Another Icon: Another Birthday

Happy Birthday Siouxsie.

I'm still spellbound after all these years.

Water, water, everywhere

What larks! Once again my academic colleagues have demonstrated that they hinna the sense they were born wi. Despite formidable intellects and fearsome track records in world-renowned research, they seem incapable of functioning at the level of a primary school child when it comes to everyday matters. Last night, it seems, someone helpfully left the tap running in the department's kitchen sink. Unfortunately, he (yes, it was definitely a 'he' - there are no women academic staff here) also abandoned a mug in the sink, thoughtlessly placed to completely cover the plughole. Result (unsurprisingly): flood. The kitchen carpet is absolutely sodden, and an odour of wet dogs is emanating from the floor.

I'd find this sort of behaviour easier to comprehend if they were from an Arts discipline - music, say... or English Lit... my kinda subject, in other words. In those fields, a lack of knowledge of basic scientific principles might almost be permissible. But the gormless bunch I work with are in Physical Sciences. [She shakes her head and rolls her eyes skyward.]

Corridors of power

A week ago, we headed south to Caledonia's capital for a Grand Day Oot. The plan originally was to attend a poetry award ceremony, but deciding early doors that we couldna be arsed wi the literati, we splashed instead along the Royal Mile to gape at the Scottish Parliament. (See pics below). First impressions were not favourable. Outside, the building was eerily reminiscent of a hotel on the Costa Brava, with some dodgy looking faux-balcony type affairs at the windows, unfeasibly dressed up with boorichs of what looked like garden canes. Along the Canongate wall, wee stones sported quotations from assorted representatives of the Great and Guid of Scottish Kulcher, including Burns, Scott, Gray and Morgan, and a puckle fossils stappit in atween. There was a MacDiarmid quotation, which surprised me given his vehement political views, but I noted that his stone had been judiciously placed gey low doon on the waa, and had become somewhat discoloured, presumably because a passing dug had pished on it. (Thankfully, Embra's finest, Mr Irvine Welsh Esq., was missing from the display. I'd fully expected the usual 'Choose Life' diatribe to be up there with the rest of them. Had that been present, I'd hae pished on it masel.)

Undeterred, however, we went inside, joining a large queue of OAPs waiting in line to be security-scanned. There was a faint whiff of farts in the foyer, reminding me forcefully of my first ever job as a Library Assistant, where you'd try at all costs to avoid the children's section because of the sulphuric wafts. (What is it about books that makes kids compulsively break wind, by the way? Maybe it's not the books themselves but more the hushed stillness in the library that irresistibly lures children to drop a silent-but-deadly one before moving on to another shelf, smirking). Yes, where was I? O aye, Holyrood. Once it was established that we weren't armed with rotting vegetables and thus posed no risk to the person of the First Minister, we were permitted to trauchle upstairs and take our seats in the Public Gallery of the Debating Chamber. Were we impressed? Naw. There was a wealth (and I choose that word advisedly) of frosted glass and sycamore. Pity they hadn't gone to IKEA really, as I'm sure it'd have worked out significantly cheaper. I speculated that had the Parliament Building been designed in the 1980s it would surely have been kitted out in up-to-the-minute black ash. Call me a traditionalist, but wouldn't Scotland's seat of government be taken more seriously if clad in dusty leather and nicely buffed mahogany? Och weel.

Most of the great unwashed who parked their bums on the slidy seats of the public gallery sat for roughly ten minutes straining to hear the goings-on, before surrendering and sloping off to the shop. The sound system wasn't working properly, and all the discussions during General Question Time (we'd missed the First Minister's Question Time, sadly) were horribly distorted. The senior citizens groups which formed the bulk of visitors could be seen frantically twiddling with their hearing aids, assuming (wrongly) that their personal equipment was responsible for the din. When we left, a fine gentleman usher in parliamentary garb (a mauve sark and navy suit, to be precise), informed us that they were aware of the sound problems and were working to get things fixed. He was adamant that this was a one-off glitch... a problem affecting only that afternoon. "Aye right", we muttered suspiciously, "It'll be like that aa the time, ye ken. Ye'd think efter spendin aa that siller, they coulda pit in mics that worked."

Had we actually been able to hear anything distinctly, we would have come away from Holyrood better informed about "what action was taken at a national level to promote breastfeeding in Scotland during National Breastfeeding Awareness Week", and "what measures the Scottish Executive has taken to ensure that all horse owners are aware of the procedures and timescales involved in obtaining a horse passport". And if we'd managed to bide a bittie langer, we'd even have heard about "the Trial Reintroduction of the European Beaver".

We stayed an hour, then wandered back down and availed ourselves of the facilities. In the lavvies, I discovered, you didn't physically touch the taps, you simply waved your hands under the spout and water (gey hett!) would gush magically forth. (Remote control sensors apparently - that'll nae have been cheap!). Afterwards, browsing in the Gift Shoppie, I was amused to find a range of specially branded foodstuffs, including 'Scottish Parliament Fudge' and 'Holyrood Humbugs'. Mmmm. How apt.

"O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us

To see oursels as others see us

It wad frae monie a blunder free us

An' foolish notion."

Indeed.

Costa Brava Hotel

The Waa

Clyping

When I was at school, the behaviour most despised by peers and adults alike was 'clyping'. A clype is a tell-tale, a sneak... you know, the type of kid that runs to the nearest authority figure and gleefully reports the real (or fantasised) misdemeanours of his mates. Clyping was not encouraged back in those days. Today, things are very different it seems. While driving down St Machar Drive this morning, I spotted a large advertising billboard, ominously tricked out in waspish black and yellow, encouraging folk to lift the phone to report their neighbours who have neglected to pay their road tax. It's a Freephone number (so the clype can shop his pals at no financial cost), and the sign helpfully sports a couple of stylised images of telephones (presumably for the benefit of those who lack basic literacy skills). It gave me the shivers. Not because (I hasten to add) my car isn't taxed, but it repels me to think that today's Britain positively lauds the clype. I have visions of officious citizens with nothing better to do of a morning, creeping round their streets, peering at the windscreens of every car, and punching the air with joy if they find a tax disc that ran out at the end of last month and hastily rushing home to phone.

I suppose these people could turn clyping into a full-time job: I picture them in the afternoons twitching their net curtains to watch Sandra fae doon the road heading out for her 2 hour shift at the corner shoppie, "Ah, the coorse bitch is workin, and she's still claimin fae the social!", and later in the evening, lurking across the street from the pub hoping to spot some mannie leavin with car keys in hand and more than a couple of units in him. I remember when it was announced that a responsible citizen who successfully shopped a drink-driver would earn a reward of £500. You had to be very vigilant when you nipped into the local for a swift Irn Bru. You'd come back from the lavvies and find your acquaintances looking very shifty, with pound signs glittering in their eyes, and (if you were astute enough) you'd realise they'd chucked a triple vodka in your drink and were champing at the bit to get on the phone to claim their dirty money (after you'd given them a lift home, naturally).

Anyway... I find it disturbing that clyping on others is no longer viewed with disapproval. It seems that the state wishes to foster a climate of self-righteousness among its citizens - promoting and rewarding busybodies who love to bolster their own sense of superiority by informing on and castigating others. It's giving the interfering curtain-twitchers in our communities a pat on the back for their smugness. Whatever happened to working class solidarity, eh?

I must admit that I myself clyped this week, but only after a period of indecisive agonising over whether I should or not. I hate to interfere. While driving home on Monday evening, the traffic was suddenly brought to an abrupt halt by a wee mannie stotting about in the middle of the road. We assumed his risky weaving about was due to inebriation, but when he righted himself and rushed to the other side of the dual carriageway, a second man, younger and bigger, shot from the pavement and gave chase, caught up with the first man, knocked him to the ground and starting throwing punches and generally putting the boot in. My instinct was to fish my phone from my pocket and call the police, but I stopped myself. Meanwhile, the car behind me, clearly being driven by a lady with more sense of civic duty than weaselly old me, pulled over to the kerb. I assumed she was making the emergency call. So, I drove on, feeling guilty and anxious, and eventually when I got home, phoned Grumpyin Polis to let them know what I'd seen. It had already been reported right enough, but when the boys in blue had arrived at the scene, both the assailant and victim had vanished. However, later in the evening, I had a call back asking for descriptions etc. and informing me that I might need to make an official statement. Unless the pursued mannie makes a complaint, I should be spared that though.

My difficulty in deciding to phone was only partly down to my early social conditioning not to be a clype. I'm ashamed to say that another factor was my hopelessness when it comes to remembering visual details, and my embarrassment at my inability to even recollect precisely where on Great Northern Road the assault occurred. I know I'd be a useless witness. (In addition, knowing my luck, as soon as I got the mobile to my ear, some busybody clype would spot the illegal use of the phone while driving, and I'd end up with a hefty fine). More depressingly, the incident reminded me of my last miserable encounter with crime. I know only too well the cost of doing one's civic duty and making that call. Some years ago I'd inadvertently become a witness in a child murder case, simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

After a day's teaching I'd headed with a few students and colleagues to the pub on campus. In the course of the evening, I ferried a couple of people home, coming back to the pub to rejoin the company. Every time I came to or from the car, I spotted a man standing staring shiftily around. When I eventually left to go home for the night, the man was still there, and this seemed mightily suspicious to me. I dismissed this, however, as my usual penchant for thinking the worst of people, and didn't phone to report him, as I didn't want to be a Clype, Drama-Queen, or Time-Waster. However, when a child's body turned up a couple of days later, only a few yards from where I'd seen the suspicious man, I thought perhaps I should give the police a call. But, yep, you guessed it, I didn't want to be a Clype, Drama-Queen, or Time-Waster, and anyway, I was convinced it wouldn't be remotely connected to the case at all. But after a couple of hours of procrastination I phoned. And I was wrong. It was the man. And then followed many months of Procurator Fiscals and Witness Citations and a probable appearance at a murder trial. I was in bits. The worst thing was the haunting thought that maybe if I'd made that call straightaway, the laddie's life could've been saved. The police, the Fiscal, and everyone else, tried to reassure me on that one, being convinced that the boy was already dead, and the killer was merely there that evening sussing out a place to dump the body, but I can't get rid of the nagging doubt. It's shameful of me, but I really do wish I'd never called, because at least that way I would never have had it confirmed that the man I saw was actually the killer. I could've pretended it was just a coincidence. Anyway, my desire for self-protection nowadays initially overrides the urge to do my duty, and I'll try to look the other way, but then, a while later, guilt takes over and I will end up doing the right thing. But the procrastination and indecision means that it's usually too late to be any bloody use, of course. I need a kick up the arse, I really do.

A footnote: strangely enough this morning on Great Northern Road, while I was waiting at some traffic lights, who should come proudly along the pavement but the lad who chased and assaulted the wee mannie on Monday night. Ah well. The criminal's still 'at large' then. "Would you recognise the men again?" the bobby had asked when he phoned. "Aye", said I, a bit doubtfully, "I think I'd be able to pick out the assault-er, but maybe not the assault-ee." And here we are today, recognising him instantly. So at least it turns out I didn't lie to the police.

Words, words, words

I have misgivings about this whole blog thing. I mean, why does someone blog?

Being afflicted sorely by a cultural trait known as North East reticence, it strikes me as a foully egotistical thing to do. It assumes that somewhere out in the ether there is a reader, perhaps haplessly blundering onto one's blog from a random Google search, casting their eyes down the page and exclaiming 'Jesus God, what shite!' and swiftly hitting their 'back' button in the hope of sourcing something useful instead. Surely it'd be better (and more self-effacing) to jot the guff down in a wee diary, tucked neatly away at the back of a drawer?
Hmmm. Diaries and suchlike things are all very well, but require discipline on the part of the diarist... miss a day and it's glaringly obvious, as when you return next day, you're faced with a frightening expanse of blank white page. It's a dramatic reminder of your inadequacy... your laziness... your dullness... your lack of anything interesting to report. Well, that's what the blank page does to me, anyway. You see, I'm positively phobic about that white unfilled space; once upon a time I'd write joyfully and easily, covering a sheet of A4 in a flash. Then, sadly, a few years back, I woke up one morning and found that words wouldn't come anymore. This was a bit unfortunate, considering I was in the middle of a thesis at the time. O aye, the ideas were there right enough, but getting them out and onto paper became well-nigh impossible. (We're talking here three hours of trying to produce a single, solitary sentence. Hell's bells and hurlies, as my granny used to say). Months passed, and there was no change. The paltry paragraphs I managed to produce were dire, in my eyes, despite the hours of agonising over each word and punctuation mark. What to do? Give it up as a bad mistake? Well, no, not quite. I struggled on, for more than a year, missing deadlines for chapters and sobbing excuses at my supervisor; I read more self-help books on writer's block than you could shake a stick at, trying all the techniques under the sun to cure it, and still that bloody white page gleamed pristinely up at me. Och, said I, it's just the thesis. Do something else for a while, and eventually it'll come back. Eight years later: sod all. Even a 350 word book review is beyond me now. Tyach!

So then (hauling myself back from that tangent onto the original topic at hand), why blog? Well, maybe it's a last ditch attempt to get back in the habit of writing. At least here, the page is already besmirched with text, and unlike a diary, if I can't be arsed for weeks at a time, there won't be that physical symbol of my tardiness in the form of empty white leaves. Additionally, it's ostensibly a public thing (no matter that it'd be highly unlikely that anyone actually found it and read it) and therefore is potentially subject to the judgement and criticism that I fear has been the cause of the block in the first place. Even the slimmest chance of the eyes of another perusing my clumsy prose might be enough to fix my paranoia that what I produce will be judged and found wanting. I doubt it, actually, but ah've tried aathin else.

Couldn't last?

Many Happy Returns (belatedly), Stephen Patrick!

On Sunday 22 May, Mozzer turned 46, and I hope he had a bloody marvellous day. I very much hope he'll be back in Bonnie Scotland again in 2005, having seen him on several occasions on the Quarry tour last year. To the moment when I finally shuffle off this mortal coil, I'll be eternally grateful to this fine gentleman. (Of course, he has no idea what he's responsible for in this house, but I suspect if he did know he'd secretly be quite chuffed). Ootlins of the world unite!