Patrick's Blog

What's on

2011-03-04T12:01:00.000-08:00

Don’t you find that Blogs are often longwinded and boring places, where you have to troll through endless pages of dross, and self indulgence to find something interesting or amusing? Of course this one is the obvious exception, but nevertheless I thought I would lay things out a little more palatable by listing the main ingredients with little explanations.

Click on any of the main titles or graphic to take you to the relevant page – You can ignore the rest, return here by using the back button in explorer, or navigate the archive menu on the left.

New Kilpatrick Page.

This page is dedicated to the New Kilpatrick Country Dance Club. Giving a bit of background, a slideshow of photos from annual charity dances (lots of familiar faces), and demonstration team particulars and video.

Tea in the Park.

The Glasgow Branch of the Royal Scottish Country Dance Society’s visits to Mugdock Country Park with Slideshows and videos. Including a performance of Marion Macintosh’s ‘16th of June’.

Christmas Newsletter.

Giving an overview of my activities in 2009, including my appearance at the Theatre Royal, and the Gay Pride March.

The Skunk Cabbage Patch.

Article I had published in various magazines about a strange plant growing in Milngavie.

18 Ann Street.

Article I had published about life in the Dundee tenements.

School Days.

Reminisces of St. Mary’s Forebank in the 50’s. Including sectarian riots, teacher brutality, and funny incidents.

Army Days.

My first day in the army. Although this page has a censorship warning regarding bad language, sex and violence, it seems for some reason to be the most visited.

Japan Days

Life and work in Japan. Includes Pachinko Parlours, karaoke Dens, and poetry.

William McGonagall meets Captain Scott.

Although they both undoubtedly lived in Dundee at the same time, there is no record of McGonagall and Scott ever having met. However, what if Scotland's celebrated (worst) poet felt inclined to give an account of Capt. Scott’s story?
A poem by Patrick McGonagall Murray!!!

Les Marié de la Tour Eiffel.
Perhaps of slightly limited interest? Although, over two thousand hits on YouTube, and a requested liaison from Williamsburg cultural center in New York, goes to show that people out there (like me) are attracted to some obscure material. This takes you back to 1920’s Paris. Jean Cocteau and the Group of Six (regularly featuring at the Salle Huyghens in Montparnasse) produced this extraordinary musical, operetta, ballet, something!! You decide, but the music’s the thing, bold, brash, prolific, and indicative of the period.

A 'Society' Wedding.

The wedding of RSCDS Glasgow Branch Chairman, Iain Hutchison, to Patricia Dawson took place on 24th July 2010.

The wedding story, souvenir photos, and a short video of the dancing.

Glasgow Branch Newsletter Archives.

The late ninety’s was a particularly active period in the history of the Glasgow Branch. Although, by no means considered its heyday (now unfortunately well beyond our ken), these times did account for some interesting perspectives, which lie comfortably within our personal memories of people, activities, events, opinions, etc. Perhaps this could be an appropriate time for recollection, reflection, or even (in some cases) revulsion.

As the editor of the Newsletter at that time, I was obviously the fulcrum for published activity, and retain access to the relevant archives, which I have now uploaded to my Blog for your perusal. Bearing in mind that the Newsletter in those days contained up to 16 foolscap pages, it could be a marathon read. However, it’s displayed in bite size segments, with the relevant highlights illustrated.

Important thing to bear in mind.
1. They are reproduced in entirety – Any contributor reconsidering their opinions or objecting to republication – Relevant material will be removed immediately.
Issue one (August 1997)

Includes poetic introductions from Walter Proven and Lorn Macintyre, also an interview with Edith Watson.

Issue two (News Brief October 1997)

Includes the Christmas Ball in the City Hall, Janette Shiach’s resignation.

Issue three (Christmas 1997)

Includes dancing etiquette by Helen Murray, country dancing espionage in France during the war, interview with John Johnston, Peter Knapman’s appraisal of the Society, Glasgow Herald announcement of the first ever meeting of the Society, preparations for the Society’s 75th Anniversary AGM in Glasgow. This is a Big Issue’ edition, give yourself plenty of time.

Issue four (News Brief 1998)

Includes condemning appraisal of RSCDS footwear by eminent Orthopaedic specialist, Day of Dance in George Square, details and information.

Issue five (April 1998)

Includes Dick Daniel’s diatribe on the SCD experience, report on the Primary Schools Festival, the results of the Anniversary Dance Competition, the AGM ‘Follies’ Playbill, Mary Prentice obituary, Ruth Beattie’s reply to Peter Knapman, J.B Milne dance background, Alba club introduction, Ruth Nimmo joins the Newsletter Team.

Issue six (August 1998)

This was the controversial ‘Bottle’ issue, and the one everyone refers to when remembering my time as Editor. Includes taking the floor by Marlyn Turbitt, Angus Fitchet obituary, Gay Rights, Reminisces of a Demonstration Team Dancer by Ruth Beattie, Taking the Floor by Ruth Rintoul, Seann Truibhas Willichan explained, Day of Dance in George Square reports, taking the Floor by Alasdair Brown.

Japan Days

2010-02-28T07:15:00.000-08:00

I worked for Norprint International (a Label Co. based in Boston, Lincs.) for nigh on 27 years, and for most of that time I had a distinct hankering to join the Export Department. On various visits to the factory I’d accost the Managing Director Doug Smith, informing him of my developing language skills, and suggesting that I would be an asset to our international endeavours. “The time’s not right Patrick” he’d say “ But keep it up”.

I had a phone call out of the blue some years later – “ Hello, It’s Doug Smith here, I think the time is right”. As things had developed, Doug left Norprint some time before I had ‘accepted’ voluntary redundancy, and in the meantime became Managing Director of Ko-Pack Europe, a Japanese Company producing Label Printing Presses. One of Doug’s main attributes as a businessman was his genuine interest in the people he worked with, affording him the unique ability to tune into their psyche, sometimes placing square pegs successfully in round holes, and as in my case, keeping people who were successful where they belonged. Until eventually his resourceful memory for people, events, and places would kick in “When the time was right”.

The six months (eventually 18) remit was as a Consultant Product Development manager for a revolutionary new Printing Press, soon to be launched in Europe. The machine was to be called ‘Emanon’. Apparently the Japanese Directors, asked to propose a name, drew a blank, going around the table, each in turn came up with “No name”. Mr. Kobayashi, with his usual panache, said, “So it shall be – No name, but we’ll spell it backwards – Emanon”. So, it was thus that a life rewarding opportunity presented itself to work, discover, and play for some time in Japan.

Jun Kobayashi.

The first thing that would strike you upon being introduced to Jun Kobayashi (JK) was his million dollar smile. Well, perhaps not quite a million, but his array of gold teeth certainly gives an indication of the multi millionaire behind them. His father had owned a successful ticket-making factory in Tokyo before the war, and following the demise of both his father and country supported his mother in resurrecting the company in tune with the renaissance of the nation. Educated in Japan, England, and France, his cultural and language skills stood him in good stead to develop the business, and that he did on a massive scale. With an inherent philosophy of inspiration, presentation, and innovation, he now commanded a vast business empire.

Such eminence of course generally comes with a certain degree of eccentricity, and in this area also JK didn’t find himself wanting. He owned five Jaguar cars (all green) each parked at various centres of activity, Tokyo, Yamagata, Peterborough, Vermont USA, and Singapore. However, he never possessed a driving licence of any kind. Copious consumption of malt whisky, Guinness, and Chris Barber, afforded JK an erratic style of life in which he never singed a credit card slip (anybody handy would do it), travelled across the globe without a stitch of luggage, and bought anything on impulse (antiques, electronic equipment, large jars of organic Viagra even) mostly given away immediately as gifts. On one occasion, a group of us had just arrived in Tokyo on the Bullet Train from Yamagata, and followed JK to a large restaurant, which was absolutely packed. People were squashed up and an extra table was immediately laid for this eminent customer and his guests. As an extensive array of food and drink arrived to fill the table, JK then proceeded to give everything away, and we ended up in the street, outside Baskin Robbins eating ice cream. Both being a bit Francophile, and lubricated with fine malts, JK and I would extend our ‘intellectual’ discussions to the early hours. One of his favourite prose was “In the beginning is my end – In my end is my beginning” (T. S. Eliot). His English professor had written this on the blackboard at the start of the term to the utter confusion of the Japanese students. I think he’s been pondering it ever since.

Tokyo.
People who suffered under the Japanese during the war will recount that they are the most cruel, evil, and vindictive race imaginable. Who flipped the coin? Tokyo has a population of 36 million souls crammed in a space no bigger that New York (19.5 million), the only way it would work is with an inherent attitude of respect and consideration for each individual’s space and environment. They acknowledge each other with a step back, a polite bow, respectfully presenting a personal/business card with an engaging smile. I recall an amusing sight from a gantry at Haneda Airport - It must have been the assembly of some sort of woman’s convention – Hundreds of little ladies continually bobbing heads, and thrusting cards, weaving around greeting each other with boundless fervour. Intensity of traffic in Tokyo must come close to the world record, but a prevailing ‘give and take’ attitude, together with polite deference to fellow drivers (you never hear the sound of a horn) ensures an extraordinary smooth flow of traffic. Just imagine if those people were Italian? There would be utter anarchy. There’s no tipping in Japan, taxi drivers, waitresses, etc. Consider it an honour to serve, and every purchase is scrupulously conducted. I’ve nothing against Italians, but can you imagine this in the tourist area of Rome?

You remember those old arcade machines where you flipped little metal balls into compartments on the face. In Japan it’s called ‘Pachinko’, and the so-called ‘Parlours’ are all over Tokyo. If you can imagine an aircraft hanger filled with thousands of these machines, garish décor, flashing lights, a thick smoky haze, blaring western music, and above all the deafening clatter of metal balls, then you’ve arrived. When you do happen to hit a winning streak, what do you get? – More balls!!! – Millions of them – So much so that they have to come with a little trolley full of wooden boxes to cart them to the cash point. Cash Point? Well gambling’s illegal in Japan, so all you get is a ‘Gift’ token. You have to take this outside, down an alley, and trade with a representative of organized crime.

Mind you, my time in Tokyo wasn’t all spent indulging in Tappanyaki, Saké, pachinko, and Karaoke. My visit did coincide with the tenth anniversary of the opening of the Suntory Concert Hall, and the celebratory performance by the Yomiuri Nippon Symphony Orchestra was one of the most remarkable of my musical experiences.

Yamagata.
Built on a ‘Green Field’ site (if you imagine one in Japan), Ko-Pack’s Yamagata factory was constructed in the shape of a giant aircraft (another one of JKs conceptions); the fuselage was the preparation area (print drums, plates, inks, engineering, etc.), while the label production machines were spread out along the wings. Upstairs in the cockpit was the administration hub, and at the tail end was JKs private suite, which was convenient, as he would sometimes walk around the factory in his stripped pyjamas.

This was also my humble abode while he was away. As you can appreciate, print factories are normally messy places, but this one, you could quite literally eat your dinner off the floor, you even had to remove your shoes at the entrance and don slippers.

Don’t they have any homes to go to? Apparently at least, not much. My co-workers at Yamagata had a quite strange lifestyle, extremely diligent and productive in the factory, but completely uninhibited outside, taking the term work hard and play hard to the extreme. To be fair, housing in such an overpopulated environment, resulted in very cramped and flimsy construction. Indeed a colleague at Ko-Pack Peterborough related that having been invited to stay at a ‘House’ used by the many commuting workers (most only went home at weekends), nature called urgently in the middle of the night, and completely frustrated at being unable to find the sliding door, he burst through the wall. The big release for the Ko-Pac boys was the Karaoke Bars, all shapes and sizes, from one-roomed flats to elaborate lounges, each with individual ‘Attractions’. One of the endearing features of these nightspots was the young ladies. Now, these girls are not lap-dancers, strippers, or prostitutes, but professional ‘Companions’, salaried, tax paying working girls (they actually would clock on and off), who were there to flatter, rapturously applaud your pathetic renditions, and play little titivating games. My favourite was nibbling a sausage on a stick (yes, snacks were provided) from each end, until our lips met in an ‘embarrassed’ kiss. Obviously this is the modern equivalent of the Geisha.

“She would like to dance with you” said my translator Mr. Sato “I would be delighted” says I. After returning to the table after 20 minutes of ‘Close encounters’ (you couldn’t get a cigarette paper between us, and we hardly moved an inch), “what did she say Mr. Sato?” – “She say, you very good dancer!!!.” – “Oh!! – Tell her she also is a very good dancer” – “She say, she no go back to hotel with you tonight you have just met, maybe next time”. “Where shall we go tonight lads” said Mr. Sato after work – “Talent, Talent, I cry (this was the club from the previous night)” – “No, we go somewhere else” – Damn!!!. I must say, there was nothing sleazy about these places, all was above board and completely honest. I observed a young lady watering down a whisky poured for Mr. Nishiyama on one occasion, but she had considered he was overdoing it, and as the bottle was paid in advance, lined and signed for the next time, there would have been no advantage. She was quite right by the way, going to the loo later, I was obstructed by Nishiyama standing motionless in front of the door. He had half turned the handle, rested his head on the door and fell asleep.

Right!! Taxi home? Another innovation – Two guys arrive in the cab, one to drive you back, and another to drive your car – Drink driving laws are very strict in Japan.

Yamagata is in fact traditionally a spa resort, with natural hot springs renowned for their health giving attributes. These are enjoyed by a visit to the ‘Onsen’ (the baths). On entry (segregated), you are supplied with a robe and facecloth. The facecloth as it turns out is to cover your willy. Japanese men have very small willies, and whether or not they consider this an embarrassment, the facecloth is held over the crutch once the robe is removed, to be later placed on the head once you enter the water. But first, there’s a whole rigmarole of ritual to go through. Sitting on a three-legged stool in front of a gushing faucet, you fill a little wooden bucket and continually pour it over yourself, until you consider yourself scrupulously clean enough to enter the pool. Can you imagine getting into a giant bowl on mulligatawny soup? -Or could it be Brown Windsor? At first quite unbearable, gradually becoming very pleasant, and ultimately extremely refreshing. Sitting there with my willy exposed to the elements, its cover on my head, absorbing the rich vitamins through my pores, and acknowledging the smiles on the timorous faces that surrounded me, I really considered myself one of the natives. Quite comical in the dressing room afterwards, my co-mulligatawnies tended to stroll around chatting in their underpants. Now, the waist size of the western style Y-Fronts didn’t take into account the fact that Japanese have no backsides, so although the waist fitted snugly, the rest of the garment was left flapping about like a little mini skirt.

Following the famous Mogami river for about 30 miles to the south of Yamagata City, on its meandering way into the Japan Sea, a slight detour takes you up within the realms of the extremely beautiful Mount Haguro, immortalised by the Japanese equivalent to our Rabbie Burns, Matsuo Bashō. Where Burns poetry can possibly be described as all about wine, women, and song, Bashō’s could be described as, well, short. He was the master of ‘Haiku’, the very precious gift of condensing a whole spectrum of emotions, feelings, and observations into very few words.

You see, in the olden days, Japanese poets pleased their emperors by composing extremely long verse that would last sometimes days (yes, even longer than Tam O Shanter). So, they eventually developed a method of punting their wares by composing what would be described as a trailer today. This became shorter and shorter until the trailer became the actual poem.

Mizusawa.

Away to the north, this is a lush green region of the country, renowned for its meat production - Not a lot of it about in Japan!! Didn’t go there for a steak though, JK had just bought out the engineering firm (TOYO KOKI Co.) that had traditionally built his presses, and this was where ‘Emanon’ was to be giving birth.

For me though, one of the most interesting things about the company was its Founder and current President Mr. Toyoji Sasaki, a former Kamikaze Pilot. Oh Yes!! Now, you don’t meet many of them do you? The veteran reunions are renowned for their sparseness and brevity. As a seventeen-year-old Air Cadet he had ‘Volunteered’ for martyrdom at the very tail end of the war. Thirty planes had took off for a sortie immediately to be called back to base as peace had just broken out. Notwithstanding, only half a dozen actually returned to face the disgrace of a failed mission, the rest committing hara-kiri by ditching their planes into the sea. Still flying his own little plane at that time, the employees at the Toyo factory would regard the skies with trepidation every time he came into land on the company airstrip – You never know!!!

The Kamikaze Haiku.

In Blossom today then scattered

Life is so like a delicate flower

How can one expect the fragrance?

To last forever?
(Admiral Onishi Takijiro)

There’s more!!!

Emanon in Europe?

What happened to JK?

Any encouraging comments posted below would prompt me to continue.

New Kilpatrick Page

2010-02-27T12:27:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the ‘New Kilpatrick’ page on my Blog.

Now you’ve arrived, or may wish to return, please feel free to explore other archives from the Blog (listed on left), that you may find interesting and amusing.

Note that: - After following Slide shows, you can click into centre, and this will take you to the Picasa album, where you can view the gallery, individual photos, or even order prints. Clicking on to any individual photo will show enlargements.

New Kilpatrick Scottish Country Dance Club was formed in October 1982 at the suggestion of the Rev David Hamilton, Minister of New Kilpatrick Parish Church at the time. From its small beginnings, the Club has flourished under the guidance of Peter Knapman, who has been our teacher from the start. The Club retains a very healthy membership to this day.

One of the main events organized by the club is an annual Charity Dance. When both members and dancers from across the region enjoy meeting up, an excellent buffet, luck on the raffle and some first-rate dancing to a top band. Donations from this function, ranging from around £600 to £800, go to a different sponsored charity each year.

Please find below, a slideshow of pictures taken at the 2012 Charity Dance held in Bearsden Hall on February 3^rd. Many thanks to Eric Hudson; without the use of his excellent camera (Nikon D40), this sequence would not have been possible

Below you will find a slideshow compilation of photographs from various dances over the last few years.

Another element of the club consists of the Demonstration Team. Together with the New Kilpatrick Ceilidh Band, Singers, and individual Musicians, We form a little concert party that entertain Friendship Groups, Church Fellowships, and Old People Homes etc. This of course takes up a lot of our spare time, organizing, rehearsing, and performing. However, our ‘Gigs’ are much appreciated wherever we go, and the delight shown on the faces of the foot tapping audiences make it all worthwhile.

I have great pleasure in presenting below, the New Kilpatrick Dancers, Singers, and Ceilidh Band.

Recent Playbills for New Kilpatrick Demonstration Team Performances (again, click on to enlarge).

’25 Years On’

In celebration of the ‘First’ 25 years of the clubs existence, a book of 15 Scottish Country Dances was produced, devised by members, and intrinsically linked to people and events over the period. An example from this book is featured in the following YouTube clip, danced by the Demonstration Team upon the occasion of the commemorative dinner on 17th November 2007.

A Jig for Eric and Margaret was devised by Peter Knapman to honour the occasion of the wedding of Eric and Margaret Barrowman on 31st of March 1990. David Ross and Norrie Williams, with Peter Knapman on piano, provide the music.

Glasgow Branch Newsletter August 1997

2010-02-26T08:29:00.000-08:00

Please find below, the RSCDS Glasgow Branch Newsletter for August 1997

I was the Editor at that time, and thought you may enjoy reminiscing, and see how things have changed – Or have they?

Clicking on to any individual page will show enlargements - Clicking again will make it even larger.

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Glasgow Branch News Brief

2010-02-26T08:15:00.000-08:00

Please find below, the RSCDS Glasgow Branch News Brief for October 1997
I was the Editor at that time, and thought you may enjoy reminiscing, and see how things have changed – Or have they?
Clicking on to any individual page will show enlargements - Clicking again will make it even larger.

Page 1 Page 2

Page 3 Page 4

Branch Newsletter Dec. 1997

2010-02-26T07:52:00.000-08:00

Please find below, the RSCDS Glasgow Branch Newsletter for December 1997

I was the Editor at that time, and thought you may enjoy reminiscing, and see how things have changed – Or have they?
Clicking on to any individual page will show enlargements - Clicking again will make it even larger.

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Branch Newsletter April 1998

2010-02-26T07:14:00.000-08:00

Please find below, the RSCDS Glasgow Branch Newsletter for April 1998

I was the Editor at that time, and thought you may enjoy reminiscing, and see how things have changed – Or have they?

Clicking on to any individual page will show enlargements - Clicking again will make it even larger.

Page 1 Page 2

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Branch News Brief 1998

2010-02-26T06:49:00.000-08:00

Please find below, the RSCDS Glasgow Branch News Brief 1998

I was the Editor at that time, and thought you may enjoy reminiscing, and see how things have changed – Or have they?
Clicking on to any individual page will show enlargements - Clicking again will make it even larger.

Page 1 Page 2

Page 3 Page 4

Branch Newsletter August 1998

2010-02-26T02:28:00.000-08:00

Please find below, the RSCDS Glasgow Branch Newsletter for August 1998.

I was the Editor at that time, and thought you may enjoy reminiscing, and see how things have changed – Or have they?
Clicking on to any individual page will show enlargements - Clicking again will make it even larger.

Page 1 Page 2

Page 3 Page 4

Page 5 Page 6

Page 7 Page 8

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Tea in the Park

2010-02-25T11:13:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the ‘Tea in the Park' page on my Blog.

Now you’ve arrived, or may wish to return, please feel free to explore other archives from the Blog (listed on left), that you may find interesting and amusing.
Note that: - After following Slide shows, you can click into centre, and this will take you to the Picasa album, where you can view the gallery, individual photos, or even order prints. Clicking on to any individual photo will show enlargements.

Every year the Glasgow Branch of the Royal Scottish Country Dance Society visit Mugdock, just north of Glasgow, for a Day in the Park. Branch members enjoy dancing to live music in the open air (whatever the weather), and encouraging visitors, bystanders, and anyone they can persuade, to join in. For many, especially foreign visitors, it’s the first encounter they have with our music and dance. These types of public displays do a lot to promote our culture, and present a very enjoyable experience for all concerned. The following Slideshow, video and YouTube clips are a compilation of events over the last few years.

Glasgow Branch RSCDS Dancing at Mugdock Park.

Glasgow Branch RSCDS dancing 16th June at Mugdock Park in 2007.

The dance was devised by Marion McIntosh and David Ross is playing.

Glasgow Branch RSCDS at Mugdock Park on 16th June 2007
Video of photo compilation.

Army Days

2010-02-24T08:29:00.000-08:00

Please Note: - I don’t wish to upset anyone – The following article contains raucous language, together with incidents of a violent and sexual nature. If this is likely to offend, please accept my apologies, and read no further.

Army Days.

‘Musicians Wanted’ extolled the advert in the New Musical Express. Mind you, at that time (fifteen years old) I thought I was one. I’d learnt to play the clarinet at school, was part of the School Orchestra, and a couple of Jazz Bands (one called The Dundee Saints – Arghhhh!!!), so I read on. “The Loyal North Lancashire Regiment requires Bandsmen – Join up, become a professional musician, see the world, glamorous uniform, well paid, etc. etc.” Who could resist? So, after a frenzy of recruitment, medical examinations, signing up, and receiving the queens shilling, I’m on the train to Preston with my worldly possessions (plus clarinet), and a pink travel order from the recruitment office in Dundee. “Somebody will meet you at the station” they said “just make sure you have the slip in evidence”.

Preston station was a daunting place for a lad that had never been out of Scotland before, and obviously no one took me on, although I waved that bloody slip all over the place. Nothing for it but to phone the Barracks.

“Fullwood Barracks, Company Sergeant Major Perkins speaking, how can I help?”

“Hello. Yes, it’s Patrick Murray here, I’m a new recruit, no doubt you’re expecting me, I’ve just arrived from Dundee, but there’s nobody to meet me”.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh fucking dear!!! Do you hear this corporal? This lads just come all the way from Dundee and there’s no one to meet him at the station – What the fuck is this man’s army coming to? Are you sure you haven’t missed them son?”

“No, I’ve been all over the station with the pink slip in my hand, but no one’s come up to me”.

“Dear oh fucking dear – Hey! Corporal!!! – It gets worse – He’s been waving his pink slip all over the place, and he hasn’t been approached. Now, listen to this very clearly soldier, you’re in the army now – Get your fucking arse up here pronto!!!”

The phone went dead - “That’s not very nice,” I thought, but although this was my first encounter with Sergeant Major (Polly) Perkins, it certainly wasn’t going to be the last.

What I very soon began to realise was that the vast majority of people in the Army at that time didn’t necessarily want to be there. National Service was still in operation, and it had also become a refuge for waifs and strays of all sorts – delinquents, as an alternative sentencing – disinherited orphans – generally lost souls. Some developing a venomous hatred, and utter contempt for what they perceived as Hell on Earth.

On arrival outside the barracks, I encountered a case in point on guard duty.

“Hi, I’ve just joined up, where should I go?”

“Fuck off”

“Sorry?”

“Go on – Fuck off – Fuck off”. By this time he was pushing me forcefully away from the gate. “If you go through that gate, that’s the end of your life, believe me mate, you don’t want to get involved, do us both a big favour and fuck off now while you still have the chance”.

I eventually fought passed my erstwhile counsellor, and crossed the threshold into the abyss with cries of “You’ll be sorry” ringing in my ears. Needless to say, I wasn’t expected, and a hastily acquired mattress and some linen found me billeted in a room with Junior Bandsman Whitfield. Now, it didn’t occur to me that, although the other dormitories were pretty well packed, Whitfield and I should be shacked up in a large room on our own. “Would you like to be my friend?” he said. “Certainly” – A quick postcard off to mum >Just arrived, everything’s fine, signed up for the Cricket Team, and found a good friend<. Arriving back in the block after my first visit to the NAAFI with my friend, a chap passed me in the corridor, “He looks familiar” I thought, but it wasn’t him, it was the suit – He was wearing my suit!!! A very distinctive Prince-of-Wales check. “Hey!! That’s my suit”. “I’m just borrowing it for the night” he said “Anyway, your locker was open”. Finally leaving the guy standing in his non-regulation underpants, I rushed back to my locker to find, you’ve guessed it, all but empty. However, a fair bit of ranting and raving, and a quickly spreading rumour that a mad Scotsman was on the rampage violently striping people to their underpants, helped to retrieve most of my kit.

At lights out, I gratefully snuggled up in my pit, completely exhausted, dreaming about taking part in my first cricket match (I’ll pick it up) the following afternoon. Corporal Springer had waylaid me earlier – “You’re new, do you play cricket?” – “Never played in my life” – “Fine, you’re in the team”.

What a day!! Wait a minute it wasn’t quite over yet. In my slumber, perhaps enjoying an erotic dream, I stumbled into consciousness with the stark realisation that Whitfield was in bed beside me, completely naked in an aroused state of mind. After frantic efforts in dislodging him, he looked at me in a hurtful sulk. “ I thought you wanted to be my friend?” – “Yes” I said, “But not that fucking friendly”.

Some time later (a Junior Corporal; by now) I was ‘requested’ to perform the function of ‘Right Marker’ at Muster Parade. This requires a representative of each Company to formally position themselves on the square in advance of each squad marching on to the Parade Ground to the accompaniment of the Regimental Band. They would march up to their recognised marker where formal dressing into ranks would commence. On the command of ‘Right Dress’ the marker would line up each row (extended right arm, eyes right and a lot of shuffling) by indicating any soldier out of line. “Get back number three,” I shouted – Oh no!! Sergeant Major (Polly) Perkins was approaching me. “ What did you say Laddie? – Say again” – “Get back number three” I retorted – “What’s that, you want a cup of tea?” – He instinctively knew that, although the row upon row of sternly fixed regimental faces behind him were revelling in this banter, no outward indication would be detected for fear of recrimination. He was in complete control, after all it was his parade ground, it was his regiment, it was his barracks, it was his fucking army. Frustration that everyone didn’t necessarily acknowledge this fact developed in him a sardonic approach to all and sundry, particularly officers. He would casually walk past young lieutenants, pretending to be in ignorance their proximity, then suddenly clicking his heels together in a smart salute and shouting “I SALUTED YOU SIR!!!” Then taking great delight in the bumbling apologies gushing forth from the young sprog of an officer “Oh, oh, sorry Sergeant Major, I honestly didn’t see you”. Even the Commanding Officer wasn’t exempt, entering the overflowing gym hall before the start of one of the monthly boxing exhibition bouts, smoking was strictly forbidden - He shouted, “Who the fuck’s that smoking up the front corporal?” - “It’s the CO Sir” the corporal fearfully replied. Walking smartly to the front seats, the Sergeant Major beamed into the senior officer’s face – “ Soothing, isn’t it sir” he genially observed.

Anyway, I diversify; Polly’s attention on the Parade Ground was now fully occupied by my good self, and something a lot more serious had become apparent to him, something he now realised, should have become more and more obvious over the past number weeks. Now behind me, his mouth was almost touching my left ear. “ Am I hurting you son?” He bawled with mock concern – “No Sergeant Major”- “are you sure I’m not giving you any pain?” - “ No Sergeant Major” - “Well I should be, I’m STANDING ON YOUR FUCKING HAIR!!!! – Take off your beret - Oh, for fuck sake, you look like Shirley Temple – How dare you come on my parade looking like a big tart – You!! And You!! Escort - Guard Room!! – Up, one two, one two” I was consequently accompanied on the double to detention, where my belt, tie, and shoelaces were promptly removed in case of attempted suicide (Over a haircut?).

Sitting alone my cell, I now began to contemplate. How had it had all come to this? Had it all started so innocently? Ginger, the camp barber, was a cripple, and he, like most of the National Service guys whose hair he sheared to destruction (what style would you like? He would sneer), hated the army, but only because they wouldn’t let him in. Mr. Teazy Weazy he wasn’t, but it was a living I suppose, and like most barbers at that time, he had a lucrative sideline in selling contraceptives. Alf Bentley and I had met a couple of nice girls while strolling (or prowling) in Avenham Park Preston the previous week, and a date was arranged for the coming Saturday. Being conscientious men about town, and with more bravado than expectations, it was considered that the purchase of jonnies would be in order. By the time that word and banter had got around a little, I had acquired the money for five packs, and trotted off to see Ginge. He was in a bad mood, with a room full of new recruits giving him more flak than he would have expected on the front line. “Five packs of Durex” I whispered in his ear. “ What? Five packs of Durex” he shouted, “ You’re going to be doing some shagging!!” The assembled audience of course took up this theme, “ I’ve already been out with her, is five packs enough?” said one, “He just uses them for wanking, he’ll be back for more tomorrow” said another, “that’ll do you for five years then” – “He puts on three at a time to make his cock bigger”, and so it went on until Ginge finally came up with the goods and I went sheepishly on my way – You swine Ginge!!

There was another thing Ginge hated with intensity, and that was the ‘celebrated’ Junior Core of Drums. A rabble on the march (they were only learning), with bugles blaring and drums thumping, the din would resonate all around the barrack buildings. As they passed his shop he would rush to close the windows, and hold his hands over his ears, but needless to say the noise would still penetrate, compounding his consternation and drowning his torrent of expletives. As a Bandsman, I had nothing to do with the Core of Drums. However, as an inspirational thought, or more likely a streak of malice, Drum Major Greenwood gave me command of the ‘ensemble’ one fine afternoon. Swaggering with Mace in hand, I led them off on their daily round of musical destruction. They must have felt a bit miffed that one of their own hadn’t been chosen, so they were up for a bit mischief. The front line, deliberately taking shorter steps than I was, created a 25-yard gap between us, resulting in a lot of pointing and sniggering of bystanders as I passed, my smart marching, and flamboyant swinging gestures with the mace completely detached from any link with a band. Finally daring to flaunt protocol by turning around, there was nothing behind me, I had turned a corner and they had gone straight on. As luck (or divine providence) would have it, I caught up, and halted them, just in front of Ginge’s shop. Now, I must admit, retaliation came to mind, it was now payback time for my pent-up humiliation. Ginge was already closing the windows and gesticulating through the glass, and the band were annoyed at having their triumphant march interrupted. Nobody’s going anywhere I decided, and to the accompaniment of Ginge’s hobbling up and down through the window, his rage red face matching his ginger hair, the core of drums were put through their whole 20 minute repertoire. The next time I went to Ginge for a haircut, I was kindly advised to “FUCK-OFF YOU SCOTTISH BASTARD”.

Nobody actually paid Ginge for a haircut, and as he obviously couldn’t rely on any tips, his imbursement came from a levy deducted from the soldier’s wages. So, in effect, I was paying for the privilege of being told to F-OFF every time I went to the barbers. The wages clerk was sympathetic, but he said there was nothing he could do about it, and my superiors resigned themselves to the fait accompli situation of my hair getting longer and longer, until Sergeant Major ‘Polly’ Perkins ended up standing on it. On my release from prison the following morning, Ginge and I were paraded in front of Lieutenant Colonel William Snodgrass CO Commanding the Lancastrian Brigade. “ What do you say Lance Corporal Murray” he said looking up from the papers. “He called me a Scottish Bastard Sir,” I said. The colonel looked me straight in the face, “Well, you are a Scottish Bastard – What are you?” “A Scottish Bastard Sir” I replied. “There”, said the CO turning to Ginge, “You’re both in agreement, now take him away and give him a haircut”.

Paddy McAllister was has tough as they come, a squat, pug nosed, second generation ‘Liverpool Irish’, and regimental Boys Boxing Champion. He was scared of nothing or no one - Except Corporal Green that is - a weedy little cornet player with an impish grin. The reason Paddy lived in fear and trepidation of this innocuous individual was quite simple, Greenie had an enormous crush on him.

At that time there were four of us in the Junior Corporal’s dormitory, Paddy, Greenie, a big fellow from Manchester named Hull, and myself. Every night Cpl Green would snuggle up in bed early to watch Cpl McAllister undress and get into bed naked (very quickly, with a furtive eye!!), a simple pleasure you may consider, but Paddy was becoming more and more agitated. You see Paddy, a peace loving character despite his aggressive capabilities, was very apprehensive that if he ever did remonstrate with his ardent admirer, he would end up killing him. And so the situation settled into an uneasy compromise, with both parties restraining their natural instincts. Until one day!!!

Paddy was wallowing in the bath (possibly up to something naughty), when all of a sudden there was a blinding flash of light; Greenie had climbed over the top of the cubicle, and was snapping away with his new camera. Bursting out of the latrines completely naked, Paddy accosted me in the corridor “Hold me” – “Don’t let me loose “ – “I’m going to kill him”. Realising the seriousness of the situation, I got Paddy in a bear hug, and despite his struggles, manage to restrain him long enough to talk some sense into him. By this time a small group had gathered around, no doubt wondering what kinky antics a naked Irishman and a clothed Scotsman were up to – Attempted rape? It was decided that, embarrassing as Paddy felt it was for him, to approach an officer on the subject, and I would accompany him for support.

Young Mr. Lees was on national service, fresh out of university, way out of his depth in a military role. He decided to teach us how to play proper rugby one time – As we went into a ruck, they all had a good kick at him, and he ended up having to be stretchered off to the medical wing. Paddy and I entered his office rather sheepishly “Corporal Green assaulted me” blurted out Paddy straight away. “Oh dear, I take it that it wasn’t a physical assault” said Mr. Lees apprehensively “what about you Murray?”- “Here for support sir” – “what happened then? “He took my photo,” said Paddy. Although Mr. Lees shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, he knew there was more to come – “I was naked, in the bath at the time,” said Paddy before braking into his “I’ll kill him” routine. Greenie was finally decanted to another dormitory, and peace once again prevailed in the ‘Boy’s Wing’ – But not for long!!!

Tabiner and Yates were a couple of hard men from Liverpool. They were lithe young lads with a fierce countenance, their formidable appearance greatly accentuated by shaven skulls. You see, when a period of guardhouse detention of over three days was decreed; heads were shaved to deter prisoners absconding. The theory being that escapees would stand out at railway/bus stations, hitchhiking, etc. while trying to distance themselves from the dragnet of the Preston police (remember, these were in the days of Elvis, Tony Curtis, and the emergence of the Beatles). The bare skull was obviously also meant as type of punishment and deterrent to others, but Tabiner and Yates continued to shave their heads even when released, perhaps in anticipation of reoffending, or as a badge of honour. This formidable pair ruthlessly exploited the precarious lives of the ‘Boy’s Wing’, controlling all the rackets, such as money lending (pay back double on pay day), single ciggies (at two bob a throw), and protection (get someone of your back at a negotiable price). As the Pay Master administered to the queue of eager recipients, the mini mafia were around the corner severely lightening their customer’s pay packets, and maintaining the continuing need for their services. Senior NCOs largely ignored this entrepreneurial pair, considering them a couple of hopeless, or more likely ‘Basket’ cases, giving them a six- bed room to themselves, and even indulging in their provision (at a discount) when desperate for a smoke. However, their whole empire was about to tumble, with tragic consequences, but unfortunately not for them.

Drum Major Greenwood would be considered crazy by some (if not all). A rotund, robust gentleman in his forties, who, following a long and distinguish? Military career, was put out to grass (or out of the way) by being given ‘parental’ control of the boy’s wing. He ran his domain with what could be considered as a serious joke, ranting and raving one minute, jovial and backslapping the next. “What’s your first name son?” he once bellowed at a young lad from West Wales,” Anthony” said the boy in a broad welsh accent – “Ant any?” – “ What do you mean you ‘Ant any’? – “Everybody has a first name!!!” – Where are you from?” – “West Wales” – “Welsh Wales? I though all Wales was welsh!! As duty junior NCO, my job was to get everybody up in the morning, starting with the Drum Major, who, when obliged to stay over, occupied the single room across from mine. I’d enter his room after a gentle tap with a tray containing ‘tea for two’ and biscuits. Not for us to enjoy together I may add, he’d invariably had a skin full the night before and invited his ‘frightfully attractive’ amorous encounter back to enjoy the delights of the barracks. Needless to say the alcohol enhanced ‘frightfully attractive’ apparition would be reassessed the following morning on being awoken by me in a single army iron bed rendering a coy smile while pulling the sheet over her voluptuous top half – A polite “thank you Corporal Murray” from the Drum Major ensured my complete discretion. It’s Drum Major Greenwood we also had to thank for our repertoire of bawdy songs, on the way to our camp in North Wales, sitting with us in the back of the lorry, he would lead the chorus of the ‘Queen Street Girls’ – “ We are from Queen Street, good girls are we, we take a pride in our virginity etc. etc.” – Unloading a barrel of beer clubbed together for the senior NCOs, he placed it in a cool mountain stream for later consumption, although I suspect he harboured little chance of an amours encounter to share his bivouac that night. When the beer disappeared he knew instinctively that Tabiner and Yates was responsible, but by the time he caught up with them they had almost drained the barrel, and were dancing around half naked in a gully severely disquieting some sheep. “I’ll sort you two out” raged the Drum Major. The delinquent pair, considering themselves already beyond any meaningful punishment, could not imagine the tragic consequences that would develop, but unfortunately not for them.

John Bottomley really shouldn’t have been in the army. He was a tall gangly lad somewhat congenial, but naïve to the extent of being generally considered dim. His mother had just married again to a military man and possibly being considered as being ‘in the way’ he was encouraged to join up – “Toughen the lad up”. Because of his size and bruiser appearance, combining a soft, insecure, and defensive nature, he was obviously a target for serial bullying. However, in a fit of benevolence, having developed quite a tough reputation myself (I’d been in a few scrapes), I took him under my wing, and became his mate, or as it eventually turned out, his worst enemy. John was a military disaster area. It was considered practical, in order to get the best possible shine on your boots, to ‘Bone’ the pimples out with a hot spoon, now and again tendering the toe to the open flame, setting the wax alight for a second - a quick blow out then a good rub with the back of the spoon. Needless to say John presented me with his boots, the toes burnt through, his fingers blackened and burned – “ How can I fix it Jock?” His uniform hung on him like loose khaki sacking, and something I’d never encountered before – A complete lack of coordination between his top and bottom half, so that as he marched, his left arm came forward with his left leg, and vice versa - His arse sticking out and his chest pushing forward – Bottomley indeed!!! Things got so bad that squad commanders, to maintain their square-bashing persona, would surreptitiously attach him to another squads, and he was inevitably passed around, never knowing where he’d end up when the parade had finished. At that time the boys were only allowed out of the barracks in uniform, not a bad thing really, it did seem to attract the girls. However, according to some undefined regulation, a certain standard of appearance had to be maintained, and this was assessed at the mercy of whichever Provo corporal who happened to be manning the gatehouse. Taking John (my mate!!) into town initiatively involved several trips back and forward to the gate, until the ‘Assessor’ was finally satisfied, or worn down. It wasn’t that he had no interest in girls (there was nothing queer about John), but he was absolutely useless at supporting any chat up approaches. “I wouldn’t know what to do Jock,” he would say.

Eventually disaster wove its sinister web.

Drum Major Greenwood, giving an excuse that it was to ‘toughen the lad up’, extorted his twisted revenge for the theft of his beer by decreeing that: -

Junior Drummer Bottomley be lodged in the room with Tabiner and Yates.

John was condemned to a living hell. Far from feeling punished by the situation, Tabiner & Yates revelled in their new toy, only being limited in the terror, humiliation, and violence they could inflict by the extent of their imagination. Believe it on not (it’s absolutely true), somehow they acquired a Stag’s head from the officers mess (stolen? Or perhaps it had been laid aside during refurbishment). Tabiner, covered with a blanket, and crowned with the head, secreted himself on the windowsill behind the curtains by John’s bed. Yates removed the light bulb; they both awaited John’s tentative entrance, scaring the living daylights out of him.

John was so traumatised by the incident that there was no way he could spend another night in that room with those crackpots. I gave him my room for the night, and spent an incident free kip in the company of Tabiner & Yates. The next morning we tackled Drum Major Greenwood on the issue of John’s accommodation. He had already heard of the charade, and took great delight in the vision of John shitting himself over the sudden appearance of a Stag at his bedside. Considering however, that it was all part of the toughening up process, or more likely, not wanting to be seen as giving in to the Beastie Boys, he insisted on the status quo.

It seemed a quite logical solution to me at the time – Turn the tables on the tormentors, by making them apprehensive of John. He would, without warning, smash one of them full in the face with all his strength, possibly breaking his jaw. Commotion would undoubtedly ensue, but when things stabilised, they would never be completely sure of him again. Sorted? John obviously took great persuading in adopting the idea, eventually laying our friendship on the line, I coerced him into an uneasy compliance. That night, a picture of tranquillity, Yates was sitting on his bed bulling his boots. With me as backup, John was to stroll in and belt him one. A bloody fight would evidently be detonated, but it would be between Yates and myself, and I would have the advantage of a somewhat (hopefully) dilapidated foe.

John tentatively approached Yates sitting on the bed, fists clenched tight, with a mixed expression of determination and fear. Yates looked up inquisitively “What the fuck do you want?” John’s body started to shake all over before collapsing in a heap at Yates’s feet – The medics took him away semi conscious mumbling about how he’d let his mate down – Never heard hide not hair of him again.

St. Mary’s Forebank, Dundee. 1950’s.

2010-02-20T08:35:00.000-08:00

Mr. Creegan.

If teaching was all about faithfully following a prescribed curriculum, expounding the 3 R’s, and maintaining a strict 9 till 4 Time Table, then Mr. Creegan had unfortunately got it all wrong. If, on the other hand, teaching is considered a means of propagating fertile minds, broadening horizons, and motivating people to achieve their ultimate potential (Whatever background and brains they have been blessed with), then Mr. Creegan was, and would still be considered to this day, a man ahead of his time. His roots, being firmly imbedded in the community in which he lived (worked, worshiped, and played), gave him not only a unique understanding of his pupils psyche, but also the assumed responsibility for their development - Mr. Creegan walked to St. Mary’s and back every day, just like the rest of us, only considerably faster.

But listen!!, words are all very well, but what lies behind these assertions?
If you can indulge, I will relate some personal reflections of the times and the man – You can make up your own mind.

The Big Fight.
Two policemen came to the class one day looking for me – It was around St. Patrick’s Day, and as most of you will know, for some reason, at that time of year we had to fight Protestants. I had been identified on a ‘raid’ on Ann Street School by a bright yellow scarf given to me by my big brother (Damn!!). Now, why I wanted to go and pick a fight with the likes of Harry and Neil Leadingham I’ll never know, they were a lot tougher than me for a start (Went on to become successful Businessmen by the way). But ‘Scotch & Irish’ was something you just got caught up in – I remember hundreds of people in the streets – Police horses keeping us apart – Split heads – Hospital cases – Even my wife (at that time a wee Prodie from Rosebank School) said she was scared to go out at that time in case she was eaten alive by Catholics. Anyway, Mr. Creegan persuaded the Policemen to let him deal with it (They didn’t even take my name), and to show retribution gave me ‘six of the best’ – Twice!! In front of them. All honours satisfied (Such a belting achieved a lot of kudos), the matter was concluded? Well not quite, and here’s the stroke of astuteness – To save me from the peer pressure of further involvement, he decided to walk home with me until the ‘Festivities’ petered out. This was a big bonus though, because not only did I get fitter trying to keep up with him, but I also got extra stories!!

The Stories.
We all did everything we could to get Mr. Creegan into his ‘Story’ mode. Thinking we had some influence over the matter, we would say “Go on Sir, tell us about the war Sir – Tell us about so and so Sir”. But only when he was good and ready (psychologists today would say that he was mindful of our attention span), he would hold us in awe with a never-ending array of stories, anecdotes, and life experiences. Mind you, thinking about it now, they all had a moral point and a lesson to be learned – Like the one about the soldier who gave up his ticket on the train to the poor old lady who had lost hers, then pulled the old toilet trick. As you can imagine, being very young, of limited means, and with our horizons extending only to the top of the Hilltown, these stories considerably extended our view of the world and it’s ways.

The School Trips.
I would suspect that Mr. Creegan not only contributed a lot of his own time and effort into these trips, but also some of his own funds. It was a day out where cost wouldn’t be an obstacle to participation. We took our daily milk ration on the coach with us (those little bottles), together with sandwiches for lunch, and Fish Suppers were provide from a passing Chip Shop on the way back. Every time a likely field was spotted on route, it was all out for a game of football. The trip that sticks in my mind most was the Christmas Ice Spectacular at Murrayfield in Edinburgh, and our visit to that big covered carnival next to Waverly Station.

The Election
Although he never expressed any political views, I’ve a feeling that Mr. Creegan was involved in Politics in some way or another – Possibly the Labour Party. Anyway, if that was the case – I didn’t half let him down!! All the paraphernalia was set in motion for a class election mirroring the national model (candidates, hustings, ballot boxes, etc.). There were two candidates, Conservative (I think his name was Roddy McMillan) and Labour (Yours Truly). Now, being a popular guy myself and having Laurie Ireland for a running mate, how could I lose? The trouble was, I was up against a professional, aided and funded by his father (Just like the real thing), our Conservative put up posters around the school, and presented a polished speech promising everything (Usual). After a second recount suggested by Mr. Creegan (He wasn’t going to give up) Labour lost by one vote. This exercise taught me two things in life: - Everyone doesn’t support the Football Team – Never vote for your opponent.

The School Plays.
“I need you anyway,” said Mr. Creegan before I had a chance to fluff my audition for the school play “ Your in!!” Well, I thought, he obviously recognises talent, this could be my career. As it turned out, I was the tallest in the class (By far), and he needed an undertaker for the last scene – My one and only line went something like - “I’ve come for the body”. “You’ll need a hat” he said, “Can you get hold of one?” – “No problem,” says I. However, I will never forget the look on Mr. Creegan’s face, in the wings on the opening night when, upon asking me to put on my undertakers hat, I proudly donned my Brother-in-Law’s working bonnet. Ok! I didn’t know the difference between a hat and a bonnet, but I still think delivering the lines “I’ve come for the body” wearing the bonnet instead of the hastily arranged Janitor’s Cap would have got a better laugh. Produced, directed, and painfully rehearsed by Mr. Creegan, these plays were entertainment for everyone, but hard work for him.

The ‘Black Babies’.
In those days (I’ve probably got this wrong) you could adopt a ‘Back Baby’ for a penny and give it your name. Consequently, Africa must now be bulging with well-nourished sixty something year olds with names from Mr. Creegan’s class (A good few Patricks anyway, because that’s where all my sweetie money went). It’s not that we were overly generous by nature, more that Mr. Creegan had ‘Means’ of extracting every last bit of pocket money, bus fare, lucky penny, we could muster to the cause. The target would always be just ahead of the total, with the last pennies being squeezed from individuals to rapturous applause. Hey! It’s what they do today in Call Centres, and on Sales Drives – ‘Children in Need’ even. Now, we may all have been a good bit poorer after one of these sessions, but we didn’t half feel righteous.

The Football.

Why did the ‘Forebank’ dominate Dundee Schools Football so much in those days? Simple – We had an excellent Director, Manager, Coach, Administrator, Scout, and Tactician. They were all Mr. Creegan, but we also had one or two decent players. Could it have been a freak of nature that one school should produce so many talented footballers? At my time in the team alone Laurie Ireland, Raymond McKinnon, Michael Quinn, Billy McGann, Tom Clink, Jimmy Brown, Robert Connelly, Billy McCluskey, and Joe Flight also played for Dundee School Boys. Most of these boys then became predominant in Secondary Schools football, and together with the likes of Jimmy Gabriel, and Jackie McEnerny, went on to play Junior football for St. Joseph’s - A team founded by Mr. Creegan himself (I think his son Jerry also played). Although in at the start of St. Joseph’s, I switched to athletics early on, but I still remember the stench of that changing hut at Fairmuir Park, and half of us on the field playing with one foot bare, training to utilise both to best advantage.

So, there you have it, maybe not exactly the ‘Prime of Mr. James Creegan’, but then the Forebank wasn’t as prestigious as the Marcia Blaine School for Girls, and we certainly were not the ‘Crème de la Crème’ (Football Team apart). However, we all know that history sometimes blends people and circumstances together, producing a unique sequence in time when things just fit perfectly into place, and this is a case in point. "Give me a girl at an impressionable age and she is mine for life" says Miss Jean Brodie. Mr. Creegan was certainly not that manipulative, but I’m sure, like me, his many pupils still retain elements of his teaching that have helped them through life.

Thanks Mr Creegan, on behalf of us all.

MISS FARRINGTON.

Miss Farrington was a real targer. She had a simple logic as far as discipline was concerned – The punishment should fit the crime. Kenny Ward, flexing his developing cockiness, made the grave mistake of swearing at her one time. Grabbed by the scruff of the neck, he was dragged to the wash area (a lot of little sinks lined up outside the class) where she proceeded to ‘Wash his mouth out’. Although we didn’t actually see anything, the gargling, spluttering, screaming, sounds reverberating around the tiled walls, painted a picture of poor Kenny’s plight, continually struggling to avoid swallowing the soap. However, despite his undying promises never to swear ever again, Kenny’s sanitised language soon lapsed back into the vernacular. But that wasn’t the end of it!! Things kicked off again the next morning when Kenny’s mother arrived for a remonstration. Tough Jute Wifey as she was, she was no match for our intrepid teacher, and considered herself fortunate to skulk away muttering retribution, without getting a good mouth washing herself.

Anyway, the tables turned somewhat a few months later, when, returning from a visit of convenience, Miss Farrington took up her playground patrol duties with the back of her skirt tucked into her bloomers. Everything looked demure and proper from the front, but from the back it was like two midgets fighting in a pink parachute. Being followed around the playground by a group of sniggering waifs, she couldn’t understand what was going on until Mr. Creegan dispelled the pack with a stern look that wasn’t entirely genuine, and had a quiet word in her ear.
(Kenny Ward is on the right in the back row of the photo above, I'm in the centre of third row).

Brother Kenny

Although rarely appreciated at the time, certain incidents in ones very formative years, which have such a profound influence on later life, are invariably connected with school and teachers. In this respect I will always be grateful that my first teetering steps on the meandering path of life crossed that of Brother Kenny.

The man had many attributes, and no doubt other people who fell within his sphere can relate additional facets of his extraordinary character. However, for me it had three main ingredients – Even-handedness, fortitude, and (maybe surprising to some) musical talent.

Herewith an example of each of the aforementioned: -

“Who would like to learn to play the Clarinet?” asked Brother Kenny upon entering Miss Farrington’s class. “Me Brother!!!! Me…Me… Me.” accompanied the chorus of waving hands. In those days the pupils sat in a strict packing order, the brainiest front right, descending to the dumbest back left (you can guess where I was), so it wasn’t surprising when the selection of the six ‘starters’ commenced from the prime positions. Only one left to choose - Brother Kenny’s eyes searched the back – “You can’t do anything else Murray, you may as well have a go at this”. Now, I was never a great musician but I did lead that field, and started out in a career as an Army Bandsman.

Bullying wasn’t necessarily rife in the school, but Freddie Morlong did his best, he was one of the ‘Qualies’ - they were big guys left over because they couldn’t qualify for the secondary school (in fact I ended up one myself). Unfortunately (for him) Freddie took a fancy to me one day in the playground, got on top of me (ok he took me by surprise!!), and proceeded to give me a good tanking. Then suddenly he disappeared!!! Brother Kenny had lifted him right into the air, and not initially realising the situation, Freddie began to retaliate, big mistake, although smaller and lighter Brother Kenny proceeded to give him the hiding of his life. Freddie did ask me in Church the next day (after no doubt confessing to hitting a Priest) if I’d like to have another ‘go’, but with little prospect of Brother Kenny coming to my rescue again, I respectfully declined.

Grant Duguid and myself approached Brother Kenny one day with our Clarinets (Pupils of Mr. Elder by the way), we were unable to find the music to a certain Hymn that we’d been asked to play, he took a piece of blank paper, and whilst humming the tune, proceeded to write down the music. I must admit, I’ve seen it done since, but that was by top musicians at the Royal Military School of Music.

A truly remarkable, devout man - Administrator, Teacher, Scholar, Musician, Sportsman, Big Bad Bully Beater, but above all, a Gentleman.

(Kenny Ward back left this time - Grant Duguid middle, sixth from left - Me, middle, third from left)

William McGonagall meets Captain Scott.

2010-02-19T06:27:00.000-08:00

Although both undoubtedly lived in Dundee at the same time, there is no record of McGonagall and Scott ever having met. However, what if Scotland's celebrated (worst) poet felt inclined to give an account of Capt. Scott’s story?

Captain Robert Falcon Scott RN

Considered himself most fortunate of men

An expedition to Antarctica had just been planned

And the whole kit and caboodle would come under his command.

A new century had just begun

And many discoveries were yet to be done

The South Pole for example was there for the taking

With a place in history ready for making.

A ship both tough and strong, as his needs be

Could only be built in the fair city of Dundee

So a contract was placed, and a price was set

51,000 quid the Panmure Shipyard would get.

Built of oak and elm, with all a craftsman could put in it

A cozy corner was selected for the golden rivet

Launched by Lady Markham (her husband had put the dosh up)

They then all went to the Queens Hotel for one hell of a nosh up.

Provisions were loaded for 45 good men and true

All hand picked by Scott to make up the crew

Rum, bum, and baccy was the order of the day

Well, with no women on board, it had to be that way.

In June 1901, Discovery put to sea

Saying a final farewell to Bonnie Dundee

A stop over in London was the first interjection

So that Edward the seventh could give an inspection.

45 sheep were the next passengers to board

Taken on in New Zealand to replenish the hoard

The crew licked their lips with wry anticipation

Giving the more handsome of ewes quite some trepidation.

Upon finally settling in Antarctica the following year

They began to sort out some of the gear

They dug out 'Eva' a blow up contraption

Then prepared themselves for some exiting action.

Captain Scott was first, high in the balloon to soar

Another first for the region to score

700ft. above, he surveyed the desolate sight

Home for the next two years to be their plight.

Diligently they set about their task

A plethora of scientific knowledge for to grasp

But the long winter nights would have been a bit of a drag

If it wasn't for a plentiful supply of good old navy shag.

In November, it was decided to go to the Pole

Scott, Wilson, and Shackelton took the hazardous stroll

Passing latitude 80 things started to slip

Frostbite and Scurvy forcing them back to the ship.

The ice finally cleared, and blessing the almighty

They sailed for a triumphant return to good old Blighty.

Discovery arrived at Spithead in 1904

26 months aft and a rapturous home coming fore.

Six years later, Scott to the South Pole returned

this time his attempt by the Norwegians was spurned

Under 50ft of snow he now lies at rest

with a place in history among the best.

Now the Discovery has finally come home

Never more the seven seas to roam

happy to be berthed at Discovery Quay

Right in the center of Bonnie Dundee.

In deference to the Master, I include a couple of original

Verses from William McGonagall. Here he pays tribute to he

Town of Nairn in the north east of Scotland

All ye tourists who wish to be away

From the crowded city for a brief holiday

The town of Nairn is worth a visit, I do confess

And its only about 15 miles from Inverness.

And in conclusion I will say for good bathing Nairn is best

And besides its pleasant scenery is of historical interest
And the climate gives health to many visitors while there
Therefore I would recommend Nairn for balmy pure air.

Les Marié de la Tour Eiffel.

2010-02-12T11:43:00.000-08:00

Perhaps of slightly limited interest?

Although, over two thousand hits on YouTube, and a requested liaison from Williamsburg cultural center in New York, goes to show that people out there (like me) are attracted to some obscure material. This takes you back to 1920’s Paris. Jean Cocteau and the Group of Six (regularly featuring at the Salle Huyghens in Montparnasse) produced this extraordinary musical, operetta, ballet, something!! You decide, but the music’s the thing, bold, brash, prolific, and indicative of the period.

The Skunk Cabbage Patch.

2010-02-12T07:38:00.000-08:00

On approaching Barloch Moor (near the Preaching Braes) in Milngavie, a gentle waft of, well, something, tantalizes your nostrils. Pungent? Repugnant? Or delightfully fragrant according to one local resident. The source of the aroma finally reveals itself as an astonishing vista of a ‘Star Trek’ planet or a scene from ‘The Day of the Triffids’. Amazed? Of course, you’ve just stumbled upon something quite unique to Milngavie – The Skunk Cabbage Patch.
Skunk Cabbage (Lysichiton americanus) is actually indigenous to the Pacific North West of America. What it’s doing here I don’t know, but it certainly likes it, growing profusely in this particular niche. The yellow flowers herald the arrival of spring, sheltering within a profusion of enormous bright green leaves, and the permeating odour attracts pollinating insects, as well as inquisitive humans. Apparently it’s a favourite food for bears, who enjoy it as a laxative after hibernation (understandable). Unfortunately however, it doesn’t proliferate as far as Bearsden, limiting itself to the sides of the Tannoch Burn only as far as Mugdock Road, never to appear again. How does it survive our weather? Would you believe? It produces its own heat, melting the snow around it during the winter ensuring its survival. Are we perhaps missing a trick here? Shouldn’t we surround our houses (in and out) with this ingenious plant? Facilitating a cosy winter – We’d soon get used to the smell!!!

The marriage of Iain & Patricia

2010-02-10T08:51:00.000-08:00

The Marriage of Iain Hutchison and Patricia Dawson

24th July 2010

Photos by Stuart Somerville, Meg Barrowman,and Patrick Murray.

Note that: - After following Slide shows, you can click into centre, and this will take you to the Picasa album, where you can view the gallery, individual photos, or even order prints.

Who’s Who?

In order to view the original albums with personalised nametags – Log on to the following Facebook Links: -

Stuart SomervilleMeg Barrowman Patrick Murray

Iain & Patricia’s ‘Society’ wedding.

Frankly, Sheila and I had never been invited to a Society Wedding before, never mind a ‘Royal’ Society Wedding. However, this occasion, in essence, was intrinsically connected to the Royal Scottish Country Dance Society, the Groom being the Glasgow Branch Chairman, the couple having met, nurtured their relationship, and fostered friendships through the society who’s members provided the backbone of the guest list. I mention this because, in fact, our own wedding was a Society Bash, the reception was held in the Dundee Co-op Halls – Very posh!!!

The most striking feature upon arrival at New Kilpatrick Church was the array of colour, not the flower arrangements (lovely as they were), but among the guests. In addition to the profusion of various tartans displayed by the gentlemen’s kilts and the ladies dresses, the bride’s strong connection with Norway brought a number of guests in colourful traditional costumes. Onlookers could be forgiven for thinking that they had wandered onto the set of a period movie. A unique aspect of the service revolved around the design of the ‘Luckenbooth Broach’, not only had it featured on the invitations and the order of service, but the Minister referred to its endearing illustration of love, affection, and everlasting devotion. “It also appears,” he said “that it is a popular country dance – Would you like to give us a demonstration?” – Although the Groom did show some initial enthusiasm, decorum dictated that the due process of betrothal continue unabated. Although being a bit iffy, but clear, the weather waited until the party was about to leave the church before the heavens opened. Older and wiser heads however, nodded enthusiastically in agreement that this was a good omen, ensuring a long and happy relationship. Anyway the foyer of the Milngavie Town Hall provided a bright, spacious, and covered area for photographs before the reception.

Iain’s son Jamie started his Best Man speech with a sincere apology. Not being fortunate enough to have know his old man when he was a raucous young lad like himself, he was obviously unable to recount any cringe worthy anecdotes normally associated with a best man’s speech (Groom smiles smugly – Good choice!!!), he did however go on to present a very humorous and entertaining speech. Although drawing attention to bridesmaid Avril Halliday’s resplendent appearance and dazzling charm was completely unnecessary, it was blatantly obvious.

An additional speech was volunteered from the Norwegian contingent, Magnar told us of the close community where they lived in Norway, and in which Patricia played such an intrinsic part, organising parties, functions, etc. One thing she was always perturbed about however was her lack of a sufficiently long tablecloth to accommodate the numbers involved. This was now remedied by the presentation, as an additional gift, of an extraordinary long tablecloth (must have been15ft.), obviously in anticipation of her continuing the custom in Bearsden – Norway’s loss certainly being Scotland’s gain.

All were sitting back comfortably, content in a relaxed atmosphere, having tucked into a sumptuous buffet, greatly augmented by pastries and cheese specialities brought over by the Norwegian guests (big sigh of contentment). But wait a minute!!! Heather Battson has just arrived with a new wave of fervent branch members, and she’s on the stage - priming musicians Luke & Adam Brady getting ready to kick off an evening of unbridled dancing. The couples Summer School connections had brought dancers from all over Scotland, England, and abroad, who, together with the folk dance familiar Norwegians, partied into the small hours. What a fabulous ‘Royal Society’ occasion.

There now follows a short video of the dancing, featuring the stirring music of Luke and Adam Brady.

Now that you’ve arrived, or may wish to return, please feel free to explore other archives from the Blog (listed on left) which you may find interesting or amusing. You can also click on the following link to fast track the menu page:

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18 Ann Street, Dundee

2010-02-02T09:05:00.000-08:00

The Folks Who Lived on the Hill.

There was a popular romantic American song doing the rounds on the wireless in the early 50’s – ‘The folks who live on the Hill’ – That was us!! We lived at 18 Ann Street, half way up the Hilltown in Dundee. All be it, mind you, not in the same idyllic dream home portrayed in the song’s lyrics, but more, shall we say, in slightly less salubrious surroundings. There were actually three ‘Lands’ serviced by the same narrow close at number 18, opening out into a large elongated cobbled courtyard accessing outside stairs leading to the three storey tenements above the shops on the main street, each accommodating 8 to10 houses. On our own landing and the one above, we shared the same ‘La’vie’, recycling the Sunday Post with five other one and two room ‘residences’. We were a family of six, although by the time I was of the age in the photograph, my father had died, and my two sisters had married and moved out, leaving so much room in fact that we actually took in a lodger.

Which brings me to the picture. Have you ever seen such a bunch of healthy, happier, and well turned out children? Some having just returned I might add, from the Wild West of America, just a few hundred yards away at the Plaza cinema. Mr. & Mrs. Hooper (that’s him on the left) had no children of their own, but being an integral part of the close ‘Nit’ (we all had them) community, hosted regular parties for all the kids (and their parents). Everyone was your auntie, uncle, or granny anyway, each adult accepting parental responsibility, dispensing ‘wisdom’, advice, and the occasional skelp in the lug when you did something wrong. Like the time I took my pal Pat Donahue to Holy Communion at St. Mary’s Forebank (With a name like that he should have been a Catholic anyway). That’s me in the centre of the picture by the way, with the young lady’s hand on my shoulder, and Pat Donahue beside me looking blessed.

The wind up verse of the popular song went “Darby & Joan, who used to be Jack & Jill – Still like to be called the folks who live on the Hill”. Well, most of us are old aged pensioners now, but I bet none of us still live on the Hill.

Christmas Newsletter

2010-02-01T01:54:00.000-08:00

Hi,

My friends will know that I normally include a newsletter with Christmas Cards during this season of goodwill and cheer.
“All very right and proper” you hear my cry of contentment, but let’s face it, who necessarily has the time or inclination to read a lengthy report in the middle of the Christmas crisis? (Last minute shopping, family arrangements, getting your own cards out, etc. etc.), and then again, who gives a damn anyway? To be honest, although we receive one or two reciprocal newsletters, I get little feedback, and I’m not sure if my words are falling on deaf ears or if they are being devoured with great satisfaction. So, I thought I’d try something different – A Xmas Blog!! – It can be ignored, browsed at leisure, and even commented on. You may also note that I have utilized the medium to expand things a little, and bore you even more – Click on any of the photos to enlarge.

I know!!! I Know!!! Looking back isn’t necessarily a good idea. Look what happened to Lot’s Wife (Depicted in this sculpture by Hamo Thornycroft taken on a visit to the Victorian & Albert this year) – just think of that the next time you sprinkle salt on your chips. Anyway, let’s go for it, perhaps Sodom wasn’t that bad?

The year started (or should I say, the last one ended) with my farewell to the BMF. Here you see Managing Director Chris Pateman showing me the door of 15 Soho Square!! – An unusual retirement present I’m sure you’ll agree, but I always did admired it. Final retirement crept up and hijacked me - am I ready to be put out to pasture? I did enjoy my time at the Builders Merchants Federation though, as I said in one of my farewell speeches “giving me this job was like giving a kid the keys to Toys R Us”. A whole box of exciting new challenges to delve into and develop. I must say, the more I pushed the limits, the more enthusiastically the Members responded, rendering speeches with personal embellishment, publishing my zany articles, supporting functions, it was great fun. Sheila and I have retained many personal friendships from that period, and I must say, the parting gifts were extremely generous.

February saw the start (and end) of my ‘thespian’ career.

The Stephen Daldry version ‘An Inspector Calls’ is an extremely spectacular production – Rain on the stage, explosions, buildings collapsing – They needed extras (Supernumeraries to you), I volunteered and was accepted. What a wonderful experience, treading the boards (or at least standing in a corner surrounded by smoke) of Glasgow’s Theatre Royal with such talented, friendly, cast members and fellow extras. I was ever so excited when advised that a group of ladies from New Kilpatrick Church (where we dance) were to review my performance at one of the matinees. I positioned myself at the exit to wallow in their praise as they came out, only to be almost mowed down as, waving their passes, they rushed across the road to catch an oncoming bus. Someone did ask for my autograph, perhaps he thought I was Alex Ferguson (Believe it or not, I’ve been mistaken for him a few times – An American accosted me on the London Tube in July, pestering me to let him know what I was going to do with the money I got for Ronaldo, he finally went away happy when I confided that I had my eye on Beckham). Anyway, another stitch in life’s rich tapestry, and the accumulation of a new group of friends.

Spring ‘sprung’ once again in Milngavie with the perennial appearance of a peculiar phenomenon unique to our neighbourhood – Skunk Cabbage – Eh?
This plant grows with perfusion just along the road, and I did a little tale in my usual style (it has an abnormal flower and smell) for the local rag entitled ‘The Skunk Cabbage Patch’. Now, the whole thing mushroomed throughout local and national press with headlines such as ‘Alien Plants Invade Milngavie’ – ‘Day of the Triffids’ – ‘Big Stink in the Suburbs’ – ‘Ex Construction Worker (me?) discovers source of pong while walking his dog (I don’t have one)’ Do people take me too seriously? This photo was taken by the National Press Association and appeared on the front page of the METRO. I have had a number of articles on various subjects published all over the place this year – They don’t PAY!!! – Often steal the credit, and edit (what they consider) the naughty bits. Most of them don’t even acknowledge receipt, and I get to hear that pictures or stories have been published in my ignorance. I did get a very nice bottle of malt whisky from the Scottish Field Magazine though – They even published the article unabridged with full credit – They’ll get more (Oh!! they did,and another bottle has just arrived – Cheers!!).

Pondering over ‘What’s on in London’ in advance of an intended visit to Patrick’s in July – There it was – The biggest event of the year – The Gay Pride Festival – Not only that, they were looking for Stewards (You don’t have to be Gay). On presenting myself at the registration point (they were expecting me), I was asked very nicely to assume the role of a ‘Senior Steward’ – Given a small team (quickly augmented), a megaphone, radio, and assigned one of the crucial points on the route – The emergency services ‘Cross -Over’ half way down Regent Street. My initial plan of simply observing the parade from an advantaged position had become a major responsibility. When I tell you that the event accommodated over a million people, and the parade took about two hours to pass, you’ll appreciate the scale we’re on. It was an exhausting day, full of funny, serious, and tragic incidents. One I’ll relate: - From the back of the crowd a very agitated Italian School Teacher indicated that she had around 40 adolescent pupils who just had to get across. The next time there was a lull in the pace of the parade, I asked the oncoming group to hold while the gates were opened and the teacher led her troupe through. Unfortunately, while my attention was distracted, things started to move again encompassing around 15 kids in the march. Bemused, the youngsters followed on relishing the applause of the spectators. In getting them rounded up and back, I missed the participants that I particularly wanted to meet – The ‘Gay Gordons’ Country Dance group. I must say, the event was exceptionally well organized and controlled (200 Stewards), the only time I saw any police was at the Mall, where a ring of steel protected us from a group of radical Christians condemning us to Hell. I have been invited to participate in a higher administrative role next year and ‘World Pride’ the year after. I look forward again to working with such a professional, efficient, and friendly group of people.

Listen!! – That’s enough about me – Is there anyone else in this family?
The other half and I have holidayed mostly in London this year – Cheap Flights (City Airport). Cheap digs (Patrick’s flat in Docklands) and lots to do. I enjoy Theatre, Museums, Art Galleries, Exhibitions - Sheila likes shopping. Patrick drags me around the pubs in the East (and West) End, it’s a strain, but I put up with it – What are fathers for? We are still very much involved in Scottish Country Dancing (dance till we drop, sometimes six days a week). So, most of our social life revolves around reeling and jigging with fellow aficionados, the News of the World hasn’t cottoned on to us yet, otherwise they would certainly be forced to give their excuses and leave. Ian continues to slog away at the Buchanan Galleries, supervising a team of enthusiastic Polish table cleaners (Znakomity nadzorca). Patrick is now back at the Bank of England (Paramedics didn’t suit him). Interesting and varied work, but unfortunately isn’t allowed to take any of it home with him, he is however looking forward to his first million pound bonus.

Let me finally, wish you all the best for the festive season, and leave you with this view of Buchanan Street the other day. Glasgow is proud of its Christmas decorations, very attractive, but don’t expect to see any photos.