Saturday, July 28, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Sunday, July 22, 2012
A couple of jokes
Fiftyseven people from around the world have viewed, and hopefully read my blog in the last seven days, so the cailleach is now known world wide so to speak. I'm sure she would be very impressed. A cailleach is an affectionate word for an older woman up the on the Isle of Lewis. I'll maybe write more about her another time. She deserves her place on the interweb thingee.She would certainly be impressed to know that her church, The Free Church of Scotland, now has a Facebook page and a Twitter account. We all have to move on I can just hear her saying and I reckon my father would have been tweeting away all night, putting the world to right.
Madonna, another older woman, was performing in Edinburgh last night. In order to impress her audience she had to play with an AK47 assault rifle and a six shooter on stage, which says it all about the quality of her shows nowadays, nevermind the lack of respect and bad taste involved. Best give it up now, if you need an AK47 to hide the crap. Or else try a guitar next time; an ability to play one often impresses in these parts.
Those of you who love football, and there are a few, will be pleased to know that a statue of Denis Law was unveiled in Aberdeen City this week. He was born there but of course made his name as a player with Manchester United back in the sixties when I was a boy. Who can ever forget the names Charlton, Law and Best? Indubitably the greatest attacking strike force that the world has ever known, I'm sure you will all agree.
I see that Best was selected by the BBC as one of their "New Elizabethans", and was profiled by James Naughtie this past week on Radio 4. Naughtie recalled the description of Best by Hugh McIlvanney as "having feet like a pickpocket's fingers". Paddy Crerand said that he could turn an opponents blood inside out with his twinkle feet. ( the twinkle feet is from me and not Paddy). Incidentally Hugh McIlvanney was one of the greatest ever sports journailists. You can find lots of his stuff online. His brother was the Scottish novelist William McIlvanney, whom I once heard speaking here in Edinburgh, and whose best novel is probably "Docherty", but the Laidlaw books are pretty damn good too. Try "Strange Loyalties" if you like a good detective story.
I was even more pleased to see one of my all time heroes, the late Paul Foot, nominated by BBC as one of their new Elizabethans. The BBC even remembered to say that he was a life long member of SWP, but you can hear the sneer in Naughtie's voice when he says it. He was a finer man than most you will ever meet James my man. Paul was a brilliant journalist, a revolutionary socialist, and what I will remember him for most, one of the greatest public speakers I have ever had the privilege of hearing. If he were alive now I'm sure he would be busy exposing all the criminals who run our banks and big cosporations. What a parcel of rogues they are.
On a lighter note a couple of jokes courtesy of Chick Murray, a famous Scottish comedian:
He was walking down the road one night, man comes up to him and says "is that the moon up there?" Chick says "I don't know I'm a stranger here myself."
I was walking along the street in Glasgow and I walked into a lamp post. It was so dark inside the lamp post I decided to walk out again.
Madonna, another older woman, was performing in Edinburgh last night. In order to impress her audience she had to play with an AK47 assault rifle and a six shooter on stage, which says it all about the quality of her shows nowadays, nevermind the lack of respect and bad taste involved. Best give it up now, if you need an AK47 to hide the crap. Or else try a guitar next time; an ability to play one often impresses in these parts.
Those of you who love football, and there are a few, will be pleased to know that a statue of Denis Law was unveiled in Aberdeen City this week. He was born there but of course made his name as a player with Manchester United back in the sixties when I was a boy. Who can ever forget the names Charlton, Law and Best? Indubitably the greatest attacking strike force that the world has ever known, I'm sure you will all agree.
I see that Best was selected by the BBC as one of their "New Elizabethans", and was profiled by James Naughtie this past week on Radio 4. Naughtie recalled the description of Best by Hugh McIlvanney as "having feet like a pickpocket's fingers". Paddy Crerand said that he could turn an opponents blood inside out with his twinkle feet. ( the twinkle feet is from me and not Paddy). Incidentally Hugh McIlvanney was one of the greatest ever sports journailists. You can find lots of his stuff online. His brother was the Scottish novelist William McIlvanney, whom I once heard speaking here in Edinburgh, and whose best novel is probably "Docherty", but the Laidlaw books are pretty damn good too. Try "Strange Loyalties" if you like a good detective story.
I was even more pleased to see one of my all time heroes, the late Paul Foot, nominated by BBC as one of their new Elizabethans. The BBC even remembered to say that he was a life long member of SWP, but you can hear the sneer in Naughtie's voice when he says it. He was a finer man than most you will ever meet James my man. Paul was a brilliant journalist, a revolutionary socialist, and what I will remember him for most, one of the greatest public speakers I have ever had the privilege of hearing. If he were alive now I'm sure he would be busy exposing all the criminals who run our banks and big cosporations. What a parcel of rogues they are.
On a lighter note a couple of jokes courtesy of Chick Murray, a famous Scottish comedian:
He was walking down the road one night, man comes up to him and says "is that the moon up there?" Chick says "I don't know I'm a stranger here myself."
I was walking along the street in Glasgow and I walked into a lamp post. It was so dark inside the lamp post I decided to walk out again.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
A Centenary
Today, 14 July 2012, would have been my mother's 100th birthday had she lived, so it's her centenary year, as it were. This posting is by way of a wee tribute to her. She was born on Bastille Day in 1912 and also on the same day as Woody Guthrie who inspired our old friend Bob Dylan to such heights over the years. She would have heard Woody and Bob many times over the years.
Especially Bob of course, as he was constantly listened to by my brothers and I on that old Grundig reel to reel tape recorder we had. It was not bought for us to listen to Dylan but was almost exclusively used for Bob appreciation purposes. It died with a Dylan tape in it's jaws I believe. Which is the best way to go I think we can agree.
She was of course a secret Dylan admirer; how else could she have put up with him all these years droning on day and night? I think my father in the end became a fan too and preferred Dylan to Calvin. Well almost. He never said that he didn't so that's proof enough for me. I think if he thought otherwise he would have told us before the end. Plus he never complained about God being on our side, so what more proof is required.
Friday was mother's day for making butter in the summer months, which were always hot and sunny as I recall. She had a big wooden butter churn which she used to thump away on, holding it firmly in place with her legs, the cream oozing out from the top of it to be deliciously tasted as it turned into butter. She made crowdie at the same time. All stored in her own invented cold store as we had no fridge in those days. Luxuries like fridges came a lot later.
Monday was her washing day as it was for all, or most, of the women of Tong. It was a bit of a race to see who got the washing out first, as I recall. I can still see her with the clothes pegs in her mouth hanging out the sheets in a howling gale. In the early days all the washing was done by hand, it took some persuading to get her to accept that a washing machine would be a good idea. And then getting her to switch from the old twin tub to an automatic was an almighty struggle too. She never made it to an automatic dryer.
She had many favorite phrases, all in Gaelic needless to say. My big brother Coinneach, when he was in primary school came home for lunch for the first time, our school dinners being even worse than they are now. He was none too pleased to discover that she was having such a quality fare while he had to eat school rubbish. He demanded to know, "do you always have such good food yourself everyday? "Am bidh biadh math mu seo agu fhein a h'uile latha?" Excuse my Gaelic those of you who can read it. But you get the drift I'm sure. This kept her amused on and off, for fifty or more years and was used in many situations, as the occasion required. And you may be asking what it was that Coinneach liked so much. Left over potatoes nicely fried on her old frying pan and maybe a fried egg. Haute cuisine.
If I reminded her of this story she would often tell me, again, about the time it snowed so heavily the snow was drifting and she was determined that Coinneach should not miss school, so she gave him a piggy back, a distance of nearly a mile. I don't know what she did with myself and my wee brother Neil. Maybe she tied us up and left us. I wonder if Coinneach remembers the trip. I guess he must have made it to school as he's still around now.
She kept hens and we often had chicks in the summer and a vicious big cockerel wondering around. It was always good to have a broody hen around to keep the cockerel calm, and stop it from biting Neil, who was as I recall the victim of a vicious cockerel attack one time. Attacked for no reason he claims to this day. Mother dressed his wounds and he survived. Traumatised for ever though.
One time I was sent me off to meet my father after he finished work. She was worried as to my safety as she was sending me with our cow, for an altercation with a big bad bull. I forget how old I was exactly, mid teens I guess, but obviously old enough to be trusted with walking this cow to meet it's lover.
I couldn't understand why she was so worried. It was an uneventful walk with the cow, who was called either Tiny or Daisy, and I met my father as arranged at the farm where the bull resided. Once the bull had done it's naughty business with our poor wee cow and we were half way down the field heading for the gate and the bull came thundering down the field after us I soon understood why my mother was so worried for my safety. We made it to the gate, just in time. I managed to open it to let my father and the cow through and shut it as the bull screeched to a halt on the other side. Obviously a sex starved bull.
She used to bake scones, bannocks and pancakes of the highest quality, and make pastry for her steak and kidney pies. I never did like kidneys though. She made rhubarb jam. She wore big black wellies when it rained. She had an old coat which she insisted on wearing long past it's sell by date. It took some persuasion to get her to throw it out and move on. She used to light oil lamps when the lights went out, as they often did back then. I can still smell the oil lamps burning away in the window.
She read the bible for us every day before we went to school. I don't think my brothers paid enough attention or even listened at times. I found it difficult to concentrate or even listen too, if not all the time a lot of the time. She would read it from beginning to end and then start again. She even did the begats and begots in the old testament.
She used to knit socks for us to wear in our wellington boots and very warm they were too. Made from wool left over from Harris tweed weaving by one of the neighbours. She moved on to knitting jumpers, though not from Harris tweed wool, but not with a huge degree of success. They were certainly not fashion items, though warm, but better than the ones my late aunt used to knit. Bless her.
I could go on about her. She was the best mother in the world, just like all mothers are, despite their faults. I wouldn't wish any mothers reading this to feel jealous obviously. She's probably surprised that I'm posting on my blog about her. She never wanted to be the centre of attraction, just the centre of her family. I don't know if they have blogger in heaven, but if they do all we can say is thank you mother for all the years.
Especially Bob of course, as he was constantly listened to by my brothers and I on that old Grundig reel to reel tape recorder we had. It was not bought for us to listen to Dylan but was almost exclusively used for Bob appreciation purposes. It died with a Dylan tape in it's jaws I believe. Which is the best way to go I think we can agree.
She was of course a secret Dylan admirer; how else could she have put up with him all these years droning on day and night? I think my father in the end became a fan too and preferred Dylan to Calvin. Well almost. He never said that he didn't so that's proof enough for me. I think if he thought otherwise he would have told us before the end. Plus he never complained about God being on our side, so what more proof is required.
Friday was mother's day for making butter in the summer months, which were always hot and sunny as I recall. She had a big wooden butter churn which she used to thump away on, holding it firmly in place with her legs, the cream oozing out from the top of it to be deliciously tasted as it turned into butter. She made crowdie at the same time. All stored in her own invented cold store as we had no fridge in those days. Luxuries like fridges came a lot later.
Monday was her washing day as it was for all, or most, of the women of Tong. It was a bit of a race to see who got the washing out first, as I recall. I can still see her with the clothes pegs in her mouth hanging out the sheets in a howling gale. In the early days all the washing was done by hand, it took some persuading to get her to accept that a washing machine would be a good idea. And then getting her to switch from the old twin tub to an automatic was an almighty struggle too. She never made it to an automatic dryer.
She had many favorite phrases, all in Gaelic needless to say. My big brother Coinneach, when he was in primary school came home for lunch for the first time, our school dinners being even worse than they are now. He was none too pleased to discover that she was having such a quality fare while he had to eat school rubbish. He demanded to know, "do you always have such good food yourself everyday? "Am bidh biadh math mu seo agu fhein a h'uile latha?" Excuse my Gaelic those of you who can read it. But you get the drift I'm sure. This kept her amused on and off, for fifty or more years and was used in many situations, as the occasion required. And you may be asking what it was that Coinneach liked so much. Left over potatoes nicely fried on her old frying pan and maybe a fried egg. Haute cuisine.
If I reminded her of this story she would often tell me, again, about the time it snowed so heavily the snow was drifting and she was determined that Coinneach should not miss school, so she gave him a piggy back, a distance of nearly a mile. I don't know what she did with myself and my wee brother Neil. Maybe she tied us up and left us. I wonder if Coinneach remembers the trip. I guess he must have made it to school as he's still around now.
She kept hens and we often had chicks in the summer and a vicious big cockerel wondering around. It was always good to have a broody hen around to keep the cockerel calm, and stop it from biting Neil, who was as I recall the victim of a vicious cockerel attack one time. Attacked for no reason he claims to this day. Mother dressed his wounds and he survived. Traumatised for ever though.
One time I was sent me off to meet my father after he finished work. She was worried as to my safety as she was sending me with our cow, for an altercation with a big bad bull. I forget how old I was exactly, mid teens I guess, but obviously old enough to be trusted with walking this cow to meet it's lover.
I couldn't understand why she was so worried. It was an uneventful walk with the cow, who was called either Tiny or Daisy, and I met my father as arranged at the farm where the bull resided. Once the bull had done it's naughty business with our poor wee cow and we were half way down the field heading for the gate and the bull came thundering down the field after us I soon understood why my mother was so worried for my safety. We made it to the gate, just in time. I managed to open it to let my father and the cow through and shut it as the bull screeched to a halt on the other side. Obviously a sex starved bull.
She used to bake scones, bannocks and pancakes of the highest quality, and make pastry for her steak and kidney pies. I never did like kidneys though. She made rhubarb jam. She wore big black wellies when it rained. She had an old coat which she insisted on wearing long past it's sell by date. It took some persuasion to get her to throw it out and move on. She used to light oil lamps when the lights went out, as they often did back then. I can still smell the oil lamps burning away in the window.
She read the bible for us every day before we went to school. I don't think my brothers paid enough attention or even listened at times. I found it difficult to concentrate or even listen too, if not all the time a lot of the time. She would read it from beginning to end and then start again. She even did the begats and begots in the old testament.
She used to knit socks for us to wear in our wellington boots and very warm they were too. Made from wool left over from Harris tweed weaving by one of the neighbours. She moved on to knitting jumpers, though not from Harris tweed wool, but not with a huge degree of success. They were certainly not fashion items, though warm, but better than the ones my late aunt used to knit. Bless her.
I could go on about her. She was the best mother in the world, just like all mothers are, despite their faults. I wouldn't wish any mothers reading this to feel jealous obviously. She's probably surprised that I'm posting on my blog about her. She never wanted to be the centre of attraction, just the centre of her family. I don't know if they have blogger in heaven, but if they do all we can say is thank you mother for all the years.
She was buckets
and water flouncing into them.
She was winds pouring wetly
round house-ends.
She was brown eggs,black shirts
and a keeper of threepennybits
in a teapot.
Norman MacCaig
Friday, July 06, 2012
In Bloomsbury
I'm in London for Marxism Festival and meeting up with some old friends and remembering others who are no longer with us. I'm staying in London University halls of residence which is very central and close to all the action which mostly takes place in UCL, just round the corner from me. I've just had my inclusive breakfast and its raining slightly so thought I would pass the time writing a wee post on the University provided PCs.
I heard a Greek revolutionary socialist, Maria Stylou, speaking last night at the opening rally of the festival. Inspirational she was and about my age, so there's hope for us all. She is staying in the same halls as me and was having breakfast at a table beside me this morning so naturally went to thank her for coming over from Greece to give us a few words of wisdom. A lovely lady.
As it happens I'm reading Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels just now, which is set partly in Greece during and after the Second World War and then in Canada, Anne being Canadian. It's a book I've had for some time, years in fact, but never quite got round to reading, and I'm so pleased I've managed it at long last. She writes like a poet, and a historian and a geographer. "I wanted a line in a poem to be the hollow ney of the dervish orchestra whose plaintive wail is a call to God. But all I achieved was awkward shrieking."
If I've finished the book I shall give it to Maria before I leave here on Monday; maybe I should have given it to her this morning as a wee gift from Scotland. But you don't think of these things at the time.
The part of London I'm staying in is called Bloomsbury, which is of course where Virginia Woolf used to live and where her books were written; Mrs Dalloway had her party and did her shopping round these parts as I seem to recall. There's a Virginia Woolf memorial and bust near here, I think, so will try to see it and take a photo for you all.
Did you know that Edward Wilson, who was one of the five who went with Scott to the South Pole, borrowed a book of Tennyson poems to take with him to the Pole and then carried it back with him to rerturn to the person who lent it to him, presumably. It was discovered with their frozen bodies when their tent was found. Weighty book for sure. Wilson came from Cheltenham.
I heard a Greek revolutionary socialist, Maria Stylou, speaking last night at the opening rally of the festival. Inspirational she was and about my age, so there's hope for us all. She is staying in the same halls as me and was having breakfast at a table beside me this morning so naturally went to thank her for coming over from Greece to give us a few words of wisdom. A lovely lady.
As it happens I'm reading Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels just now, which is set partly in Greece during and after the Second World War and then in Canada, Anne being Canadian. It's a book I've had for some time, years in fact, but never quite got round to reading, and I'm so pleased I've managed it at long last. She writes like a poet, and a historian and a geographer. "I wanted a line in a poem to be the hollow ney of the dervish orchestra whose plaintive wail is a call to God. But all I achieved was awkward shrieking."
If I've finished the book I shall give it to Maria before I leave here on Monday; maybe I should have given it to her this morning as a wee gift from Scotland. But you don't think of these things at the time.
The part of London I'm staying in is called Bloomsbury, which is of course where Virginia Woolf used to live and where her books were written; Mrs Dalloway had her party and did her shopping round these parts as I seem to recall. There's a Virginia Woolf memorial and bust near here, I think, so will try to see it and take a photo for you all.
Did you know that Edward Wilson, who was one of the five who went with Scott to the South Pole, borrowed a book of Tennyson poems to take with him to the Pole and then carried it back with him to rerturn to the person who lent it to him, presumably. It was discovered with their frozen bodies when their tent was found. Weighty book for sure. Wilson came from Cheltenham.
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