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Brave

It is  sad that Billy Connolly has dementia,…. seemingly.

What will happen now, if it is true, he will go quietly.

He will retire, the Daily Record will tell you.

Google Billy Connolly Dementia, and there is a high level of activity from the world searching on that. How scunnered he must be, forgets his train of thought in public once or twice and therefore it’s all over. 

Sean Connery will phone and tell him, that he just has to accept it. You have a nice house , nice wife and plenty of money. Go quietly, Sean will say. I had to… or make League of Gentlemen 2, what would you do Big Yin?

Meanwhile Agnes Owens a friend of Big Banana Boots will keep refusing to go quietly, as much as the Big D will try to convince her otherwise. Keep going Meester Bond, Keep going Royal Jester, Keep Going Maw, and as for you Big D, you are getting oan ma tits!

Porcelain you are, delicate,
Coconut white and desiccated
Arenite I am, disambiguated
World weary and percentage weighted.

Rudimentary notions intact
Solutions lacking tact
Sedimentary consolidation
Erudite trepidation never was debated

Rock solid I am, igneous
Coconut white and complicated
Quartzite you are, crystallised
Fine fine grains, and idolized

Inanimate we are. Prostrate
Guardians with a pact
No elementary consideration
Impolite metamorphosis will be negated

Still Jingling

Reblogged from Chaserjay:

Still Jingling

So Christmas –You’ve come again

Like the old gigolo that you are.

But far, from giving up

You continually sup

the mulled whines of the mothers,

that you’ve fucked.

Whoa Christmas – Hold your Caribou

Austerity Britain, with it’s canny cope citizens,

at Crimbo, bar a few

posh peados, who thanks to you

Are quids in

with kids in limbo…

Read more… 76 more words

The Next Big Thing

I don’t know whether I should be slowing down, in the coming New Year, but I seem to be speeding up, all in the act of keeping my mind voraciously occupied, so it’s time for some action.
Therefore, thanks to the Sheffield Cowboy aficionado and sometimes writer of tales of the Wild West, Zack Wilson,for inviting me to take part in something called The Next Big Thing. It’s a promotional device by which an author is invited to answer ten set questions about his or her latest work-in-progress and then to tag three more authors who are also working on a new book. A bit like a chain letter, I suppose, but more self-indulgent and hopefully, a procrastination eliminator.
What’s the working title of your book?
You Don’t Get Buffalo in Tarzan Films
Where did the idea come from for the book?
Over the last one hundred years I have started and stalled many projects, novels, screenplays, plays, and of course short stories. So I am revisiting several of the short stories and compiling them into a book. The title story is based on an incident back in the seventies, when there was, unbeknownst to the masses, major social and industrial change taking place and as we entered into the eighties, that pending political revolution became clearer. The last Great Buffalo Massacre, also took place in Central Scotland during that time, and that event is the catalyst for all the other stuff, which touches on Cowboys and Indians, World War 2, destruction of the Unions and going to the local Spar for the messages.
What genre does your book fall under?
Scottish Contemporary Misanthropy
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
James Cosmo, to play the older guy and Martin Compston for the younger guy. Child actors would be required as the main protagonists, and it would be great to do the old Ken Loach approach on recruiting young fresh faces for those characters
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
White man speak with fork tongue, mostly.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
An agency, or if not, then nepotism, but, as is known for up and coming writers, or even, let’s say established writers, a good review in the Herald or the List is not going to happen anymore, so you have to go out there and submit that book, that screenplay, or play and if it is good it will get published, ( I have never been published, so I retract that last statement) but there are people out there, and I know who you are, who call your selves publishers, and will publicise the book, get you on TV AM , Loose Women, The One Show or any other canopy of intelligentsia, and talk shite about Hollywood being interested, a hundred thousand copies ready to roll, but needing seven grand up front and then another three grand for the launch, and that’s just what they do to young kids…..
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
17 years
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
Agnes Owens, the most under-rated Scottish Writer (not my words) and she is my Maw (my words)
What other books would you compare the story to within your genre?
I have a unique voice…, seriously, most probably James Kelman or Duncan MacLean

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
A question came up recently in discussion about who is the writer, right now, who is telling the story of the impoverished, the put upon, or if one is on the other side of the fence, others might call them ,the wasters, the weak, or the curtain drawers, and then of course further afield, globally that is, our own ‘hardships’ are insignificant compared to other countries although , even as I write, that problem is getting closer to home. So the stories are about all that jiggerypokery with the usual sex and violence, humour and tears, dualism, and how the Christian faith has now been replaced with finger crossing.

The Three Writers that I would like to nominate for the next big thing are,
Sophie McCook
Sophie McCook is a scriptwriter, editor and teacher living in the north of Scotland. Her first novel The Panic Ruminations was written last year as an exercise in application; a one-thousand word chapter was published every day (excluding weekends! As the author says, ‘I’m only human!). Following the success of this bite-sized comedy, the novel has now been published in full and re-edited for even more comic pleasure.

John Ward

John F Ward is a writer. He now lives in Perth, Scotland, the town where he grew up. A graduate of Edinburgh University, where he studied philosophy and English, he taught English at the Royal High School, Edinburgh, and at Inverness College. He was born in Clydebank, a long time ago, grew up in Perth and went to school in Dundee. His published work consists of The Secret of the Alchemist (2003) and its sequels, The Stone of Sorrow (2004) and City of Desolation (2005) all published by Studio 9, and translated into French, German, Italian, Spanish, Greek, Turkish, Polish, Czech and Serbian. His latest book, “The Comet’s Child” is published by Strident in Autumn 2009

Lorna J Waite

DR. LORNA J. WAITE is a writer and researcher, author of The Steel Garden and one of the editors of ’the forthcoming Rethinking Highland Art: The Visual Significance of Gaelic Culture/Sealladh as ùr air Ealain na Gàidhealtachd: Brìgh Lèirsinn ann an Dualchas nan Gàidheal. She was born and brought up in the former steeltown and textile town of Kilbirnie in Ayrshire and educated at the universities of Edinburgh and Dundee. Her Ph.D. explored ‘The Industrial Clearances’ and the effect on folk memory and culture of de-industrialisation. She is a Gaelic learner, a peace activist and is involved with the Women for Independence group. She has never belonged to a political party and has been a lifelong supporter of Scottish independence and nuclear disarmament, active in Scottish CND and Trident Ploughshares.

Still Jingling

Still Jingling

 

So Christmas –You’ve come again

Like the old gigolo that you are.

But far, from giving up

You continually sup

the mulled whines of the mothers,

that you’ve fucked.

 

Whoa Christmas – Hold your Caribou

Austerity Britain, with it’s canny cope citizens,

at Crimbo, bar a few

posh peados, who thanks to you

Are quids in

with kids in limbo

 

Go Christmas, take your Kerplunk and baby Jesus,

Who sees us, all, stressed, depressed, at our best,

only when drunk,

greeting about a Christmas

blast, from the past,

still jingling in our ears.

 

No Christmas, let the status quo be

stocking all over the world, all year, with

good cheer, merriment, joy, love and some beer.

Not a lot to ask?

Ok, take a note

Dear Santa and Jesus

Please, Please, Please us .

The Runs on Dava Moor

The countdown speedily diminishes as the hour of the starter gun quickly approaches. Training is going well, still getting in an average of 30 odd miles a week, although finding the space and time for the ‘big’ runs is proving somewhat evasive.
Any road up, last week I took a night off from my athletic schedule and lined up a double bill of excitement, by attending the presentation of The Dark Knight Rises followed by an hour or so with Cameron McNeish, the similarity of the subjects being purely coincidental.
It had been a long long time since I had experienced the multiplex delicacy of Nachos with jalapenos and hot cheese dip, so long in fact that my guts just couldn’t figure out what it was, and on receipt hastily, tried to expel the authentic Mexican dish, just hours after touchdown.
The rumblings of trouble became apparent during the McNiesh Lecture and I purchased the Skye Trail in any case, but had no inclination to talk shit with him as he signed my copy.
Of course my planned Friday morning 7 miler was cancelled due to the other runs that I participated in during the night.
Come Friday evening, I was so riddled with low self esteem, as one does when one fails so badly, that I took myself up onto the remote Dava moors and ran, I just ran, along the track, that, from my googling indicated a long and winding road back down to the old Dava station and then from there back down to Grantown on Spey, home in time to watch my fellow Olympians . I would pick up the car in the morning.
It was hilly, very. I ran and ran, and ran by the right turn, takingthe wrong, and I ascended a dead big hill, the view back toward the Cairngorms towering above Aviemore and in front of me a blue blue horizon of sea and sky over the Moray Firth.
It was the stuff of epics, but it was the wrong road.
At the crown of the hill I turned back, I was 6 miles down and could see in the distance the glistening of the damp right road to Dava.
I realised now, that the steps that I had taken to replenish my depleted vitamins and h2o were meagre, meagre enough that is, for me to feeling the weak way that I was, but I ran and came back to the fork and right turn. I went for it and 10 miles in I crashed. The sun shone and the wind was strong.I plodded on, had to only walk, but after some Hell Gel, got a wee bit of a second wind and picked up a little, it was a long 3 miles back.
Lesson learned.
Do not run after the runs.

Reggae Reggae Sauce

84 days to go. Lots of rain soaked training over the last couple of weeks. Running in heavy rain is an invigorating experience, but that happens, only if you find yourself caught in a deluge, starting off in a deluge, is usually a no no.
We are three now , training, for the Loch Ness Marathon, moi, Helen Webster and Lynda Banks, so there will be much, determination, inspiration and consistency there and I am delighted to be training with them.

The Fundraising is going great guns, and going the way it is, the target will hopefully be reached.

Anne Mason, Gordon Urquharts’ wife sent me the following correspondence regarding the her wishes for the money raised -
My initial idea is to dedicate any funds raised to improving the Mental Health unit – this will make the environment more therapeutic and will also make it a more acceptable learning environment for the students. We raised £600 last year through my own contacts here and this was used to rebuild a very run down room- and paint it- ready to be used as an art and counselling room. I have seen recent photos of this. Money could be used to paint the two wards (after some plastering); fix the windows; and make a small library and internet office for the staff. Any work carried out so far was in partnership with the hospital- who covered the cost of labour. These ideas have come from the staff during my time in Chipata.
When Gordon was at the project at Chipata, he was helping some of the students develop their musical skills and had helped them form a reggae band, and he also was working on “”interpretation and drama” with the mental health unit and Anne is currently in discussion with Creative-Hi on continuing a way forward with what Gordon had already started.
So there is very much still going on from Gordon’s’ legacy .

Dalai Lama- Jogleader

35 miles running this week and I had to miss one session due to having breakfast with Dalai Lama at the Usher Hall in Edinburgh on Friday morning, and do you know  what His Holiness said…Keep Going, no matter what , Keep going, . What a great Jogleader he is.

99 days to go as of now and we are on Week 8 of the training programme , a 16 mile run tomorrow,  Sunday, our furthest yet, but the forecast is heavy heavy clompers, which will make  it  even more invigorating. 

This week, my Thursday run  was a sodden rain-soaked jaunt, my head was down a wee bit until , when running through the  Anagach woods, I  had  a big handsome hound bite me on the bum cheek. That woke me up and I suddenly was sprinting. Running Tip: If you are struggling , get a dog bite to get you focused .

After only being up for 3 days ,   donations are already up at an amazing £110. That is just brilliant.

 

So off to plan the 16 mile route

Return to Sender

Resurrection is hard to get a head round…

But

Breathe deep and Return……….

 

…..so anyway, there I was,

and I thought,

this cannot be the right, 

this same old pie and beans,

same old lager tops,  

same old washin’ the landin ,

how does it change,

amongst billions, 

in this same old go large drive in .

I……..

it was so obvious,

so clear,

the answer was, …..  

absolutely

no fucking  difference  at all,

fuck all,

zilch,

what’s fur ye will no go bye ye.

and that’s a fact….

Is it…

is it a fact.

In the name of shit,

that’s shite,

bullshite.

It’s not what was

it’s what is.

What is.

This is what is.

This…

this…

now,,,,,

right now…

this shit.

Change it.

This shit

and I thought

go back,

come back

Return

 

 

Regime Change

Psst, CJ here.
Haven’t been around since Christmas Eve.
It’s cos of JC, he is getting right on my tits. He is obsessing about keeping fit and has been for the the last few months, everyday he is at some kinda gymnastics, where limbs get elastic.
Classes, called somethink like spooning, pimp and skimp, kickbashing, or …or…. Turbopunch for Christesakeds.
Hence no angst-riding writing, or maudlin paragraphs of angry histrionics, or paradoxical points of fact in this crazy, topsy turvey, new fangled idealistic world.
Fruit Salads, fuckin fruit salads, in a see-through bowl, he makes that regularly, in a see through bowl.
Running through the wids at seven in the morning, capturing the red-embered skies, pink on the horizon, as bulbous sweatbeads spray, aff his heid, kissing the branches of birch and pine, his heart beating fearlessly.
He sleeps, contentedly, with his mug, smug and his shit solid.
No pining , no whining, no winding up.
He is happy.
This means war.
CJ

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