The Poet Meets The Thief

‘So you’ve studied Greek, young man?’ said McCroft. He handed Dug a fresh glass of wine. Every Glasgow Writers Circle shopping lister was crammed into the room, all of them craning their necks, envious of the attention being bestowed on this nobody.

‘Yes,’ said Dug. ‘I did the Anabasis for ‘O’ Grade.’

McCroft’s eyes widened as he performed mental calculations as to Dug’s age. ‘Ah, Xenophon,’ he said. ‘The sea! The sea! Although I’m much more of a Plato man myself.’

‘Aye,’ Dug laughed. ‘I’ve met him.’

McCroft leaned in. ‘Really?’ he said. Andrew caught a whiff of the perfume – Aramis meets pipe tobacco. Young poets beware, he wanted to shout. The man was not to be trusted. It was time to put a stop to this...

‘It’s a long story,’ said Dug. ‘I read Book 1 of The Republic at Uni.’

‘Mmm,’ said McCroft. ‘The standard introduction. In translation, of course?’

Andrew fashioned a fist with the fingers of his left hand and coughed lightly into it.

‘Yes, I see you, Andrew,’ said McCroft, although his eyes never left Dug. ‘Well, young man, I hope you enjoyed my poems this evening.’

‘Aye,’ said Dug. ‘The one you did about Nemesis – the story of my life!’

The old fraud looked crestfallen. Andrew had to stifle a smirk. Then he thought, fuck it, and let it shine.

‘Oh, that wasn’t one of mine,’ McCroft admitted. ‘I did that as a wee nod to Norman – he’s hovering about somewhere.’ He smiled, and offered a hand. ‘However, I’m glad we, eh, connected.’

‘Is there anywhere I can buy your book?’ said Dug.

Andrew let out a laugh; a guffaw. Your book?! He’d have to remember that one.

McCroft, reluctantly, turned to him. ‘How’s it going, Andrew?’ he said, his voice devoid of interest. ‘Still typing out other people’s poetry? Not mine, I hope. It’s rather too well known to be of any use to you.’

Andrew felt his face reddening, but checked it. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Melville,’ he smiled. ‘I don’t write for the teenage market.’

McCroft’s left eyelid twitched. He raised his voice slightly to an effeminate grate. ‘Wagging tongues would have it ,’ he said, ‘that one of your recent efforts in the Scottish Poetry Organ was more than insignificantly inspired by my ‘Margaret in Half-Light’.’

‘Not at all,’ said Andrew.

‘And as for cribbing the scribblings of the insane...’ said McCroft. He still had a grip of Dug, who was following this doe-eyed. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Andrew. Rumour and whispering are things I abhor, but plagiarism is something...’

‘Yes,’ said Andrew. He positioned his glass under the box and pressed the button. A red bubble appeared at the end of the plastic then sucked itself back up the nozzle. ‘It’s a terrible thing.’

McCroft’s tone changed in an instant. ‘It stinks, Andrew!’ he shouted, killing every conversation in the room. He sounded like an angry teacher berating an errant pupil. Pretentious old wanker. Everyone knew that his career was built on ripping off Norman MacCaig something rotten. He’d proved it earlier on, for Christ’s sake.  ‘By the way, young man – oh, it’s Dug, is it? – if you do any writing yourself – original writing, I mean – why not send something along to the SPO? I’ll be lowering myself into the editor’s chair in a few weeks. The current incumbent has decided to move on to something slightly more remunerative. Nothing to do with poetry, of course.’

Andrew’s hand tightened round his glass. He inhaled slowly to stop the noise that was forming in his throat.

‘Same goes for you, Andrew,’ said McCroft. He winked at Dug and moved off into the crowd. 

Memories

Ring a Ring o Roses
round and round we all fall down
the circle ending up
where it started.

And now the music has stopped.
The lid
of the piano
is locked.
William
presses his eye
against the keyhole
to see
if he can see the tunes.

Music @ the Caff

Survivor

We're all there, in the Astoria, including Simon. Simon lives under a bush. He plays the saxophone when he comes out. He's in the Astoria most nights, trading in his coins for paper. He's just back from Cairo. I think Simon is great - he managed to save up enough money for a ticket to Egypt. I really like the Palestinian scarf he's wearing.

I see him a couple of days later. He's nursing an Amstel. He's got a bandage round three fingers of his left hand.

'What happened?' I ask.

'Nothing much,' he says. 'We ended up in Babel the other night. Some arsehole wanted my scarf.' He tugs at the tassels with his good hand. 'As you can see, Andy,' he says, 'he didn't fucking get it.'

Bite To Eat

A clock is screwed to the wall behind her. The hands seem to be frozen in place. I am wondering how long she can keep up the inane conversation. The batter, she informs me, is 'crispy', the fish 'succulent'. I feel myself nodding in agreement when what I really want to do is throw my plate through the window.

Grangemouth Bands: Blowfly v Cocteau Twins

Malcolm was holding the latest copy of RockPress open for them all to see. Page 8. The title was ‘Drive! Got Their Motor Running!’

Sammy looked chuffed as fuck. He was probably wondering where his scissors were. The article would soon be taking pride of place stuck to an egg tray over the fireplace. He could look at it while he was drumming.

‘‘...to wow the audience...’,’ read Malcolm. ‘‘...a bravura performance to rank with all the greats. The band’s original material went down a storm...’.’

Original material? thought Terry. Maybe it was referring to his rant about his father. There certainly hadn’t been anything else. He had rolled off the stage before they’d had a chance to do Dug’s song. The article was total exaggeration. No, it was more than that. It was complete fiction.

Malcolm folded the paper in half and ran his fingers over the words.

‘Which famous rock journalist wrote the article?’ asked Terry.

‘Get tae fuck!’ said Malcolm, and handed the paper to Sammy. ‘Ah wrote it masell – but it’ll dae the trick, you mark ma words.’

The review was printed on the letters page.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘The next step.’

He wanted them to come along to the Hoochie Coochie Club to see an Australian band called The Middlemen. ‘The support band are local,’ he said. ‘Well, Grangemouth. Go by the name of Blowfly.’

‘I don’t know anything about The Middlemen,’ said Mich, ‘but I’ve heard of Blowfly. Their bass player used to be in the Cocteau Twins.’

‘No way!’ said Baz. ‘If ah want tae listen tae taped music, ah’ll stick oan a cassette. An’ it willnae be the fuckin’ Cocteau Twins.’

‘That’s what I’m saying,’ said Mich. ‘Blowfly are a 4-piece...’

‘Anyway,’ said Malcolm. ‘That’s no important. It’s this other crowd ah want yez tae watch, the Aussies.’

. . .

Baz stood in a corner of a dive in Bread Street and watched a fat woman doing squat thrusts until he was sure the support band were finished. When he got to the club, the song The Middlemen had just started ground to a halt. Someone had swiped their oboe off the edge of the stage. They got it back after a five-minute shouting match. Oboes, he thought. A fucking backing track would have been better.

Sammy was right down the front, getting into it. The drummer looked about twelve, but he was handy. Malcolm had said their drummer was a lassie – maybe she was ill or something. Maybe Malcolm was wrong – there was a lassie all right, but she’d been playing the violin earlier on. She was a cracker. And here she was again. She’d just got her oboe back. There was no doubt that this lot were good, but their sound was too...what was the word? Big? No, that was Simple Minds. Over the top? No, that was the Blues Domination Society. Arty? Arthouse! That was it, they were too Arthouse, there were too many orchestral instruments on the stage. Violins and Oboes. And the guitarists took turns singing!

Mich loved the lyrics.

Lullaby folly illegal palls

Silly dolly falling balloons

She couldn’t imagine Terry singing those particular lines, which was unfortunate. You never knew, though.

Terry couldn’t take his eyes off the girl. She had the oboe between her lips. Christ she was good looking. And that smile she had, like she was doing exactly what she wanted with her life, and was loving it, loving just being there.

. . .

Malcolm got them into a huddle after the gig, when the sweeping up was going on. His suit was fastened right up to his neck, but the top button wouldn’t stay in – it was too greasy. He wasn’t carrying his walking stick, but for some reason he had a big shoebox tucked under his arm. From the way he was leaning to one side, it must have weighed a ton. Maybe it was a counterbalance to correct the limp.

‘Ladies and gents,’ he puffed. ‘Yez huv jist heard the next generation ae Edinburgh rock.’

‘I thought that was Goodbye Mr Mackenzie,’ said Terry. He wanted to get this over with and get backstage.

‘They’re a blown entity,’ gasped Malcolm. He was having trouble keeping the shoebox off the floor. It seemed to be getting heavier.

‘Whit’s an Australian band playin’ classical music got tae dae wi’ us?’ asked Baz.

The shoebox bleeped, massively. Malcolm stepped back and pulled out an aerial. He hoisted the box onto his shoulder.

‘Lex, ma man...LEX, MA MAN...aye...awsome, aye...eh?...SAY AGAIN...nah...EH?...aye, right next tae me...aye, they’re intae it...Lex, ye’re bray...YE’RE BREAKIN’ UP...ah’ll catch ye later...aye...the landl...THE LANDLINE...RIGHT...’

‘Over and out,’ said Baz.

Malcolm pushed the aerial back in. He got Sammy to give him a hand to lay the telephone on the floor. He was sweating. ‘Whit ah’m sayin’ is this,’ he said. ‘If youse can be like The Middlemen, yez’ve got it made.’

Sammy looked wired. ‘Got ye,’ he said. ‘Change ae direction. That mate ae yours, Terry, the skinny guy wi’ the ears? Chase um up. We’ll need mair songs.’

Terry knew it was a non-starter. The singer, the tall one, looked like the boy out of the B52s, complete with the candyfloss hairdo. Maybe Malcolm wanted him to wear a wig. ‘Why don’t we just poach the violinist?’ he said.

‘Come roond the office oan Monday,’ said Malcolm. ‘We’ll get the contract sorted oot.’

Sammy looked like he’d just won the pools. ‘Ye no hangin’ aroond fur a drink?’ he said.

‘Whit?’ said Malcolm. ‘Fuck that fur a laugh.’ He looked down at his phone, and shook his head. ‘It’s a two mile hike back tae ma mother’s,’ he said.

*     *     *

From Drive!

Roger Rimmer

Rimmer was sitting on the toilet, enjoying a post-ejaculatory Gauloise and ruminating on that new catchphrase that was being bandied about everywhere – Safe Sex. He was a practitioner, of that there was no doubt. No one would be transmitting viruses to him, oh, no. He was, and would remain, as clean as a whistle. He stroked his appliance, which was balanced on his knees. Meticulous aseptic technique, that was the key.

He nicked the end of his ciggie and slid it behind his ear. The solitude of toilets. Peace and quiet to get on with one’s business, even if there was that rhythmic clackety-clack of the wheels...

Something creaked and the door imploded; a male torso crash landed at his feet. His appliance rolled off his knees and hit the intruder in the face.

The train charged into a tunnel.

‘Er...’ Rimmer said. ‘I haven’t actually finished yet.’

The inverted face looked vaguely familiar. Then he noticed the hair, splayed out over the floor like a distressed shampoo advert.

‘Terry? Well, well. I never had you down as a fan of toilet sports. One lives and learns.’

He offered a bony hand and helped his student to his feet. The toilet was suddenly very cramped. Of course it was; British Rail had designed it for the exclusive use of solitary stunted children, never mind two fully grown men. And young Terry was a strapping example of the fitter line of Scottish chromosomes. It was a pity half of them had come from Eck Kinlochleven, Rimmer reminded himself, but then Eck Kinlochleven seemed to be the poison at the root of every positive thought these days. He pulled a yard of paper off the wall and attempted to sponge away the mud, or worse, damage to Terry’s tresses.

‘I’m sure this will bring good luck,’ he said, and stepped outside to give the boy more room. ‘Like a pigeon pooing on you from a height.’

He gestured at Terry’s suit. His performing a backwards roll into the toilet could in no way have accounted for the state he was in.

‘Been gardening at all?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Terry, trying to wipe some of the muck off his sleeve.

‘Ah,’ said Rimmer. ‘No accidents with large lawnmowers, then? Your falling into one, I mean?’

Perhaps he was being a tad too flippant. All this contrived humour and glib sexual innuendo had been wearing a bit thin lately. Oh, it was fine during lessons – nothing gave him more pleasure these days than watching a Fresher blush at one of his insinuations. But he was growing tired of it. He knew they spoke about him behind his back, the disgraced army MO who, like so many of his patients, had been subject to a dishonourable discharge. The sight of all those privates, as it were, standing to attention, had proved too much. He had groped the gunner’s glans on one occasion too many and been shown the door.

It was all so long ago. So long ago, but the undercurrent to his everyday thoughts. One of the undercurrents, in any case. The boys being...

He stood back and took stock of the situation in toto.

‘So,’ he began. ‘Terry gets onto the packed train, pushing and jostling his way to the other side of the carriage with his...what, is that Nike, is it?...with his Nike holdall. Nike, or ‘Nikeh’ as our classicists would have it, of course being the Greek goddess of Victory. This is a young man who will not be denied.’

An old woman in a crocheted cap, one of the many passengers crammed into the space between the carriages, began to tut. Rimmer stooped and retrieved his appliance from the floor. Don’t worry, dear, he thought. I’ll deal with you shortly.

‘He props his bag against the door,’ he continued, ‘and sits down, but Alas! He is such a sturdy fellow that his weight proves too much for the flimsy latch and he lands with a thump at the feet of his venerable mentor.’

The tutting had stopped, but he could feel the old woman’s eyes burning into the side of his head. Her stare was likely to reignite his Gauloise, the blackened end of which, he knew, stank. Rimmer was a man who did not like being silently stared at. God knows it was bad enough during tutorials, never mind on an overcrowded train. His motto over the years had become ‘The silence of the fish is strictly for the fish’, a line he’d borrowed from Plato, and improved upon. He returned the old woman’s stare with tenacity. She tried to wriggle away, but it was too late. He’d hooked her.

‘Excuse me, madam,’ he demanded. ‘But could you tell me what you are so insistently gawking at?’

Everyone was looking. The old dear’s head lolled on her shoulders. How bloody predictable, he thought. She would probably contrive a fainting fit to avoid a scene.

‘It’s that thing you’re holding,’ she lisped, eventually. ‘It looks like a rare wee hoover!’

She was referring to his appliance; cradled along the length of his forearm was a large leather cylinder, with rubber attachments at either end. To the uninitiated, he supposed, it probably did resemble a small vacuum cleaner, of the type used to clean the interiors of cars.

‘Oh, my dear woman,’ he laughed, loudly. ‘This isn’t a hoover. It’s an artificial vagina, used for collecting sperm samples at the University of Scotland!’

Her eyes widened, trying to take in the full dimensions of the sperm sampler. They were at risk, Rimmer noted with awe, of popping out of their sockets, something that he had always considered an anatomical impossibility.

‘I’d like to meet one of your students, then,’ she faltered, and began to swoon.

Terry emerged from the toilet.

‘Speak of the devil!’ said Rimmer, and leaned into her. He lowered his voice to a seductive growl. ‘He’s a big boy, I’ll grant you, and when he ejaculates, you lucky woman, he’ll blow your woolly hat off.’

She fainted. It wasn’t contrived.

Rimmer alighted one stop before the terminus, at Haymarket. He was feeling pleased with himself. He had lit, partially smoked, nicked and stored a Gauloise on the slow train from Glasgow to Edinburgh without it going all soggy on him, which was a first, he was sure, in anyone’s book. He skipped up the steps to the exit, where he was met by another of his students. They would spend the rest of the afternoon at the Institute of Animal Science taking sperm samples from General Charles de Gaul, who was a really, really big boy, and when he ejaculated, he ejaculated in buckets. And in artificial vaginas, if they were handy. The kind of performance de rigueur for a prize Charolais, in fact.

*     *     *

This is an extract from the novel, Drive!, which is a 1980s tale of privilege, rock music and attempted patricide.

This dog

This dog's started following me around.
I want to kick it,
but I can't.

Those eyes.

Athens riots 7/11/2012 - Greek media blackout

According to the BBC's Mark Lowen and Russia Today's Peter Oliver, there was a lot going on in the streets of Athens last night. The rioting was not broadcast on any Greek TV channel, which is a good thing if you are in charge of a media corporation and want to keep your viewers in the dark. It's not so good, however, if you are Greek and want to be informed about what is going on in your country.

This is the New Greek Crisis, where the vast majority of journalists know to keep their mouths shut. Unemployment, after all, is running at 25%.  Anyone who speaks out about what is happening in this country - the journalists Kasimi and Arvanitis of state-funded ERT, for example - runs a serious risk of losing their job. Others, like Kostas Vaxevanis, find themselves in court in record time, accused of breaching privacy laws.  

In Greece, the media and the politicians have been in each other's pockets for years. When the latest crippling austerity package was approved by Parliament late last night - by a majority of three votes - a couple of channels, Skai and Mega, saw fit to broadcast the Big Story: Coalition 'partners' New Democracy and Pasok had expelled party members who refused to toe the line. There was no comment on how the measures, which only serve to kick the can further down the road, will affect the tens of thousands of people who had come to protest outside Parliament, or the millions of others they represent. The people of Greece are suffering extreme hardship. Unemployment is at 54% amongst young people, and there are no state benefits. People are living off their parents' and grandparents' pensions, which are continually being cut. But for the Greek media, this isn't important - it isn't a story. It's as if the citizens of this country don't exist.

Scottish Independence Referendum - who gets to vote?

I am Scottish. I have lived in Greece for the last 23 years - half my life. As a citizen of an EU member state (the UK), I have the right to vote in local elections. However, I do not have the right to vote in Greek parliamentary elections, because I do not hold Greek citizenship.

I have no problem with this. I have been offered Greek citizenship on several occasions, but I have declined. I have declined because I am wary of the document that will tell me I am a Greek citizen. I am not Greek. I am Scottish.

What has this got to do with the Scottish independence referendum?

The Edinburgh Agreement states the following:

"Both governments [Scottish and UK] agree that all those entitled to vote in Scottish Parliamentary and local government elections should be able to vote in the referendum....The Scottish Parliamentary franchise enables British, Irish, qualifying Commonwealth citizens and European Union citizens resident in Scotland to vote."

There was no debate about the franchise. Scotland, my country, is striving to define itself. Maybe that is too abstract. It is the Scots who must strive to define themselves and their country. Scotland is a country that has to work towards a harmonious, multicultural society, where everyone who lives there will have their voice heard. But this single issue - the independence referendum - is something that should be left for the Scots, and the Scots alone, to decide. I have no idea if the franchise or, to put it more simply, who gets to vote, is a done deal. I hope that some day soon the powers that be in Holyrood will lift the veil of silence hanging over this issue and many other issues concerning a future independent Scotland.