Went to see BIG FISH at the movies tonight...



Poignant story interwoven with an extravaganza of imagery, beautifully acted.
I haven't seen Jessica Lange in anything for an age and she looks more beautiful
than she ever did. We went to an outdoor cinema which was interesting - if not a
wee bit chilly around 11.00pm! Took a picnic - tres Doris Day!
Worth a look if you haven't seen it - the film, not the picnic...

Song of the Moon by Claude McKay




The moonlight breaks upon the city's domes,
And falls along cemented steel and stone,
Upon the grayness of a million homes,
Lugubrious in unchanging monotone.
Upon the clothes behind the tenement,
That hang like ghosts suspended from the lines,
Linking each flat to each indifferent,
Incongruous and strange the moonlight shines.

There is no magic from your presence here,
Ho, moon, sad moon, tuck up your trailing robe,
Whose silver seems antique and so severe
Against the glow of one electric globe.

Go spill your beauty on the laughing faces
Of happy flowers that bloom a thousand hues,
Waiting on tiptoe in the wilding spaces,
To drink your wine mixed with sweet drafts of dews.



Biography: Claude McKay (1889-1948)

Claude McKay, born Festus Claudius McKay in Sunny Ville, Jamaica, became the
first black to receive the medal of the Jamaican Institute of Arts and Sciences in
1912 after publishing two books of poems. The money from the award enabled
him to go to the United States to study at the Tuskeegee Institute and Kansas
State College. In 1914 he arrived in Harlem, supporting himself as a waiter
while publishing poetry and reviews regularly in New York magazines. He lived
in England from 1919 to 1921, where his work was well-received. After a short
period in the U.S. he traveled throughout Europe and Africa for nearly a decade.
He returned to Harlem in 1934 but wrote very little in his later years, finishing
his autobiography in 1937. McKay's poem 'If We Must Die' was
read by Winston Churchill to the British people as a rallying cry during
World War II. McKay died in Chicago in 1948.

McKay's early books were about his love of his fellow Jamaican workers
and contempt for the racism of that society. His fourth book of poetry,
Harlem Shadows, inaugurated the Harlem Renaissance. McKay's
willingness to speak directly and at length against racial oppression
inspired a generation of writers.

His books of poetry include Constab Ballads (Watts, 1912), Songs of
Jamaica (Gardner, 1912), Spring in New Hampshire (Richards, 1920),
Harlem Shadows (Harcourt, 1922), Selected Poems of Claude McKay
(Twayne, 1953), and The Passion of Claude McKay: Selected Poetry
and Prose 1912-1948 (Schocken, 1973). His books of fiction include
the novels Home to Harlem (Harper, 1928), Banjo: A Story without
a Plot (Harper, 1929), Banana Bottom (Harper, 1933), and the short
story collection Gingertown (Harper, 1932). He also wrote an
autobiography, A Long Way from Home (Furman, 1937), and a book
of essays, Harlem: Negro Metropolis (Dutton, 1940). McKay has won
the Harmon Foundation Award for distinguished literary achievement
from the NAACP in 1929, and the James Weldon Johnson Literary
Guild award in 1937.

Feeding the Duck's in Hyde Park - evidence below...



We went down to Hyde park - no, not the one in London, the one in Perth -
to feed the ducks - Perth, Australia, not Perth, Scotland. Pay attention!
A lovely afternoon was had by all leaving yours truly a wee bit tired.
An early night I think!

This just in - Cetic 2 rangers 1 ; game, set & match I believe...

Thoughts on love, death & the equity in your Dad's Hoose!

I was walking down to the shops earlier tonight, just around sunset (beautiful!)
when I passed an old man standing in his driveway. He must have been around
80-ish. He was dressed in what must have been his 'smart clothes' - bought
around 1975 I would have thought with the loud checked jacket & flared beige
trousers - and he was standing looking very awkward, not doing anything in
particular, just standing. Waiting. He looked very much like Groucho marx - sans
moustache & with thick black framed 'Michael Caine' glasses. The driveway
belonged to a plush 'Art Deco' house, a beautiful place that had obviously been
his family home for years.

The next minute a car pulls up - a middle aged couple - and backs into the
driveway. The man driving & his female passenger look bored stiff, do not
acknowledge the old man as he climbs into the back seat of the car, and
drive off without exchanging any greetings - no conversation of any kind.

I'm guessing the driver or passenger was his son/daughter & I don't think I
have seen such a loveless interaction between parent/siblings. It's one thing
not to get on with your parents, many people don't - I've been there myself.
But this wasn't like that at all. This was a grey moment - it was as if the 3
people in the car were not family but commuters on a London tube. Anger is
an emotion, Hate is an emotion - to show you are annoyed about something
is to show emotion -there was NO emotion in this scenario. It's the same sort
of greyness you see in loveless marriages; couples who eat in restaurants
and look oblivious to the others existence; people who have worked in the same job
for years & have hated it since they started. Etc, Etc.

I'm guessing everyone involved will be a bit more animated when it comes to
divvy-ing up the old mans estate - the house alone must be worth 600k +.
I hope he's a dog/cat lover!! (or any charity of his choice...)

Now I hear you ask:
'how did he get all of that in the minute or so it took him to walk past the scene?'
The answers simple my friend ... I'M A NOSEY BASTARD !!!!!!

Glory Glory to the Celtic & the Celts go marching on...



Celtic managed to hold out for a 0-0 draw against Barcelona
& go through to the quarter finals with a 1-0 aggregate score.
Written off by everyone apart from their supporters & up against
the hostile atmosphere of the nou Camp in Barcelona, the
result may be one of the most important scoreless draws in the
clubs history. See the link here for full details

Awright, Awright I know - a Leither supporting a weegie team, I've
heard it all before, get OVER it. For all you Hibs supporters out
there I've only got two words for you: 'Buffalo Bill'. As in the last
time the Hi-Bees won any silverware of note, Mr Cody & his travelling
show was playing at 'The Eldorado' in Leith! (true)

In fact - if he'd played his cards right - there was a good chance he'd
have got a game. Funnier things have happened (Alan Rough for one!)

Get it right up ye - local boy makes good! - well, quite good...

Hullo! guess who made the much read pages of Nakedblog? No?
Well that would be yours truly! Thanks for the mention Peter -
I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy... It's good to know that someone
is reading this. It must be the voyeur in me or maybe I just like getting
my kicks vicariously, but I cannot get enough of the opining & gossiping
that threads it's way through some of the better blogs on the web -
especially the Scottish ones - hey! shoot me!

The number of blogs out there is ASTOUNDING as is the quality of a
great many of them. what better way to keep a finger on the
pulse of what's happening back in UK than fly on the wall style. It's
like sitting behind the general populus at some global cafe & listening
to all their private conversations at once. A place to be serious, be
amused, be someone else ... Behave - it's all too much!

The moves, The attitude, The animal sexuality ... he just had to be a Jock !!


At last. Definitive proof that Mr Presley is indeed
Scottish. The colour lithograph was produced by
Mr R.R. McIan for his publication The Clans of The
Scottish Highlands published in the mid 19th
Century. It features the Drummond Tartan.Mr
Drummond must have cut about the highlands
with much elan - a balladeer no doubt.

But did he have the raw sexuality that young
Mr Presley displayed in the 1950's? Who
knows? - but the fact that he's got nae
knickers on helps his case a wee bit - Lets see
that on the Ed Sullivan show!

Ah mean - think about it. Dripping with animal
grace & talent in his 20's, only to become a fat
opinionated B***ard in middle age, addicted
tae anything he can fit in his gub - sounds like
half the 1978 Scottish fitba team!
It's in the genes...

What'dye mean 'it looks like Simon LeBon?'

40 degrees in the shade & then the power goes off ...

What a F***ing stinker of a day! The relentless hot weather
has made everyone a tad tetchy & if it wasn't for the fact it's
too hot to move - heads would roll! Ok - for everyone who's
thinking - lucky Bas***d, I'd swap in a minute, it's F***ing
freezing here, etc, etc - No you wouldn't. When you wake up
in the middle of the night & the temperature has dropped to
32 Deg & it's hotter than a sunny afternoon in Benidorm - in
your BEDROOM at 3.00am & sleep is a memory of something
cool people do (as in cold) - no you wouldn't.

To make matters worse - the power goes off. Everyone has their
Air-cons cranked up high, hence the power failure from an overloaded
grid. Forget what happened in Spain - the last time this happened here
the local government was nearly overthrown - so I could be typing
under a new regime tomorrow.

Having said that, it's just too hot to do anything about it; might
write a nasty letter. Nah. Shout at the TV when the offending parties
are explaining what happened & how it's never going to happen again?
Yeah that's it - shout at the tv!

Shouting at the tv has changed the course of politics the world over
& I will not be deprived of my democratic right to do so! It wouldn't be
fair - and not just for me - I would be letting down all the people less
fortunate than myself who don't even have a TV to shout at!

OK - this ones for the proles. Now where's that remote ...

Awright - I know it's called Sunny Leith but ...

Since when did Leith look like this? Have I been away too long?
Or is this the alchemy of a talented photographer? Surely this
is a German port or perhaps some-
-where in Holland? Was this photo
really taken a stone's throw away
from the Trade Winds? Did the
photographer book into the Angel
Hotel to take respite from the
balmy Leith evening & partake in
a libation of his choice - 'pint
of Tartan Special please'.
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmhhh!

Ah yes, you can't beat a few pint's of Bangladesh. Then maybe some of the local cuisine -
the Henderson Street chippie would be a good bet or, if he had company, a sit-in supper at Elio's in
Duke Street. Thus refreshed he could make his way back to The Angel - and so to sleep; with
the bed jammed up against the door lest some of the more colourful locals relieve him of his
belongings. If our intrepid photographer has any trouble sleeping, he could doze off by counting
the blood stains on the wall.

All this for a tenner! and they say it's all changed for the better...

OK - Pop Quiz - Who is that handsome man?



Clues? a bit of a singer; a Beatles fan; not nice

Answers on a postcard ...

There's more than one way to skin a blog...

I spent all of tonight looking through skins & messing about with html.
I have gone minimalist - everything else looked so busy. I intend to use
more photo's - now that I've worked out how to upload them. I prefer
the simple white look, it's much more coherent & easier to read.
What amazed me as I was looking through all the skins & other blogs
was that the average age of a typical blogger is around 14?

I found a few skins designed by a 12 year old & they were as good and
as technically accomplished as most of the others. HUGE amount of anime
skins! In fact, I would say the 5 most popular themes were anime, hearts
& stars - don't ask me? - puppies, babies & dark GOTHICA. Tons of
stuff really. I was interested in some of the jargon on these teen
blogs - a lot of the girls use an affected 'baby talk.' Mix this with
the usual webspeak abbreviations & it can be difficult to understand
what's going on - not to say just a bit syrupy as well. Combine
this with text message lingo (sms) and ... alright, I'm picking on the bairns again
but by 2010 who the f*** will know what they're talking about!

Anyway, it's such a beautiful langauge - it wid be a pure shame fir sumbuddy
tae f*** aboot wi it likesay, ken whit ah mean??? bampot!

I like Gina McKee - She reminds me of someone but I can't think who?

She has an unusual, almost awkward look. Very British.
Reminds me more of a student
living in a bedsit rather than an
actress actor. Try this; A bit
like Tracey Thorn? - not really;
a touch of Gillian Anderson? -
possibly; maybe a sleek 1930's
bright young thing? That's not it
but it's close. Maybe it's
someone I know? I don't think
so. It might be the accessibility
of her looks that makes her
seem familiar; she certainly
reminds me of someone.

It's very seldom these days that I see someone who appeals to me but she stands out amongst
the manufactured pieces of plastic, passed off as icons of the 21st century - God Help Us!
Look out! grumpy old bastard alert! ...

Stick that stone under yer Throne in Westminster !!!!!!!

I can't remember hearing about this when it happened, which surprises me, as
I make it my life's work to perpetuate hatred against the Finchley Anti-Christ.

I wonder how many people were devastated when they read the word 'Statue?'

Books & writing interview on Radio National - Author Alex Miller

I happened to hear this on the radio the other day & it has been
archived as 'audio on demand' online at Radio National.
(OK, OK - I occasionally listen to Radio National.)

It is only archived for 4 weeks so give it a listen ASAP.
I must admit I had never heard of Alex Miller before hearing this, but
was so entertained by the interview I thought it worth a mention.

Scottish Father - Irish Mother; He can't go wrong ...

When I was young, all the old men had spent 17 days in hades - or more

In Flanders Fields by John McRae (1972 - 1918)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The name of John McCrae (1872-1918) may seem out of place in the
distinguished company of World War I poets, but he is remembered
for what is probably the single best-known and popular poem from
the war, "In Flanders Fields." He was a Canadian physician and fought
on the Western Front in 1914, but was then transferred to the medical
corps and assigned to a hospital in France. He died of pneumonia while
on active duty in 1918. His volume of poetry, In Flanders Fields and
Other Poems, was published in 1919.

Excerpts from The Making of the poem by Rob Ruggenberg

One death particularly affected McCrae. A young friend and former student,
Lieut. Alexis Helmer of Ottawa, had been killed by a shell burst on 2 May 1915.
Lieutenant Helmer was buried later that night in the little cemetery
called Essex Farm, just outside McCrae's dressing station. McCrae had performed
the funeral ceremony in the absence of the chaplain, reciting from memory some
passages from the Church of England's 'Order of Burial of the Dead'. This had happened
in complete darkness, as for security reasons it was forbidden to make light.

The next evening, sitting on the rearstep of an ambulance parked near the dressing
station beside the Yser Canal, just a few hundred yards north of Ypres, McCrae
vented his anguish by composing a poem. The major was no stranger to writing, having
authored several medical texts besides dabbling in poetry.

In the cemetery McCrae could see the wild poppies that sprang up from the ditches and
the graves, and he spent twenty minutes of precious rest time scribbling fifteen lines
of verse in a notebook.

A young soldier watched him write it. Cyril Allinson, a twenty-two year old
sergeant-major, was delivering mail that day when he spotted McCrae.
The major looked up as Allinson approached, then went on writing while the
sergeant-major stood there quietly. "His face was very tired but calm as we
wrote," Allinson recalled. "He looked around from time to time, his eyes
straying to Helmer's grave."

When McCrae finished five minutes later, he took his mail from Allinson and,
without saying a word, handed his pad to the young NCO.
Allinson was moved by what he read:

"The poem was an exact description of the scene in front of us both.
He used the word blow in that line because the poppies actually were being
blown that morning by a gentle east wind. It never occurred to me at that time
that it would ever be published. It seemed to me just an exact description
of the scene."

Allinson's account corresponds with the words of the commanding officer at the spot,
Lieutenant Colonel Edward Morrison. This is how Morrison described the scene:

"This poem was literally born of fire and blood during the hottest phase of the
second battle of Ypres. My headquarters were in a trench on the top of the bank of
the Ypres Canal, and John had his dressing station in a hole dug in the foot of the bank.
During periods in the battle men who were shot actually rolled down the bank into his
dressing station. Along from us a few hundred yards was the headquarters of a
regiment, and many times during the sixteen days of battle, he and I watched them
burying their dead whenever there was a lull. Thus the crosses, row on row, grew into
a good-sized cemetery. Just as he describes, we often heard in the mornings the larks
singing high in the air, between the crash of the shell and the reports of the guns
in the battery just beside us. I have a letter from him in which he mentions having
written the poem to pass away the time between the arrival of batches of wounded
and partly as an experiment with several varieties of poetic metre. "

The poem (initially called We shall not sleep) was very nearly not published.
Dissatisfied with it, McCrae tossed the poem away, but Morrison retrieved it and sent it
to newspapers in England. The Spectator, in London, rejected it and sent
the poem back, but Punch published it on the 8th of December 1915
(although the magazine misspelled his name as McCree and promoted him to Lt. Colonel.)

Excerpt from a letter written by John McCrae to his Mother in 1915 :

"Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to
spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not
have been done."

What's your bag Joe? Music? Your man in the field's playlists - for today

Mellow..........

Goodbye Joe - The Monochrome Set
Cruellest Crime - Patrik Fitzgerald
Same Dream, Same Destination - Ryuichi Sakamoto
Everything's not lost - Coldplay
Outdoor miner - Wire
Can you hear me? - David Bowie
The whole point of no return - The Style Council
All that ever mattered - Orange Juice
Sebastian - Cockney rebel
Woodcabin - Saint Etienne
Valium Summer - Aztec Camera
Evangeline - Cocteau Twins
Mirrorball - Everything but the girl
Your not the only one I know - The Sundays
Montague Terrace (in blue) - Scott Walker
Chelsea Girls - Nico
Hercules - Mercury Rev
The Fire - Television
Kingston Town - Lord Creator
Apetite - Prefab Sprout

Not Mellow..........

Virginia Plain - Roxy Music
Hieronymus - The Clouds
Animal Nitrate - Suede
Teenage Kicks - The Undertones
Some Weird Sin - Iggy Pop
What's my name? - The Clash
Last Night - The Strokes
Blitzkrieg Bop - The Ramones
Get up and use me - The Fire Engines
Elected - Alice Cooper
The day the world turned Dayglo - X-ray Spex
Higher Ground - Stevie Wonder
Lazyitis - The Happy Mondays
Suburban Relapse - Siouxsie & The Banshees
Cracked Actor - David Bowie
Smells like team spirit - Nirvana
Times like these - Foo Fighters
Love Battery - The Buzzcocks
Blank generation - Richard Hell & the Voidoids
Regret - New Order
Next - SAHB

OH Dear! Hibs got beat & Celtic drew yesterday -
And as for Manchester United :

Are they city in disguise? - I bet they wish they were!!!!!

In search of The Red Lady or 'would you like salt & sauce with that?'

I was perusing the net, as one does, when I came across a site with
pictures of old graveyards -don't ask - that had a page about
Warriston Cemetery.

Some lovely Black & White images - if you have a gothic bent - and one
in particular reminded me of a childhood adventure.

When I was still at primary school, probably around 8 years old, a select
few of my classmates & I set off after school to visit The Red Lady. I had
no idea who or what the Red Lady was, only that she was located
in Warriston Cemetery. As the school day wore on and the wind-up stories
were getting creepier by the minute (It's funny how the the biggest wind-
up merchants are usually the ones who are really scared!) I couldn't wait for
the school day to end so we could begin our adventure; I was also a bit
apprehensive. Most of this apprehension focused on Webby; a new addition
to the Red Lady myth, Webby was the groundskeeper at the cemetery
who lived in a hut & got his name from his ... wait for it ... Webbed Fingers !!!
( I think John Carpenter & Stephen King must have been in my class!)

The school bell rang & our clandestine group of spook hunters hurried out the gates.
As we made our way towards the cemetery - I think there were about 6 of us -
any old men we passed were viewed with suspicion, particular attention being
paid to their hands. Entering the cemetery like commandos dodging a searchlight,
we followed one of the girl's in the expedition (there were two - perhaps three if I
remember correctly) as she led the way to The Red Lady's Crypt. Our nerves
were all on edge, dreading an unexpected meet with Webby or even worse -
being ejected from the cemetery before completing our task.

As we approached the general area of the crypt, someone pointed & our eyes followed.
The crypt was a beautiful thing indeed; a Victorian Gothic structure made of iron
and glazed with coloured panels; ruby glass roof & green glass walls. Between
the roof & the walls there was a frieze effect created with lighter, rectangular glass
panels - perhaps milk glass - on which there was an inscription. written in ornate Gothic
script and travelling all the way round the structure was The Lords Prayer.

Standing in the middle of this graveyard there was something comforting
in reading the words we had to recite by rote every morning.
(does any 8 year old really understand the word hallowed?)

On closer inspection I could see the Red Lady herself; A Gothic Beauty.
Inside the glass mausoleam there was a carved stone figure of a recumbent female,
her arms crossed over her chest, very much at rest. The light from the ruby glass roof
bathed the whole of the interior in vivid red - hence The Red Lady.
We stood there taking in every detail with silent awe - each with our own thoughts -
until someone got bored & shouted out in fake terror .................. 'WEBBY!!!!!!!!!!'

we scattered through the cemetery like the devil himself was at our tails, meeting up
outside the graveyard walls to giggle & feign fear, already planning how to relate our
tale of terror in the school playground the next day. I never went back to see
The Red Lady again, but our paths did cross at a later date ...

As a Punk in my teens I met a broad cross-section of local youths, united under
the Punk identity. I was always more of a Political Punk but knew & mixed
with a few Punks who were basically into the scene for the shock value & the
fact It gave them an excuse to behave badly (Christ! I sound like a school teacher -
but you know what I mean.) One fine summers night I met up with a couple
of Punk nutters out of their heads on glue & cheap booze who were going to hang out
at the cemetery. They asked me If I want to go with them but - luckily - I declined.
I didn't think any more of it; a few days later I found out what happened that night:

The two nutters are in Warriston Cemetery & as the alcohol & the glue
kick in, they are getting more & more outrageous. What begins as vandalism -
kicking over gravestones & doing as much damage as possible - ends up as
graverobbing! In a bid to out-do each other, one of them opens the stone coffin of
The Red Lady and removes the skull. They leave the cemetery,
making their way back to Leith, terrorizing passers-by with their new toy!

This escapade culminates when they go into the local fish & chip shop
(the skull hidden under a jacket) and, in front of the crowd of hungry customers,
put the skull on the counter and ask the lady behind it 'could ye fry this fur us missus.'
According to a witness she hit the ground (fainted) before he finished the sentence.
Talking of sentences, they both got 3 years!.

I always wondered ... did anybody actually eat their fish & chips that night?

Bobby D treads the Mean Streets of Leith? - fugettaboutit

or should I say aye! right! Seemingly Mr DeNiro has a penchant for the
Scottish football team Hibernian - I always spell their name wrong, I keep
forgetting the zero at the end - or so I read earlier on the BBC Sport website.
This makes me wonder if bobby has ever attended any of their matches?
(and if so, why is he still a fan?) I think it would be stretching even
Mr DeNiro's talent, method or not, to scream from the terraces of Easter Road
'Get stuck intae this pish' or perhaps 'Come ahead ya jambo Bast**d' while
spitting the remains of an obligitory mutton pie down the neck of the punter
standing in front - Martin Scorcese perhaps?

Or is it all research for an up & coming film project - maybe one of Welshie's
books hitting the screen with DeNiro playing an older version of Begby; It's
years later & he's caught up with Renton and he's just about to give him the
severe malky (a good talking to...) for doing a runner with the money when...
Joe Pesci jumps out of a stair and nuts him! No, it's not working for me.
Anyway, they would have to lock DeNiro in a darkened room for a year
to get that authentic Leith moontan.

All joking aside, Hibernian play Livingston in the Scottish League cup final
today & as I was born in Leith & all my family & friends are Hibby's I'd
just like to say ... Cum oan LIVI !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Brain Switch Test Results : What a surprise - I'm a mathematician !!!
Bummer! I really wanted to be a musician - maybe thats why I'm the
only one who enjoys my guitar playing - and after 8 pints of Guinness
I KNOW i'm a dancer; I make jamiroquai look like Elaine Bennis.

Try it for yourself. Go to the site below & click

'Take the BRAIN SWITCH test'

Hey! wait a minute - maybe I'm just slow ...

Finally set this up the way I want it to look

It's only taken me 5 hours!! I like the way it's all looking now. I have added
a few links for your enjoyment & enlightenment. The image was created from a
pic of me taken 24 years ago - when I was a mere slip of a lad (18) *sigh* .
I used a few filters in photoshop to give it a Cartoon effect.

Garageland comes from my favourite Clash song & my choice of accommodation.

I am a Scotsman, born in Leith (Edinburgh) who has been living in Perth,
Western Australia for the last 16 years. Anyway, that's enough for now -
all other info will be self evident in the writings - Let the blogging begin...

Greetings from the other side ... of 40!

Inside the decaying cavern of grey matter - ravaged by the sands of time
& copious amounts of alcohol - where thoughts and memories hide like a
junkie from a bar of soap, occasionally to be coaxed out and embroidered
on these pages (lie? - Moi?) by yours truly - your man in the
field - the foreign correspondent (a Jock in Oz).