could such people ever look favourably on a middle-aged man wearing his wife’s jogging bottoms inside out in close proximity to their rural community’s only freezer cabinet?

And that’s when the 11 Watt low-energy bulb came on. And I released that, actually, I didn’t care what they thought.

I was flying without wings – despite having a bag of Albanian peas under each oxter. I strode flamboyantly to the checkout  with pastel pantaloons ablaze. I was free, free, free at last!

Next week I plan to push the envelope of my new found freedom by nipping down to the village shop for a copy of the Turriff Advertiser wearing my wife’s bra around my head in the semblance of a Spitfire Pilot’s headgear.

That’ll separate the men from the boys!

Jun 102011
 

By Bob Smith.

A young chiel is bein touted
As leader o oor cooncil mob
A lot o fowk are speirin
Is the loon up ti the job?

A suppose the billie he dis ken
Fit a task he’d be takin on
The cooncil’s fair cash strappit
In iss toon twixt Dee an Don

A truly hope he his mair sense
Than cooncillors Malone an Dean
Faa some fowk hiv noo branded
Amang the worst they’ve ivver seen

Wull he hae the gumption
Ti staun up ti ACSEF’s ploys?
Or wull he turn oot ti be
Jist anither o ACSEF’s toys?

A hope the laddie disna think
Iss jobbie wull be a jolly
Or his tenure micht be kent
As Aiberdeen’s “McCaig’s Folly”

©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2011

Jun 102011
 

Voice’s Old Susannah casts her eye over recent events, stories, and terms and phrases familiar as well as freshly ‘spun’, which will be forever etched in the consciousness of the people of Aberdeen and the Northeast.

Summer in Aberdeen.  Lighting the barbeque (rain permitting) then standing around it (to warm your hands up) while someone inevitably insists on taking over the cooking, ensuring you get a burger burnt on the outside yet still frozen inside.

Old Susannah is off for a spray-tan tomorrow so she’ll be bright orange (or maybe not) for the season’s most important event – the Friends of Union Terrace Gardens picnic.  My picnic basket has been dusted off, a few brewdogs put in the deep freeze, and raingear laid out (just in case) for the big day Saturday.

If you think the City’s economic future doesn’t depend on putting a carpark where the verdant remnant of the Denburn Valley is, then I will see you there Saturday.

Old Susannah was at the RGU students’ fashion show last Thursday as a guest of one of the lecturers; the designs on show were impressively creative and individualistic.  It was a professional, enjoyable show, but I hope they do better on the drink front next time.  I guess it is possible to have clothing that’s not been sewn in the third world by children in sweatshops after all.

The mini bottle of unchilled white wine however was not to my group’s taste, and we made a break for it to Cafe 52 for some cold beer and wine.  Since then, I’ve had a wee bit of my time taken up looking into the deer cull.  It’s not too late (I hope) to stop this madness.

But now it’s time for a definition or two.

Mathematics: (noun) classical discipline encompassing algebra, geometry, trigonometry; numeracy.

Maths was never my strongpoint.  I still haven’t figured out how we can guarantee our economic future by getting a TIF loan for £100 million or more while being £50 million in debt to get rid of Union Terrace Gardens.

Thankfully, that’s what ACSEF and the Council tell me will happen, and I’m quite prepared to take their word for it.  I’m not even smart enough to figure out how a Stadium at Loirston Loch for 21,000 people can work on 1400 parking places (or how the stadium’s plan to have 80 buses reach Loirston from College Street in 15 minutes flat is feasible.  I personally can’t get a bus from Torry to Nigg when it’s busy that takes less than half an hour.  Obviously I’m doing something wrong.).

I’m working on my math skills in the hopes I too can see how black and white our city’s thinking must be.

I guess I also have to work on the mathematics behind the Haudagain Roundabout situation and the proposed Paper mill housing development.  It is good to know that Aberdeen is the best in the UK at something – and it’s official:  we are the best at roundabout traffic jams.  I’d always thought traffic moved just a wee bit slowly in the part of town as people stopped to admire the lovely roundabout itself.  However, as ever:  the City has a plan.

And here is the mathematical sense behind it:

Take: 1 x congested roundabout

Subtract: 100 nearby Middlefield houses to be bulldozed

Add: 900 private dwellings (builder:  one Mr S Milne) near congested roundabout

Add: shops, offices, a medical centre, business units and riverside bistro (builder:  Mr Milne)

Equals = minimal impact on roundabout traffic.

That’s right.  There will be minimal impact on the roundabout per our Council.

Personally I would have thought that the massive number of people trying to get a table at the riverside bistro alone would have led to traffic standstill; I hope to have an invitation to the opening night.  The medical centre makes a nice addition to any housing scheme of this size; it is the Vaseline that lets these great housing plans slide through planning departments.  It will be an extremely useful medical centre, as all of the people stuck on the roundabout will need treatment for C02 inhalation and dehydration.

My other mathematical ignorance concerns the Tullos Hill deer:

Take: 30 deer (Council’s estimate) which normally live 5-7 years

Subtract: (I mean ‘kill’ – sorry, I mean ‘cull’) 9 male deer this year

Balance: 21 deer

Plant: 40,000 trees

Number of trees left for each deer to eat =  1,904

Old Susannah can eat and drink with the best of them, but had no idea how hungry these tiny little deer must be:  1,904 trees is a fair amount per deer.  If each deer ate only 5% of this figure, that’s still 95.2 saplings for each deer (of the remaining herd after we’ve ‘managed’ 9 males as the City wishes).  It is a complete mystery to me how these hungry critters manage to survive on Tullos at all given the lack of trees.  Alas, I have no degree in forestry, so it looks like I must take the experts’ advice:  deer are dangerous vermin which if left unchecked will eat.

Not in Crisis: (mod English phrase) – phrase used to reassure others that a given situation is under control or no cause for concern.

If you follow football (a game somewhat similar to what they do at Pittodrie), then you will know that FIFA is ‘not in crisis’.  For you or me allegations of corruption, vote-rigging, bribery and dishonesty might spell a bit of trouble.  For the Federation Internationale de Football Associations, such issues can be shrugged off.  It is because of FIFA’s high moral stance that footballers the world ‘round behave with such dignity, ethics and honesty.

Behind every great organisation there is a great man.

Milne Homes has Stewart; the Wood Group PSN has Sir Ian, and FIFA has President Blatter.  Mr Blatter is so very popular that no one ran against him in the latest FIFA presidential election.  Or something like that.  I guess the question is does a mere £100 million ‘inducement’ really amount to a bribe?  I think not.  FIFA does have a ‘Standards Statute’, which is a modern fiction classic.  It reads in part:

“The Standard Statues contain all the provisions that are intrinsic to any constitutive texts worthy of such description.  We are therefore calling upon the Associations to examine these statutes meticulously and incorporate all of the articles and principles covered into their own statutes – for their own benefit and for the Good of the Game” – Joseph S Blatter

I love a good read, and gave the Statues a once-over.  However, I did not find the proper etiquette for accepting brown envelopes filled with money.  Perhaps someone here in Aberdeen can help with that.  In any event, it is hoped that all the world’s football associations will soon behave as Mr Blatter wishes.  Heaven forbid anything happens to put the beautiful game into disrepute.

Quasi-serious note

Last Christmas I put in a serious note about the holidays not having to be the beautiful family and friend-filled affairs that the TV commercials present.

Not everyone had 20 friends round their tree drinking eggnog before a horse-drawn sleigh ride.  Summer is rather the same.  The media tells you that you must look fantastic in your bathing suit (if it ever gets warm enough to put it on).  You must play volleyball on a sandy sunny beach and drink orange soda the same colour as your skin.

Don’t for a moment assume that everyone will be having tropical holidays and drinking cocktails from coconut shells under palm trees.  The economy is not great (despite the best efforts of ACSEF and ACC).  You might have your worries.  Take a ‘staycation’.  Visit Scotland.  Visit Tullos Hill for that matter.

But don’t let some false media advertising imagery fool you.  And if you are like many people struggling with one thing and another, remember:  at least you’re not Ryan Giggs.

Jun 032011
 

Last week’s Voice featured Aberdeen entertainment icon Sid Ozalid, his life, his act, his impact, the release of his new book, and news of ‘not to be missed’ performances in the city. Well, If you did happen to miss out on catching Sid live on Friday and Saturday, then fash yersel not – this week we present a brief account of the missed mayhem, and a poem from ‘Mr Elastic Brain’.

Sid Ozalid jetted in from Sunny Amsterdam last Friday for a whistle stop tour of Aberdeen to promote his fab new book ‘Mr Elastic Brain – The Life and Poems of Sid Ozalid’.

The previous week he had done three gigs in London and the week before that three gigs in Holland, so he was keen to make it a hat trick and do three gigs in Aberdeen.

This meant two gigs on Friday night and a book signing/performance at 1UP on the Sat afternoon.

Below
Sid Ozalid performs ‘Tartan Underpants’  accompanied by Dave McLeod.

Lots of people made one gig, a few brave people made it along to two gigs, but apart from Sid and his lovely wife only one person made it to all three:  a Mr Colin MacLean who had driven up from the Kingdom of Fife to see Sid after an absence of 26 years.

Colin and Sid had performed together in 1977 in one of Aberdeen’s first punk bands, ‘The Enormous Snakes,’ and Colin had gone on to work with Sid as one of his All-Stars over a number of years, taking in the Edinburgh Festival and supporting The Clash at Inverness Ice Rink.

The first two gigs sizzled with professionalism, wit and dancing. The 24 year-old MC at Geesalaff Comedy Night, Miss Anna Devitt said:

“I was exhausted just watching; he was non-stop, how can someone this old have so much energy?  My mum is a big fan and told me to get one of his books, the book truly is amazing, so I told mum to get her own copy.”

The third gig at 1UP, the sole suppliers of Sid’s book in Aberdeen, was the most surreal by far.

Sid performed ‘Salvador Dali’s Hat’, ‘Three Fat Ladies at the Bingo Hall,’ and thrashed himself with a daisy — but nothing had prepared him for two drunk shoppers and a man in an electric wheel chair.

The drunk shoppers really giggled at Sid’s antics, but thought nothing of standing next to him flicking through CD’s and asking his opinion on Hip Hop and Jazz classics.

Sid took all of this in his stride and was set the extra challenge of being nimble on his feet when the electric wheelchair man was so taken by the performance he decided to join in, whizzing to the stage and joining Sid on the first electric wheelchair elastic brain dance routine ever seen in Aberdeen. Sid may well have been the dance teacher to the Queen at one time in his life, but nothing had prepared him for this!!

Some nice people had ordered Sid’s book from Amazon and brought it along to be signed, and other nice people bought copies of the book at 1UP, and there then followed a good half hour of chatting and book signing.

A special mention must go to Fred Craig of 1UP who had brought along one of Sid’s original book/records from 1982 ‘Songs and Stories from a Suitcase Extravaganza.’  Fred wanted this signed, and in return Sid was rewarded with a well deserved cup of tea.

With all profits going to MIND for better mental health Sid was a happy man.
http://www.mind.org.uk/

Tartan Underpants

They are groovy they can dance
They can put you in a trance
That’s my tartan underpants
Tartan underpants ooh
Tartan underpants ooh

You can use them as a tent use then as a hanky
One thing is sure there’s never hanky panky
In my tartan underpants
Tartan underpants ooh
Tartan underpants ooh

I don’t drink whisky don’t eat haggis
Go to bed with a girl from Paris
In my tartan underpants
Tartan underpants ooh
Tartan underpants ooh

My pants are funky they know what to do
Goodbye boxer shorts it’s the Y Front crew
That’s my tartan underpants
Tartan underpants ooh
Tartan underpants ooh

I’m a boring old folk singer
Philip is my name
My mother is a miner
My sisters on the game

I’ve a face like a scrotum
Wear an Arran jersey
Nobody likes me
I’ve got bad breath
Claymore !!!

My old sheep ran away
my dog is very angry
He hasn’t slept all week
And likes a drink of shandy
Ben Nevis !!!

Jun 032011
 

The Roe Buck – A Short Story By Alan Gatt.

He’d just been congratulating himself – it was quite early in the season to feel as fit as he did.

During the appalling winter, his saddle-fitness had declined, but since the spring had come early and bright he’d managed to improve on that.
Climbing the steepest hill he knew in the town; he’d managed it that day with less distress, in a higher gear, quicker and with better form than he’d done so far that year.

Half way up he’d even felt good enough to kick, to dig down into reserves of strength he didn’t know he had – to spin the pedals faster and actually accelerate up the hill.

That hill at the very edge of the parish boundary of his town – quite rural really – up a forestry trail to a summit with an Ordnance Survey concrete pillar trig-point on top and such a view! The hill that gathers the rain that feeds the springs that become the burn that gave his town its name and gave the town the green estuarine littoral to found itself upon all those centuries ago.

Cresting the summit and now on a plateau the cyclist knuckle-flicks the paddle to slip up a gear and relaxes, pleased with himself. Now travelling at about walking pace on the loose gravel path, heading slightly down and dead straight, increasing speed; faster now – jogging pace, faster now – running speed faster again – faster than a runner –  gravel chips pinging poing, boing from beneath chunky, nobbly tyres.

To think: the loose-ish glacially deposited aggregate sand and gravel of this kame hill were water-borne – carried by that burn water; speck by speck, stone by stone down the valley to form that estuary, now reclaimed beneath shopping mall and car park and railway station and road: a perfect flatland for development alongside the harbour – that harbour itself once the shifting sand estuary of a much mightier-yet watercourse, now granite pier and concrete pile contained, dredger-tamed.

Now speeding about as fast as he’d like to go for comfort and safety on the unmetalled surface – any more and his suspension-forks wouldn’t plushly absorb the bumps of the boulder-studded gravel and sand surface – he realises in the quiet of his outreaching thoughts that he’s not alone – something impinges on his consciousness, matching speed and direction – a flicker in the trees: the path now a fully enclosed avenue high contrast light and shadow strobe pulsing through the tree fronds hiding the sky above. Shafts of coppergold light here briefly blinding him through the slatted louvres of the pines – there illuminating the quiet dust of the still forest, suspended in the air, a moment holding its breath.

That flicker in the trees, it’s real, it’s alive, it’s a deer!

On a parallel route, he can see small antlers – a buck! Matching movement through the forest. But the cyclist is a noisy fuss on a forestry road and the roe buck is effortless amongst moss and fern and boulder and  trees, jinking and sidewinding – maintaining smooth forward momentum, muzzle high on this slender neck and with this jet black moist eye regarding and shadowing the cyclist’s progress, the roe buck stays with him – steady.

And then, the path gradient turns positive again, robbing both of speed, but still they shadow one another slowing to the crest, slowing, slowing together, stopping – stopped.

Unclipping one foot from a pedal, the mountain biker stands as still and quiet as he can on the upward-sloping path, and the roe stops too as if somehow robbed of the impetus which earlier made him run. A living-room’s width away, the deer is just inside the margin of the trees; this body parallel to the path, this head turning to the man. A moment of complete silence. A moment of complete stillness.

compared to the roe buck, he was just a conceited dilettante, with all this weird equipment and preparations

This moment – not enough for the man to see too deeply into these deep moist reflective big black eyes. Not enough to make a true mutual connection, not enough. But enough to for him to see that in these black moist eyes here is no human emotion – no way to ever connect.

And suddenly silently these eyes are away! Turning at right angles, the parallel shadowing over, finished – the buck springs with no noise and these slenderest of neat legs over a stone dyke into a grassy field and away swift and down towards the broad valley of the ancient burn. The two part, their paths brought together by coincidence, by providence, now their routes bifurcated and branching away from each other forever.

Standing now alone, the cyclist felt a little ashamed that he should have thought himself fit, that his meaty-thigh-powered steel and aluminium contrivance should have filled him with self-congratulatory regard. For all he prided himself on being an outdoor type; of connecting with the good earth, of living the life of the world – rather than just inhabiting it; now the man realised that, compared to the roe buck, he was just a conceited dilettante, with all this weird equipment and preparations and clothes and planning. A fussy amateur, only playing at being real – only pretending to be outside.

By contrast the deer was the very essence of a self-contained life without superfluity. Lean, slender, light, swift, efficient. Fit and fitting. Truly free.

For, now freed from his brief alien contact with the man, centred wholly and still within his body’s own movement, the buck’s desire line down into the valley is primordial. He is moving without moving, as water flows within itself; the buck cannot be anything other than what he is; he is integral.

Just as without the water there is no watercourse, the deer is self-contained in his looping graceful curved route down across open fields following a path of least resistance with no artifice, no construction, no meaning, no implication. Nothing is wasted and nothing is superfluous. He has neither capacity for understanding any distinction between himself and the landscape through which he moves, nor way of understanding the passing of one moment to the next. For by his existence that understanding would be redundant: he is that landscape; he is that movement; he is that moment – there can be no distinction for all are one.

as these thoughts wandered across his mind, the cyclist realised that he’d lost sight of the buck

Flashing across the field and vaulting… up, hey! Over another dyke at speed the buck somehow remains that silently moving pool of stillness, motionless in his body; moving without moving – completely fit for his surroundings and fitting them seamlessly and essentially.

Providence he is, and he is subject to providence. Here is no human emotion. Here is only motionless motion.

The cyclist stood watching as the buck receded to a speck, proceeding into the depths of the valley and from this high vantage the man’s eyes flickered to the prominences which he noticed stood, seeming sentinels, either side of the valley as it descended meandering eastwards towards the town’s urban centre.

On a hill to the north of the valley, a civic water supply reservoir. Looking for all the world like a truncated pyramid built by an ancient civilisation, the reservoir’s sepulchral forms devised an appropriate reflection to the modernist-style city crematorium which occupied the mirror-slope hill to the south. To the north, life-giving cool water – to the south, death and disposal in flames.

As he regarded the buildings on these slopes, and as these thoughts wandered across his mind, the cyclist realised that he’d lost sight of the buck. Try as he might, he couldn’t pick him out any more amongst the fields and dykes, hedges and copses as they spread out below him in the valley. He couldn’t see whether the roe buck would travel on the north or the south side. He couldn’t see what choice providence had made for the bifurcating future. On one branch, nurture and a plan for the future – on the other, consuming searing erasure; an end to a future.

He re-clipped his foot into the pedal, sighed deeply and pedalled on.

May 302011
 

By Bob Smith.

Chris Matthew’s  bin in the local paper
Fer cairryin oot a daredevil caper
He pluntit a cone on tap o a spire
Raisin Gordon College’s  heid yins ire 

Noo there wis some danger ti the loon
As on the spire he wint up an doon
The school’s reaction wint ower the score
An the loon’s noo pairt o  college fowklore

Ti remove the cone a crane they hired
Faa thocht o iss they shud be fired
Yer brain wi a question I wid tax
Hiv they nivver heard o steeplejacks

Thirteen hunner quid ti remove a cone
Shud hae us aa jist hae a moan
Foo muckle is charged bi the oor
It’s ower the tap aat’s fer sure 

Health an safety’ll bin ti the fore
We canna noo fart bit some aul bore
Wull say their breathin’s been affected
Common sense nae langer detected

The spirit o the young we are crushin
Eccentricity ti the back we’re pushin
A schoolboy prank aa this wis
Yet some fowk are in a bliddy tizz 

Gordon College fowkies shud lichten up
A wee reprimand geen ti iss young pup
It seems society’s lost the plot
The spirit o adventure we’ve forgot

©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2011