By Bob Smith.
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Young Dod his ti get mairret Fan Dod’ll tell his mither Dod’s quine’s jist a young deem His mither noo she’s affa prood
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It’ll be a funcy waddin Foo tae cover up the bump The quine hersel is nae pit oot
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©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2010. Image Credit: © Madja | Dreamstime.com
By Bob Smith.
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Yon Murdoch mannie’s nae happy Papers fer some mony ears The investigative journalist hack Noo fowk faa bocht his papers Lit’s nae forget oor local lot |
The P&J shud bi worried Fae Lowrenkirk ti Lerwick It’s nae eese noo girnin Ye’ll nae fin me greetin The only Murdoch a div like |
©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2011
Image credit: © Christopher Hall | Dreamstime.com
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’.
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/
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 !!!
By Fred Wilkinson.
Sid Ozalid? A band? A guy? Pretty punk if slightly strange kind of a name though, which for an 18 y.o. punk diehard was somehow reassuring.
On stage appeared a tall, skinny, slightly weird-looking guy with no guitar. Not punk – not punk at all, which in the circumstances was all the more intriguing.
What happened next was somewhere between seeing the light and being scarred for life.
Out of a sudden discharge of nervous energy came an onslaught of surreal, silly verse spliced seamlessly with a bunch of broken anecdotes delivered at a pace leaving no pause for appraisal; accompanied by incongruous, disjointed, directionless dance moves which somehow worked – they must have worked, as somehow, he stayed on his feet.
Then it was over. I had not moved. I was still staring at the empty stage, and I remember thinking: “I hope no-one asks me what I made of Sid Ozalid.” Devoid of reference points, my thoughts were a long time coming. Yes, I found it funny, and yes I was immensely entertained – I just didn’t know why! Neither punk nor Python, neither Cutler, Cooper nor Cooper-Clarke, Sid Ozalid certainly breathed the same air, but did not walk on the same planet.
Would I perhaps find a clue to understanding what made Sid tick from his publicity around at the time? –
“Legend has it that Sid Ozalid was born sometime during an eruption of earwigs.
“Sid arrived on earth from the planet OZ in the year 1898. His spaceship was disguised as an old brown suitcase that was full of inflatable toys.
“During this period he specialised in walking backwards into hat stands.
“Six years later he split from Flying Ozalids to form Sid and Sam the Ozalid Twins. This dynamic duo thrilled audiences with their routine entitled ‘The First pickled Onion in Orbit’, but alas this too came to an abrupt end due to lack of cupboard space”
– Alas, No.
Fast-forward to the following evening.
Three troublesome fat ladies, a conductor named Russ and a womanising fire raising tortoise had taken up permanent residence in my consciousness, and it seemed that the only way to exorcise these delightful demons, and at the same time come to terms with the experience was via demonstration to the uninitiated.
And so there I was outside with my brothers and sister and a few chums, recounting those fragments of verse I could recall whilst attempting in vain to recreate those unique ‘dance’ moves.
Perhaps an observer of the ‘lite’ version would be better placed to help me understand what it was about Sid that had so affected me. No chance. They stood – as I had stood, and stared – as I had stared, and laughed. That evening, each time another chum arrived in our company came the call:
” Hey Fred, go dae yer Sid Ozalid, watch ess, it’s really funny “
The previous evening Sid had performed for around 15 minutes. Twenty four hours later, I must have performed twice as long armed with only about 30 seconds of Sid’s material. More than once, passers-by stopped on the other side of the road … then moved on when they ascertained I was not in need of medical assistance.
As I look back I realise this was a solid indication that Sid Ozalid would be around for some time to come, and would become, if not a legend, definitely an icon of the Aberdeen Entertainment scene.
I was not the only one for whom Sid Ozalid presented an enigma:
” he auditioned and was invited to perform on two different talent shows. Once again the producers liked what Sid was doing but did not know how to describe him. They settled for ‘eccentric’. ” – Douglas John Mclean Cairns
Thirty two years on, having enjoyed many more of Sid’s performances, yet being no closer to understanding exactly how to explain what it is about Sid Ozalid’s act that entertains, amuses and excites me, I find myself charged with the task of reviewing his brand new book:
“Mr Elastic Brain – The Life And Poems Of Sid Ozalid”.
Having just finished reading it, I find myself desperate to tell everyone to go get themselves a copy as soon as possible, but as with my impression of that first performance, I struggle to articulate why it will be worth more to you than a tenner. But I will try.
These days, I know Sid Ozalid by his not so ‘pretty punk, and kinda reassuringly strange’ name Douglas Cairns …. which is actually more reassuring.
So, where to start?
This is an autobiographical book in four parts, about Sid Ozalid, written by Douglas John McLean Cairns. Or is it? As with all things Sid Ozalid, it is the equivalent of an ‘any-way-up’ cup as the first part of the book demonstrates.
Even to someone as familiar with the writer as I am, It startles me to discover that the madness which fuelled the performances of Sid Ozalid and brought so much pleasure to many also had an alter ego in the shape of a mental illness which had a devastating effect on Douglas Cairns for a period in 2001 – and as a consequence, all but put an end to Sid.
“People had always told Sid he was mad. He thought they were joking until the dawning of the new millennium, suddenly he had a doctor’s certificate to prove what people had been telling him for years.” – Douglas John Mclean Cairns.
Here it is we find – in between some hilarious stories of Sid’s outrageous antics and adventures – an honest account of the extent of Douglas’ illness, punctuated by humour of a nature that can only be explained in terms of Douglas’ story being written by Sid.
It is difficult to pinpoint where ownership of the pen changed, but what results is uniquely unsettling, and simultaneously entertaining. For Sid to joke about Douglas’ dark and desperate situation is surely to run the risk being regarded as sick … but then, at the pertinent time, they are both sick aren’t they?
I don’t have the recipe, but I am pretty sure the main ingredient is his ability to appeal to our inner child.
However, at no point does the humour mask the pain, the lighter asides serving only reinforce the severity of the debilitating condition by way of contrast. It is a brave piece of writing, sandwiched between hilarious tales of the more familiar and wonderful madness of The Artist Formerly Known As Sid Ozalid.
The major portion of the book’s contents is a collection of Sid’s wonderfully bizarre and humorous poems and songs which were the mainstay of his act from 1977 to the present day. Similarities with this material and that of Spike Milligan are impossible to ignore. However, to leave it at that would be to compare a wedding cake with a rowie on account of their flour content.
So am I any closer to putting into words what is the magical appeal of Sid Ozalid?
Well I don’t have the recipe, but I am pretty sure the main ingredient is his ability to appeal to our inner child.
Didn’t we all spontaneously giggle and cackle as babes in response to the simplest and the silliest of things? A pulled face? A silly noise? The poking out of a tongue? A sudden unexpected movement or gesture? Anything at all unusual yet unthreatening? When did we stop being so spontaneously and so thoroughly amused? Did we stop giggling, or did our adult entertainers decide our needs for entertainment lay elsewhere?
If nothing else, Sid Ozalid demonstrates that our inner child is still with us and desperate for a giggle, and the mere fact he knows our tickly spot is enough to make us all the more tickly.
If there should ever be an Aberdeen Entertainers Hall of Fame, Sid Ozalid will be there. He will be neither a statue in the foyer, a framed picture on a wall, or a prized prop or instrument in a glass case. The broom cupboard will be as good a place as any to start your search, but when you track him down he will be possibly be represented by that item described within the spontaneous lyrics of a similarly strange and hilarious Scots band.
” I’ll perhaps take a piece of white bread and I’ll paint it brown so you think it is brown but when you toast it it’s actually white for the paint falls off “ ( from the album Hairy Scalloween by The Pendulums. )
Footnotes.
Mr Elastic Brain – The Life And Poems Of Sid Ozalid by Douglas John McLean Cairns is published by Chipmunka Publishing which specialises in giving a voice to people with mental health and other issues.
“We campaign vigorously to create a society that promotes and protects good mental health for all – a society where people with experience of mental distress are treated fairly, positively and with respect.” – http://www.mind.org.uk/
Geesalaff Comedy Night
Friday, May 27 at 8:00pm
Cellar 35, Rosemount Viaduct
( Sid onstage around 21.00pm )
The Big Acoustic Night Out!/ Traditional Amplified Music Session
Friday, May 27 at 9:00pm
The Blue Lamp, 121 Gallowgate
( Sid onstage around 22.30pm )
Book Launch and Performance !!!
Saturday, May 28 at 4:00pm
1 UP Records – 17 Belmont Street
Osama bin Laden he is deid
So says President Obama
Bit iss is maybe nae the eyn
There could bi yet mair drama
Will Donald Trump believe it ?
Or micht The Donald pontificate?
An refuse ti believe Bin Laden’s deid
Withoot seein a death certificate?
© Bob Smith “ The Poetry Mannie” 2011
By Bob Smith.
| Anither iconic building we need Is the view o yon Stewartie Spence A luxury hotel like his nae less Chargin mair than a fyow poonds an pence Gie St Nicholas Hoose site awa says he A hotel nae doot fer the rich Bit let’s hae an iconic building
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Awa wi yer haverins Mr Spence We’ve aneuch for the rich ti survive We need ti look efter the poor Faa’s lives hiv teen a bit o’ a dive Nae doot he’ll class me “a traitor” O coorse anither use fer iss site
©Bob Smith”The Poetry Mannie” 2011
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It’s noo weel nigh on fifty ear
Seen I left ma faither’s fairm
Ti gyang an bide in the toon
An there ti chunce ma airm
Bit noo I’m growein auler
Ma myn gings back a fyle
Fin I wis classed a kwintra teuchter
Brocht up in a different style
There’s nae muckle wrang I maun confess
Wi a body faa wis born in the toon
Bit on fowk faa spikkit the Doric
Some ower their noses wid look doon
Noo the jobbie I wis fee’t fer
Hid me spikkin aat bit mair posh
The thingies yer asked ti dee
Fin ye need ti earn some dosh
Bit losh ye nivver forget yer roots
An I still spik in the Doric tongue
An on the odd antrin nicht
A cornkister I hiv sung
So I’m prood ti be a teuchter
Prood ti be an aul kwintra loon
An I’ll stick twa fingers up
Ti them faa wid ding us doon
©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2010
“We will protect and enhance the city’s wildlife and biodiversity and preserve the land we manage.”
By Ahayma Dootz.
I had almost lost count of the days we had spent struggling through the overgrown wilderness of Allenvale in search of my ancestor’s tomb when D’oad returned from a scouting trip with alarming news. It seemed that this land was indeed inhabited. A few miles ahead he had spotted signs of a small village or ‘clachan’ nestled in a clearing by a small river which he assumed to be a tributary of the mighty D’ee – possibly the Holb’urn.
“The fowk seem tae be peaceful,” he said. “Ah believe they’re the people ye thocht ye saw back at Sk’inner’s gravestone. Ah heard music.”
We decided to approach cautiously, offering trade goods – ‘tees’, baseball caps, t-shirts from Trumpistan and the like – in exchange for information and fresh supplies. Little did I suspect that this encounter would completely change the nature of my quest!
It was several days later that D’oad and I sat with the headman discussing our plans. It seemed that cousin Walter had also encountered these people. Five years earlier, a man answering Walter’s description had wandered into the village babbling about ‘lost treasures’, a ‘hidden garden’ and a ‘red spire’.
He had been well-equipped but exhausted, and half starved. While he recovered his strength he had told of how, long ago, his own people had once lived in these lands and that while searching for his ‘roots’ he had come across information concerning his family’s lost ‘birthright’. Some fabulous treasure which had mysteriously disappeared causing the time of turmoil that local legends call the ‘Hard Times’.
The headman, G’illie, shook his head.
“Oor aul’ fowk kent a bittie oboot this.” he explained while D’oad translated ( these people were riddled with the ‘doric’.). “Afore oor fowk turnt their backs on a’ they mad gods – K’ooncil, D’ean, Ah’ksef an’ the ithers – we kent fine that the tribute gaithered ower the years had disappeared – aye, that the treasury wis toom!”
He explained that there had always been rumours of how this wealth had somehow been hidden in a secret valley called the ‘Gairdens’ guarded by a tall tower –the ‘red spire’. It appeared that after finding Mary McWalter’s tomb, cousin Walter – always prone to obsession – had gone off in search of these lost riches and that after his arrival here he had pressed on, heading north towards ‘T’oonhoos’.
Despite the corrosion I could make out a shield flanked by two blurred upright figures
I considered my position. Returning home empty-handed had never been an option for me – Walter and I were family after all – but I knew the native bearers would not venture further no matter how many ‘gowfba’s’ I offered. I was delighted, however, when D’oad offered to accompany me.
G’illie allowed us to study old maps and consult with his storytellers then, supplied with fresh provisions and information, D’oad and I prepared to follow the Holb’urn north. As we packed, I asked him why he had decided to continue this uncertain journey. Beckoning me to follow, he walked over to an ancient bench which stood outside G’illie’s hut. Looking closely, I realised that although the seat was made of wood, the frame was cast-iron! D’oad pointed to what seemed to be a coat of arms on the backrest. Despite the corrosion I could make out a shield flanked by two blurred upright figures.
“That is the auld symbol of the ‘Deen,” he said, “Div ye see thae twa craturs either side o’ the shield? They were the ancient guardians o’ the ‘Deen – some wid say they’re only myth, ithers that long, long ago, such things walked this land. There is a legend amongst my people that if ever they are seen again, then the lands o‘ Deen shall be healed – united once again – and returned to their former glory! Noo, ah’ve heard rumours of sightings tae the north. Jist rumours, mind, but if there’s ony hope at a’ then….” , he tailed off.
“But what on earth are they?” I asked.
He told me.
“Aaaaarrrgh!!!” I screeched, “That’s disgusting!” I recoiled from the bench. ”Surely not! Not even here in this benighted land! I mean, medical science…I mean…” words failed me.
D’oad frowned, looking puzzled for a moment; then his face cleared.
“Na, na, na, ya deef gype.” He exclaimed.” Nae lepers, ya bluidy eedjit! Leopards, min, leopards! Muckle big spotty cats, ye ken?” he began to laugh uncontrollably. “Lepers!”
Sheepishly at first, I began to giggle.
“Savings could be made if the council withdrew music services and sold off musical instruments.”
By Ahayma Dootz.
Occasional glimpses of the sun through the leafy canopy above suggested that it was not yet midday when our progress came to an abrupt halt .For some time, stumps of vine-strangled masonry had flanked our hard-won passage through the dense undergrowth and ahead of me now I saw the porters clustered around a particularly large example, their burdens abandoned.
As I approached, they parted to let me pass and I observed that this memorial had been kept free from the surrounding vegetation and that an offering of brightly-coloured flowers lay upon it.
“What d’you make of it?” I asked D’oad who was inspecting a badly-eroded inscription, “And who on earth has been caring for an ancient gravestone in this inhospitable place?”
“Inhospitable, mebbe, but no’ uninhabitit, clairly.” He replied. “An’ tak a scance at this.” He added, pointing to a faint carving lower down.
“Good grief! That looks like a violin.” I exclaimed.
“Aye,” he confirmed, “It’s a fiddle, richt eneuch.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “The man resting here is still spoken of with reverence amongst my people. Sk’ottsk’inner, he was called and it is said that he was the greatest fiddlin’ mannie of his time.
This was in the age before the’ Hard Times’, you unnerstan’, afore the mad god K’ooncil and his minions demanded the sacrifice of all things musical and the skills and arts became lost tae us.” He shook his head, sadly.
“Did nothing survive?” I asked.
“Legend speaks of some who rebelled, who turned their backs on the harsh gods of that time and, with the instruments of their craft, disappeared from common view.” He paused thoughtfully. “It may be that they found refuge in the ‘baneyairds’ and that their descendants still bide here in these harsh lands. It would explain this offering.” I was touched by the man’s rough dignity.
“Well, let’s get on.” I said. D’oad conferred with the bearers then turned to me.
“We must have a F’lykup.” he announced. My heart sank.Our expedition had all too often been hampered – not to say plagued – by this ritual. Whenever the natives divined that the ‘natural harmonies’ were disturbed, they would perform this propitiatory ceremony and, in extreme cases, the F’uncipeece’ would also be invoked.
My medical kit included water-purifying tablets and my anti-doric medication
The bearers began producing small, garishly-coloured pastries to be ritually exchanged and consumed. Resigned to a long delay, I turned to D’oad. “I shall take no part in this.” I told him,” I respect your beliefs but I do not fear ‘evil spirits’.” He looked at me admiringly and shook his head.
“Yerrachube, M’in.” he said.
“A lucky accident of birth and education.” I replied modestly as he rejoined his men.
Finding a mossy stump to rest against, I began a careful inventory of the personal belongings in my own backpack. My medical kit included water-purifying tablets and my anti-doric medication. This was an experimental drug produced by my family’s pharmaceutical company. We had been commissioned by the Trumpistani government to investigate the nature of this affliction which was endemic to the entire region. Recent outbreaks in Trumpistan had cost the empire dear in lost revenue from its massive tourist industry.
How the infection was transmitted remained unclear but it appeared to affect the speech centres of the brain resulting in a form of mostly benign (physiologically, at least) dyslexia which rendered the victims unintelligible save to fellow sufferers. I had agreed to’ field test’ the results of our latest research which, it was hoped, would provide protection not only against ‘Doric’ but also ‘Lallans’, ‘Orcadian’, ‘Shetlandic’, so-called ‘Romany Cant’ and Scots (though not Irish) Gaelic. I had been dosing myself regularly since arriving in the country and estimated that there remained enough for several more weeks.
Reclining comfortably, I gazed around at the lush tangle of exotic greenery, and inhaled the unfamiliar perfumes of strange blossoms. My eyelids grew heavy but, just before I fell into a doze, I heard (or thought I heard) wild, joyful music played upon all manner of instruments and I glimpsed (or fancied I glimpsed) figures dancing gracefully beyond the leafy walls surrounding me.
To be continued…….
‘One option is that when council cemeteries are full, to stop maintenance and turn them into wildlife areas.’
By Ahayma Dootz.
That night we made camp in a small clearing. While the native bearers busied themselves with tents and cooking-fires, their headman, D’oad, explained that tomorrow we would be leaving the territory with which he was familiar – D’uthiepark and entering the almost unknown lands of Allenvale or the ‘Boneyaird’ as D’oad called it.
Here it was that my cousin had disappeared while searching for the tomb of his great-great grandmother, Mary McWalters. Family legend, backed by an ancient scrap of a map, placed her grave – plot 376 – in the heart of this wilderness and, inflamed by his obsession with genealogy, cousin Walter had plunged headlong into this savage, untamed heart of darkness to further expand our family tree. His last message had said that he was about to enter ‘the wild lands’ and hoped to return within a few weeks at most. That had been five years ago.
Dispatched by the family to discover what had happened to him, I had followed in his footsteps, paddling down the mighty D’ee, hiring bearers and D’oad, a locally famous hunter who had agreed to be my guide. Thanks to our family’s business interests in the much richer land of Trumpistan to the north, I was well supplied with ‘gowfbaws’ and ‘tees’ which were highly valued here. Indeed a bride could be had for two or three ‘gowfbaws’ and I had promised a brace to each bearer who stayed the course. Strangely, D’oad had refused these rewards and intimated that he had a purpose of his own in making this dangerous trek into the unknown.
D’oad poked a grimy, heavily-tattooed finger at a spot on a copy of my cousin’s map.
“We’re aboot here, G’adgie.” he said, respectfully. I pointed to the north-east towards where I thought Mary McWalters grave might lie.
“Tomorrow we’ll head towards this place.” I told him. D’oad turned a whiter shade of pale.
“Are ye feel, M’annie?” he inquired deferentially. Mentally translating his strange dialect I replied, “Yes, I’m sure.”
Trusting to our campfires to deter the countless ferocious wild animals hereabouts, D’oad and I joined the bearers for a meal of ‘minsantattys’ and some locally-grown ‘fitepuddin’ – a welcome break from the unleavened flatbread called ‘R’owie’ which the natives chewed unceasingly and which, though almost inedible, could sustain a man for a whole day’s march.
As we ate I considered my situation. The virtually impenetrable wilderness surrounding us had once, according to history and local legend, been a tamed, civilised land. Then had come the ‘Hard Times’. Tribal elders told of chaos, neglect and destruction – wasteful, foolish gods – K’ooncil, D’een, Ah’Kseff – who arose and laid waste to the land.
Civilisation had retreated, well-groomed parks returned to the wild and, aided by global warming, once-exotic plants safely confined within D’uthiepark had escaped and colonised vast tracts of land including the now dreaded ‘boneyairds’.
Still musing, I retired for the night hoping for a good night’s sleep before we set out in the morning.
………….to be continued…………..
The beginning of a tale by Ahayma Dootz.
Ahayma Dootz, Aberdeen, Creative, Writing, King Solomon,