Random thoughts and individual observations from my day to day life. Why? Why Not? I didn't ask you to visit did I?
Friday, June 29, 2007
Steamboats McMillan
June 29th:
Steamboats McMillan
Hugh "Shug" McMillan and I go back a while but have not been in touch for even longer.
That's not important though.
I have memories of the time I tried to assassinate him at a péage in Northern France or even when a lifetime ago, the two of us minced our way around the bars of Dumfries on a sunny Saturday afternoon, getting more and more pished and jabbering away with the usual shite that passed as banter between the two of us before fleecing the local bookie beside the New Bazaar and necking numerous pints of Old Jock.
Ahh, Maroof, 66-1, a real long shot, fit for the knackers yard before thon race was even off.
"Fancy a wee bet then Wattie" said Shug. "Aye" said I.
I put a couple of quid on the nose for Maroof to walk it. Shug wasn’t so sure but he felt my confidence flowing and slapped fifty pence on as a backup precaution to his cash on the favourite. Then with seconds to spare we leaned back against the wall to watch the race. She had to win as we didn’t have that much money left to pay for more beer. It didn’t start too well however, with Maroof slipping immediately to the back, I felt resigned to her ending up as a pot of glue for some airfix model, when suddenly, she started to come good.
Something within her must have said "fuck youse, ye load a donkeys, I’m Maroof, I used tae be somethin" because she went from a canter to maximum gallop on the final bend and won by a neck. We got some funny looks from the other punters but that was probably due to the fact we were jumping up and down, slapping each other on the back, shaking hands, hugging and generally finding it hard to contain our shrieks of delight.
Later, after many more pints, we sat opposite Rabbie Burns mausoleum, where we chanted pished poetry and tried to entice the great man to rise from the dead and share a tin of McEwen’s with us, but Rabbie thought better of it and left us ba-heids to get on with it. It ended up with a pogo to the Damned in Brooms Road, followed by a casual puke in the toilet, whilst some plastic posers talked about poetry and the importance of being a poet and ate their nibbles. Oh ma heid!
Check Shug’s work out, this man’s poetry is about him and what he encounters, he sees it and feels it and through his work conveys it, unlike the sad fuckers at that party who were stuck too far up their own arses to see daylight.
His new book of poems entitled "Strange Bamboo" is out now. Buy his book.
So it's the end of an era for Russell Anderson and Aberdeen FC with him completing a £1m move to the English Premiership with Sunderland. Given the current market, Sunderland have got a bargain! I remember a few years ago taking my wee girl to a reserve game at Pittodrie (it was Aberdeen v Celtic).
Anyway, they had a kind of open night at the game and Ailsa and I queued up (she was about 5 at the time) to get a huge foam hand signed by the players who were sitting there (this was the mid-week after a seven nil humping from Celtic at Parkheid the previous Saturday) and Russell signed it for her. It's still in the house somewhere.
Anyway, you could see the guy was embarrassed to be sat there and it must have been hard to do given the hurt such a good professional player must have felt having to endure smart arse comments such as "nae such a good result at the weekend eh" to which he responded "aye, it was terrible" and then I retorted "too right it was I had to sit and watch it", it needed to be said just to vent my spleen and he got a red face to match the colour of the teams kit and looked at his feet, but the point is he took it on the chin and over time moved his game up to a better level after that watershed of a result and left the Dons with his head held high having captained them back into Europe.
He donated his slice of the transfer fee back into youth development at the club. That's a top gesture from a person who is very obviously level headed and can see the bigger picture. I hope he does well down South and that Sunderland stay up. I do wonder if his Scotland chances will improve now he's left what is according to the Daily Ranger a "provincial" club. For those in a different country read Ranger as Record, a down beat tabloid newspaper that is biased towards the West of Scotland population. The context of "provincial" leaves no doubt they class us as peasants.
Aye right, Aberdeen still remain the only Scottish team to win two European trophies. Provincial my arse!
June 20th: Flaming June - Seasonal Adjustment Disorder
Heard it, heard it, heard it, usual jokers around here giving it why the long face, it's nae SAD syndrome he's got he's ayeways that flippin miserable...yeah...yeah.
Have to say though the weather here in Sconnie Botland is very depressing at the moment. The above graphic shows the general forcast around where this Mink resides for the next 5 days or so. Ain't no sunshine anymore! Flaming June? Fuck sake's min! Looks like I'll get the shorts and shades on for Saturday and that will be summer almost gone.
Once upon a time I worked in a matrix style organisation with three middle managers, two blokes and a woman (at least I think it was female, the hairy lip and over emphasised "look at me I'm gallus" weegie accent confused me somewhat). They all reported into the one boss above them.
They used to make me sick. They worked against themselves whilst doing other good people down all the time in order to protect their own arse or satiate their individual agenda's, greed and selfishness. Each would do anything to try and sneak a yard on the other. Throwing out rumours, half-truths and blocking the progress that other decent, genuine and ambitious people were trying to achieve in order to make a difference.
We called them Sooty, Sweep and Soo (Sue?). As is the way of these things the sorcerer had an apprentice and we called him Scampi. Each ultimately wanted the top banana's job and would stop at nothing to get it but the problem was it was dead man's shoes syndrome. They were and still are in my opinion sad individuals and I hope that they each get out of their careers exactly what they deserve.
There is nothing wrong with ambition. It's how you go about it in order to achieve it that makes the difference. Of course I am a naive idiot at times but at my age I have resigned myself to the fact that it's a part of my design that I have NO desire to change because whilst I retain that trait I still harbour hope that things can and will change for the greater good. Is that what makes me a leftie with socialist tendencies? I'm nae sure but it might just be what makes me easy to manipulate.
Anyway, the whole Blair, Salmond saga whilst entertaining and encouraging due to the fact that the SNP don't seem to want to take any shit is in danger of becoming a real side show to progress even this early in the day.
Salmond has made his point and I hope he continues to do so. However, it must not be a blocker to progress in Scotland. This has to be the main priority. Blair admitted this week he put too much emphasis on spin when he first got into power. I hope Brown when he gets his feet under the table doesn't mess about with us, his own race. He's a unionist. Fair enough. A lot of us aren't. Live and let live.
Let's hope though that he's savvy enough to realise that he needs to work with his own kind to give them what they want, which is a referendum on our future and if the case requires it the ability to fulfill our ambition. A democratic vote went in favour of policies that support self determination. It was close but it still went that way, despite the spoiled votes debacle. Let us find out if there really is a will to make it happen. I have my doubts however.
I hope it doesn't end up like Sooty, with Brown being the cute English hand puppet. Sooty never actually said anything. He's mute. The phrase "Izzy-wizzy-let's-get-busy" is a precursor to Sooty waving his magic wand. Sooty was accompanied by Sweep, a little grey dog who could only squeak which makes me think of his New Labour enforcers barking for some reason, and Soo well she's Harriet Harman or even Kirsty Wark ain't she?
As for Scampi he's the heinz 57, the result of the rest of the lot of them after a wild orgy of being allowed to do what they want without being taken to task for too long. Makes you wonder what the future holds when he grows up!
I just hope that Alex Salmond and Scotland don't end up like Mr. Corbett who can't keep control of what the hands are doing resulting in him always ending up with something squirted in his face.
I was at the local Waterstones feeding my habit yesterday and bought the new Robert Millar book by Richard Moore. In my opinion he was a truly great Scottish Sportsman who never got the recognition he deserved way back in the 80's. He should not be confused with David Millar the Scottish arsehole who was banned for doping to enhance his performance.
He remains to this day a bit of an enigma and I look forward to reading this book about him to try to understand more. I do wish Robert Millar would write his own book though as a great many people would like to hear what he says for himself.
I have yet to start it but I am already worried that his reputation might be questioned. I remember him as being a great inspiration in general (I am not a cyclist). I hope my worries are unfounded. I will report back on that.
There is a massive problem in pro cycling. They have this "old omerta" thing going on with stock phrases about whistleblowers not “spitting in the soup” or as we Scots might more aptly say "nae shittin on yer own doorstep".
Many sports books are written to celebrate the glory of winning and achievement and I hope the Millar book is one of these and that he was kosher or it might just be a huge disappointment to me personally. But no matter what I will always respect the memories of him blowing away the Tour de France and being king of the mountains in his polka dot shirt.
During the eighties I watched city cycling in Glasgow and Aberdeen and a couple of races in Europe in the nineties. My older brother was a very good amateur representing Scotland in the milk race away back in the day and I remember seeing Millar bombing round George Square and thinking he was a legend.
Fingers crossed this new book fortifies my memory.
Now, talking of respect, I have to say I like Paul Kimmage. He’s a better journo that he ever was a pro cyclist. I would recommend his book Rough Ride. I found it absorbing when it first came out and it’s just as important today.
It's an honest account of a promising amateur who never quite made it as a pro. Second division if you like. A bit like being a Jasmine Mink, but us Minks have never squatted in our vestibules to the best of my knowledge. Kimmage was categorised by others as an also-ran and a dreamer whilst knocking in his pan as a domestique, a bit like us Minks. He never enjoyed big-time success, never earning anything more than a low wage.
Against all this, he succumbed to pressure to hang on in there and doped a couple of times to compete back in the day. He was on the periphery struggling to accept his limitations at that level. He had to put himself forward against the drugs that fuelled those around him to success. He chucked it in the end, disillusioned and probably very bitter. But he was there. He had the war stories.
His book was one of the very first to “spit in the soup” about the abuse of drugs in his sport and is utterly compelling stuff. He was mocked, abused and castigated at the time yet subsequently vindicated by all the stories that came out about his sport in the years that followed. He rarely named names or dropped people in the shit but his contemporaries and peers etc pissed all over the guy.
His honesty, frankness and the innocence of the book make it a vital read which should appeal to anyone, not just those interested in cycling or sport.
Watched this show at HMT in Aberdeen last night. It was a great way to spend a Saturday night in the Silver City. Written by Stephen Greenhorn and performed by Dundee Rep Ensemble it's a wee trinity of love stories based around the songs and music from Craig and Charlie a.k.a The Proclaimers.
What I liked about it was the dialog and the fact that it represented real life pretty well. Excellent.
Dundee Rep Ensemble are quality. Sunshine on Leith is good. In keeping with the love theme, it's done to a simple KISS model (keep it simple and straightforward), so although the story is predictable in where it's going it still won’t fail to impress. The songs and music are most barry.
Don't know what Craig and Charlie feel about it, however it certainly does them no harm and it must give them a sense of pride. Their back catalogue won't suffer after seeing this either.
If you want some excellent entertainment - see this show.
We Minks turn up in the least obvious places. Last night we dined with Mr. Salmond. Very nice it was too. His speech was impassioned, witty and a wee bit on the hoof as he was noticed writing parts of it as he sat at the table. But then again he is a busy chap and it makes sense to ensure he gets the other folks names correct. He is a politician afterall.
He delivered an oration around what Scotland could be that was interesting, never patronising and which included topics such as sustainable energy, the kids being our way ahead and his vision for Scotland’s future. He also told us Gordie Broon eventually phoned to congratulate him for being democratically elected and that he reversed the charges!
He now also knows that my heid disnae button up the back.
The seeds of time can change a man but I still feel the same.
I looked down from the top of the broad hill adjacent to Pittodrie Stadium and reflected on this being the place where Davie had spent so many cold nights displaying his skills to the assembled Aberdeen football club coaches. He'd always dreamed of being offered that contract of apprentice footballer with his beloved Dons.
I panned round and gave the once over to the graveyard next to the ground and mulled over how harsh life had been to him - ending up six foot under in there instead. A glint from a car mirror caught my eye from the direction of Golf Road and I could see the funeral procession slowly but surely crawling towards us from the Linksfield end.
It had been an awful shock when Davie's brother Hen sent the letter to me. It was such a surprise, I hadn't heard from him since the mid-eighties and I assumed that it was him writing to say 'welcome to the new millennium, it's been a long time lets get together for old times sake'. I was laughing out loud telling my missus how we'd called him Hen because he looked like one but was never a chicken at any of the stunts we pulled as kids when the words choked me almost if I'd had my neck wrung like one of the aforementioned fowl. Kev dead - funeral next week - phone this number for arrangements.
As I drove the one hundred and sixty miles from our new home in Glasgow to the cemetery my thoughts were mixed. One minute I had feelings of real euphoria as I recalled mad moments from the past which just as quickly turned to deep despair as I felt guilt at not having made more of an effort over the last few years. I rationalised that Kev's drug problems were the first step in the decline of his mind. It had seemed to me that his life had turned into one continual downward spiral of depression and addiction to any drug he could lay his hands on, chemical or alcohol based, it didn't seem to matter to him but it did to me.
The last time we had met up was when I had gone through to Edinburgh for a lads' weekend where we were going to get it together and have a laugh. That's exactly what happened. I had been really looking forward to it and my wife was glad to see the back of me for a weekend so she could chill out and relax and catch up with her mates.
Kev met me straight off the train. We hit the pubs around the station then without any food visited the clubs just off the Grassmarket area. He had got it together. All he had to drink was mineral water. The new healthy Kev was terrific company. All the while I had been clinging onto my rucksack, but having a great laugh. He was in superb form, toasting everybody's health and floating on the crest of an euphoric tsunami. He explained that he'd lost sight of himself for a while and that he should have known better, he bitterly regretted the fight we had all those years ago. He convinced me that he had been clean for ages. It was clear to see.
He seemed reluctant to leave the last club we were in, he was having such a brilliant time dancing and losing himself in the music, and he appeared almost majestic. He kept on screaming over the music to me 'Hey boy - just dance'. It must have been about four in the morning when I flagged a black cab to take us back to his flat. He had gone very quiet in the taxi and now he was silent, he just kind of smiled. It must have been one of those moments - I didn't get it at the time but I think now Kev knew it was the final occasion we'd be together.
When they found him, he had cut his wrists, there was nothing in the flat - no furniture, no carpets, no hope. All he had left was a note and his records and CDs - but nothing to play them on. All the other material possessions that he had were in a builder's skip on the street. A neighbour had said he'd seen him systematically chucking away the stuff over the last few days.
The note explained how he had felt isolated for what seemed an eternity. He talked about how nothing mattered - nothing was important any more. Apart from music. Music mattered but it was inside his head and he could play what he wanted whenever he wanted because it was his head - nobody else could get into it. He mentioned that he wanted me to have his music collection, as I'd never changed - I was PURE - I had got it.
So we buried Kev, and funnily enough his family plot was in the same row as Davie's. They were reunited and perhaps Kev was showing him a few dance moves. In keeping with the wicked humour that we all shared, I smiled at his coffin in the grave and muttered 'let's see you get out of that then'. I got a few looks from the other mourners but the lads would have loved it.
My mind was racing as I drove back down the road in the dark North East of Scotland night. I switched to full beam and suddenly I was beginning to see things clearly.
He'd left his music for me, he knew that I had never changed. I never felt I had to, I always thought things just happened anyway. I didn't need a reason, I had the music in me. I felt liberated. I had carried the weight of Kev and the fight on my back since it had happened, but we both of us knew it didn't really matter but then again at the same time we both of us knew that it did. It was only now I could see it for the first time.
I smiled for both of us and had a wee frown for my two dead friends and consoled myself by thinking that when my time came I'd be beside them as our family plot was in the same cemetery. The only difference being that my piece of ground was eight rows from the top but they would be close by.
June 29th: 
His new book of poems entitled "Strange Bamboo" is out now. Buy his book. 
