Midnight and I

May 31st: Midnight and I

Midnight and I'm all right,
I've made some time,
To modify my mind.

Yesterday I cut my hand,
And the wound inflamed bad thoughts,
Sent them running round my head.

But what is past is absent,
And what I hoped for gone,
This is the hour in which I am,
In which I am.

I'll never underestimate,
The importance of what you gave,
You taught me not to hate.

I get so tired of thinking,
Conclusion’s such an obvious place,
It is to you I venerate,
I venerate.

And if I climb the highest wall,
I can clearly see for miles and miles,
And I fully understand.

That what is past is absent,
And what I hoped for gone,
And this is the hour in which I am,
In which I am.

3B48 - Part 1

May 30th: 3B48 Part 1

Looking back, it's plain to see the different paths we'd take.

Davie had it all, he possessed enough skill in his right foot, but he had THAT gifted left peg which could curl in a cross so wicked it would have made David Beckham's face turn the same colour as his bird shit hairstyle. He used to stay out late into the evening practicing his keepie-up skills while the rest of us got bored and disappeared from the attraction of the three-a-sides on Montgomery Road to hang out by Haas the Iranian's chip shop and the pleasures that brought. How we three hated the normality of our late pass curfew and having to be home before eight.

He seemed to be getting there as well. Invited down to Man U for a trial - turning out for the Aberdeen youth team against the dizzy heights of Montrose, Arbroath and Forfar before dazzling all at Dundee Utd, he was the schoolboy protégé with the ball and the world firmly at his feet. It wasn't a matter of where, just when. Then fate took a hand.

He never saw the bus - it came hurtling round the corner of Market Street where it turned onto Union Street. He was outside Burton's where he'd been buying some fashionable shirt for the Boys Brigade disco, when bang! Stood too close to the kerb the wing mirror caught him smack on the side of the head. Cruel.

His death affected all of us who hung out together but in particular Kev and I. Somehow football never had the same attraction for us after that - the ball had burst. No more three-a-sides, no other soul could take his place. We needed something else.

In the end it was easy to get into. At school, whilst waiting to go into Techie Drawing before the end of our dinner break we'd see Dougan, Gogsie Legge and Dave Morris practicing all their moves on the old wooden floor that was Old Aberdeen Secondary, the overspill annexe of Linksfield Academy. Their dance style was a more or less fixed step combination, with some acrobatic moves that they called 'breakdance'. We tried to imitate them in my bedroom whilst my Ma would laugh loud then show us the 'slosh' and say it was much better.

They looked the business as they glided from side to side, gracefully covering the floor and talking of nothing other than when they'd be on the next bus trip to Wigan Casino and future all-nighters. All the talk was about the brilliance of the 'three before eight'. Kev and I were intrigued. This meant something to us. We'd also heard that they’d shagged quite a few girls and as for staying up all night!

We started to copy their style, without it being too noticeable. But we soon found out that Northern Soul is not a style in the usual way. They did not dress in any kind of uniform. Their dress depended on which music they were into, for Kev and I the 'Mod' fashion was the jacket that would fit us best. At the school discos we'd ask for loads of different music and Dougan who at the time fancied himself as a DJ would normally sneer but play it all the same, and then we'd ask for Soul and he'd smile as well! It was important that we didn't incur their ridicule. After all we were only thirteen and they were sixteen. The others said it would never last 12 months, then they said it would never last two years but from this early beginning our love of music was to bring us down a road we could never have imagined.

There was no set of musical characteristics that classified a sound as belonging to their mode. They taught us that. The attachment of a song to the category 'Northern Soul' was made by them from their experience as fans and their frequent trips to Wigan Casino. As such it varied and I could listen for hours as they discussed the merits of Marvin Gaye or Candy and the Kisses and any other Epic, Columbia or Tamla Motown recording star. They educated us about how Wigan Casino was more than music and that it was a subculture from the past but at the same time one that never grew old. We learned how the DJs of the time decided not to play the popular soul music going around but instead concentrated on rare soul records from small independent record labels with a stronger more original sound always finishing an all nighter with three great tunes before time up at eight. We discovered how this rare soul attracted more and more people and how the press picked up on it and called it 'Northern Soul'.

Adopting this attitude the two of us grew together and developed our very own subculture. It included the long gone Davie because to us he was always there, enjoying the sounds, sharing our lives and living in both our minds over the years to come. Whilst discovering alcohol we used to sing 'Ghost of a young man' by the Jasmine Minks as some kind of wicked attempt to include Davie, but it helped us - it kept us together. Then it happened, cultural differences kicked in and it all somehow went wrong.

By this time we had completed our fifth and final year at school. Dougan and the others had departed from our little world into a diverse range of jobs - heating engineer, fish filleter and used car salesman. Not for them the world of academia, they had their education via the universities of Wigan Casino and The Twisted Wheel of Manchester.

Kev went off to Edinburgh Uni to study chemistry whilst I drifted via poor Higher results into a computing course at the local institute of technology. For a while it was great making trips up and down the road to see the odd gig, but very soon trips turned to letters and then we gradually lost contact as we discovered a love of new girls, student unions and having a good time in general. We also had part time jobs to contend with (a necessary evil to supplement our meagre grants and expanding record collections), which didn't help. Time for each other seemed to diminish amongst it all and we lost touch temporarily until the Christmas reunion of 1988 when we almost lost touch forever.

It just kind of happened, both of us had far too much to drink, got in way too deep about Davie, the past, the state of the Creation scene which I was defending and we had a huge row. It all became a bit mental and soon we were having a drunken fist fight over our music, the very sounds that were the beat of the heart that had held us together for so long. It was perverse, the very soul that was the essence of the three of us back on the hallowed turf of Montgomery Road, had turned on us and was tearing us apart. I should have sensed that Kev wasn't the Kev of old, his studies were taking him in a different direction, he didn't seem reasonable - his pupils were way too dilated.

Rain clouds o'er Clachnaben

May 22nd: Rainclouds o'er Clachnaben

Was near my favourite haunt tonight. Clachnaben. I've ran up the swine let me tell you.

The prominent nipple or tooth-like rock (depending on how you wish to describe it) to the right of the picture, protrudes at the summit and makes this hill stand out and be instantly recognisable all around Deeside.

Seen from the south as you approach over the Cairn O' Mount or to the West coming o'er the Slug road fae Stonie, this 30 metre high lump of granite marks out Clachnaben from its neighbours.

Bennachie further north towards Inverurie, also boasts a rocky granite crown known as the Mither Tap, giving rise to the saying: Clachnaben and Bennachie, twa landmarks frae the sea.

Me and some other bampot mates (Ski and Angus tae name just a couple)parked near Glendye Lodge and went for it - straight up to the top with a mad scramble and sweeties at the top for energy and a couple of pints at the Feughside bar afterwards to nullify the pain, blisters and lack of breath - magic. Need to watch your feet in the warm weather for the adders though, they are all round Glendye, so be carefull if ye tak yer dug! Just like real life - snakes are all o'er the place min.

Tonight though pictured from the Shooting Greens Forrest she was moody with rainclouds gathering. Yet, moody, ominous, dark, light, all sorts of colours and shades. Superb!

Redsky

May 14th: RedSky

We lay on the grass, beneath the clouds
And discussed with unnatural calm,
Who Roddy Framed,
East Kilbride or Aztec Camera?
Either way, he’d sent them a letter, they’d never forget
Or was it a postcard?

I had said I’d meet you by your throne under the sky,
I had many questions, I needed to know why,
You seemed so distant in your splendid isolation,
The simple situation, masked deterioration,
And then you told me.

So we watched the blanket above our heads
Transform into the brilliance of another day,
A sea of blood red sky left me sensing,
That we were at the edge.

Nothing is left, nothing is here, nothing is sacred, nothing is REAL,
Nothing is left, nothing is here, nothing is sacred, nothing is REAL,
Nothing is left, nothing is here, nothing is sacred, nothing is REAL,
Nothing is left, nothing is here, nothing is sacred, nothing is REAL,

I have to work hard for the memories I feel,
Nothing left, nothing here, nothing sacred, nothing REAL,
Empty spaces inside my head, disordered glimpses
An unmade bed, dirty washing lying in a heap,
Left alone to rot and to reek.

Nothing is left, nothing is here, nothing is sacred, nothing is REAL,
Nothing is left, nothing is here, nothing is sacred, nothing is REAL,
Nothing is left, nothing is here, nothing is sacred, nothing is REAL,
Nothing is left, nothing is here, nothing is sacred, nothing is REAL.

Wattie's Dog

May 13th: Wattie's Dog

Forget it Pavlov, move over Ivan....Brodie's six today and in terms of conditioning and stimuli...toast does it every time.

Long walk and swim for the birthday boy today methinks!

Button Heid

May 9th: Mr. Salmond, Dinnae Think Oor Heid's Button Up the Back?

I’m Scottish. I look Scottish. My thoughts are Scottish. I most definitely sound Scottish and I write like somebody who’s fucking Scottish. Unless you are Scottish I don’t think you can ever know just what it feels like to be Scottish.

At a guess I’d say it would be akin to being Irish or Welsh (the race nae the writer), but then again maybe not as they have their own crosses to bear. We can and do however empathise with them due to a commonality of having suffered a history littered with us being shat upon by our so called betters (the highland clearances, potato famines and the miners strike highlight just a few examples).

The Scottish detest Everybody. If you are neither Scottish nor a Nobody and you are reading this then go to another web page. Why? Because we don't take to you unless you are Nobody.

We like Nobody. Nobody is the most agreeable sort we know. Nobody paid their poll tax unless they were really forced in to it because the Tories used us as an experiment. Nobody would ever in their lifetime vote for the Tories. Nobody would pay a toll to get over the Skye Bridge back in the day. Nobody saw the ball cross the line in ‘66. A team of Nobody's won the Grand Slam in ‘90. Nobody does it better. Nobody likes the Jasmine Minks. Nobody knows. Nobody NEVER suffers fools gladly. Nobody's the best. Nobody goes against the grain. Nobody care's and Nobody get's the beers in.

So why, Nobody might ask, do we detest Everybody?

Perhaps it’s because Everybody keeps telling us that we are Nobody. It could be down to the fact that we are constantly told that we are never happy with our lot. (There might be some truth in that one though because I always seem to have a list of things that are currently pissing me off). The philosophy behind Anglophobia has become a part of our culture more through design than by happening. I reckon that it's a way of expressing the Scottish nations lost identity and although sad it's really something that should never be taken too seriously in this day and age.

However when asked which team I support I’ll still always answer that it's Scotland first and then whoever's playing England.

But it’s much more than just that. Make no mistake it’s because we don’t take too kindly to being told what to do and how to act or how not to react, we don’t like to be told what's good or bad, we CAN judge for ourselves. Maybe just maybe with our own Scottish government things might change for Nobody. Hopefully the SNP might change things for Nobody. Then again maybe not, I thought the same about New Labour back in the day and look how that turned out!

If the SNP attempt to govern by objectives only, then it won't work. 80% of us don't know the objectives. The disenfranchised votes would seem to validate that we don't really know what's going on half the time (latest estimate 141,000 spoiled papers = almost 7% of the vote = crazy). But I am hopefull that they will not.

I reckon they have to address objectives from a strategic perspective. If they do this they will start a revolution in the way Scotland can stand up for itself. We need to take a new look at how Scotland can succeed. We need a vision, mission, values and belief system that works for us and one in which we trust. We need joined-up, holistic thinking that delivers from the top down, strategic goals for OUR nation, a portfolio of undertakings that provide programs to implement needed change in OUR country (we are always told that change is good afterall) underpinned by projects that make a difference, sustained by actions and positive results for and from our people.

I’m proud to be Scottish because just like me - these Nobodies are Somebodies who matter and really do care!

© Wattie (with Nobody to talk to today)

Scottish Election Day

May 3rd: Scottish Election Day

My votes my own and private at that. But people who know me will have an inkling of what I am about. But I still ain't telling anybody cause it's personal. However, when the canvassers outside the hall try to glean an opinion I might have some fun by not talking or communicating verbally but by instead sticking any one of the above stickers on my forehead in response to who is hassling me.

Try it, pick a badge according to your view of whatever party hassles you outside the voting station - childish? Perhaps but it provides an enormous sense of satisfaction!

The Nearly Men

May 2nd: The Nearly Men

It's a thin line between success and failure. The weekend’s events in the Scottish First division where Gretna stole back the title and promotion to the SPL from St. Johnstone with the last kick of the ball was real drama. Hopes and dreams shattered for some, ecstasy for others. It was the same last night, with Chelsea blowing it on pens against Liverpool. It’ll be similar story tonight for either Man Utd or A.C. Milan. But I think Fergies the dogs, so come on Man U.

Being so close yet still so far is not a new thing. The picture above is of the Dundee FC 1948-49 team who lost the league to Rangers on the very last day of the season that year (click on the photo to enlarge it). It was the 30th April to be exact. The guy with the ball was Alec Stott. That day they only needed a point against Falkirk at Brockville to win the league. Rangers needed to win against Albion Rovers and in front of 17,000 sun drenched fans, many of whom had made the journey from Dundee hoping to see their team clinch the title, a similar drama had to be endured.



The pitch was firm but although the Dark Blues made heavy weather of things in the opening stages they looked to have got the breakthrough three minutes from half time. My wife’s uncle Alec stepped up to take a penalty at nil-nil after a team mate had broke into the box and been brought down. Alec was the Henrik Larsson of his day. Currently on 38 league and cup goals he stepped up to take the kick. Right-footed he directed a shot towards the bottom right-hand corner but he had not made a clean connection and the Falkirk goalie dived to turn the ball round the post (according to press reports at the time). My Faither-In-Law said different. He was behind the goal and said the ball was going in but it hit the tarry keepers elbow and spun behind when it could so easily have gone in. Those are the breaks I guess.

With Rangers coasting 4-1 against Albion Rovers it had to be all out attack. Alas it wasn’t to be. Although Alec did get his 39th goal of the season it wasn’t enough. They ended up losing it 4-1 themselves. Recriminations followed. Next season Alec by then out of favour was sold for £6,000 to Partick Thistle. Dundee replaced him with a Scottish Internationalist called Billy Steel for something like £23,500. Funnily enough Alec banged in another 39 goals for Partick, (including a Hat-Trick at Parkhead with a certain Jock Stein marking him that day) whilst Steel although a magnificent player in his own right got nowhere near that amount. But people are fickle aren't they. Alec died a few years ago. He was a great footballer. I know my Faither-In-Law tells me.

He gave joy to many and the picture below is of the crowd at Dens for the New Years game in 1949 against Rangers their great rivals that season. The official attendance was given as 39,975 but reports from back in the day estimated 45,000 were in the ground with a further 5000 outside. Rangers went 1-0 up within 10 minutes but Dundee equalised and pressed on with Alec scoring two to give a 3-1 victory.



Alec had a great career. Playing for Portsmouth, Dundee, Partick Thistle and Hamilton Accies. In between he served in the war as a Marine, fought with my Faither-In-Law (who claims he was the better player between the two of them) at D-Day and around Caen before being shipped back to play an exhibition match in the UK with the greats in their baggy shorts. That's a life that was in no way ordinary.

Anyway, as yesterday was May day and a celebration for the International Workers of the World and fitba is the working man’s sport (allegedly) it makes me wonder what Scottish football could be like if we could get the crowds back for the other teams in our country and not just witness buses of glory hunters shipping out of cities to watch the old firm. Wouldn't it be nice?