WHICH YEAR WILL IT BE?

In a hours it will be 2024. Not, I think, a number of any particular significance or resonance, but events in the following 366 days might alter that for some reason . Humans attach great significance to their numbers, to the arbitrary patterns imposed on our consciousness by the 'meaning' of dates. The world, our world, will be no different on Monday that on Sunday, but we still want it to be, hope it will be, seek change within ourselves.

And some years automatically conjure up particular images.  1066 is an obvious one. To be counterbalanced by 1314. From last century 1914 and 1939 are probably the most (in)famous - but that's wars again. So how about 1969, the first moon landing? And then in this century, 2016 will be remembered as the year when the UK and the UK indulged in differing forms of political hara-kiri (sp?) that brought their one disasters. While I think we can all recall what 2020 was about...

But year numbers also have significance for other reasons. Not for what happened, but for something someone wrote about  -1984 is the most renowned one. Slightly less well known, but still worth mentioning, 2001. George Orwell. Arthur C Clarke. Both creating visions of the near future, both now seeming well in our past. Orwell published his 35 years before his title, Clarke 33 (although the latter timing is based on the release of the film version, which came before the novel, but not that the script was derived from a 1951 Clarke short story), so they are very similar in that respect. There are also some similarities in themes, but 2001 is the more optimistic, 1984 the more dystopian.

Nothing ages as badly as predictions for the future. 2001 shows space technology progressing at a far faster rate than in reality, with the orbiting space station an impressive creation (with some artificial gravity present for crew) that makes the current set up look a bit Heath Robinson. But it also predicts that AI can be a real threat to humans, something that gets mentioned a lot now.

1984 shows a world of semi-permanent war, and close political control of the media and the populace. State propaganda is the only form of communication that ordinary citizens receive. Hope comes from humanity and love, but that is shown to be fragile.

Which feels like the more accurate prediction?

Orwell definitely feels the more prescient.  While not every state is at war, most seem to have some connections to at least one, supporting the one side or the other, often materially.  The fault lines separating the US, Russia and China remain as treacherous as ever.  CCTV has become ubiquitous, part of the backgound furniture.  But the greatest similarity to Winston Smith's world feels like the way we are manipluated by the media, and the government.  Told who to hate this week.  Told that there are movements within society that are working against us, and more made-up the better it seems.  "Wokeism", "Cultural Marxism", "The Trans Agenda", and other fictional scare stories are so commonplace now they aren't even laughed at for what they are.  The extrme right dystopia is on our doorstep, and I don't see Starmer Labour administration doing much to chance that....

As the UK creeps on towards fascism...

 

THE BANALITY OF EVIL

In the eighties I lived in the south of England. The Thatcher government was still adding to it's list of disastrous policies, some of which continue to cause severe repercussions today. Notably the culture of greed and selfishness they promoted, the destruction of the social housing fabric, and the deregulation of the banks. To that list add the wilful destruction of communities, politicising the police, selling off public assets to the wealthy, an unnecessary war (complete with ludicrous jingoism), showing friendship towards terrorists, just so long as it was state terror. And that's just off the top of my head.

In November 1988 Jim Sillars won a by election in Govan for the SNP. He made the point that only full Independence would enable Scotland to avoid the right wing excesses it had to experience from a government it didn't vote for. That was probably the first time I really gave much thought to ending the UK, although it wasn't foremost in my mind at the time.

Then came the Blair years, which began with hope and did little to justify it. No reversal of so many of the disastrous eighties idiocies. But at least Scotland got her parliament back, and some proper democracy, even if powers were deliberately limited. And at that time Scotland still largely voted Labour.

But the tories were back in in 2010, and this time would manage to show themselves to be even worse, in both competence and policy, that those awful eighties. And even more right wing, more oppressive, something I hoped I'd never even have to imagine after the Wicked Witch of Grantham was removed. They gave us Brexshit, helping turn the UK into an international laughing stock. They gave us the most dishonest, narcissistic, incompetent Prime Minister in living memory. Only to follow that up with the thickest. And now the slimiest.

This is the standard I use for defining fascism. Look at Eco's list, and think how many of those fourteen apply to what the tories have been doing in recent years. The othering of immigrants, the populist announcements, obsession with EU plots, disregard for the rights of the weakest in society - it's all there. The appearance of several serving tory MPs on Gammon Broadcasting, including one who has, inexplicably, just returned to the cabinet. It might pretend to be a "news" channel, but only the most gullible could fail to see it for what it is, a far right propaganda outlet (and peddler of sundry ludicrous conspiracy theories...). Gary Lineker got slammed for pointing out much of the rhetoric, especially from the genuinely evil Braverman, mirrored the hate speech of Germany in the thirties. He was spot on.

Of course the steady creep of fascism isn't as obvious as many would want it to be. There are no jackboots of death camps. But that doesn't stop evil permeating government - the Rwanda policy, and associated disregard for rule of law, should be all the confirmation of that you need. As a title I used the phrase made famous by Hannah Ardent at the trial of Eichmann. That apparently normal, even bland, functionaries can commit the most heinous acts and still convince themselves that they are good people. It feels ever more appropriate in tory Britain.

Sadly I don't see Starmer doing enough to reverse this trend. He might make some minor improvements, but he had adopted too many of the current policy attitudes to make a big difference (although I could have seen Corbyn bring proper change - which is why the establishment had him character assassinated). For Scotland there seems only one permission. Jim Sillars was ahead of his time. But that time is very much here now. It's why I'm still Yes.

Four into two doesn't go, but King Boff does

 AND THEN THERE WERE TWO (AND THE KING...)

This World Cup was always going to be about the Big Four. The gulf between that group of France, Ireland, New Zealand and South Africa, and the rest, is immense. That the draw should ensure that only two of that quartet could make it to the semi finals again illustrates the craziness of doing the seedings three years ahead of the event, a mistake World Rugby will hopefully never make again. That the draw gave us two of the most intense, high quality, gripping matches of the tournament is little compensation. Because it also means that two of the semi finalists have had to follow much harder paths to get to this point, and fatigue must be starting to be a factor by now.

Clearly a Boks v Kiwis final is now the only one worthy of the sport itself. But that won't stop me from shouting my support for Los Pumas on Friday evening. Scotland might have gone early, unable to cope with the power and skill of two of those Big Four, but as an Edinburgh supporter I still had people to cheer on. So my support was very much with Fiji, who were so unlucky yesterday, and Argentina. The man we call Big Bill Mata is gone now, but King Boff is very much with us.

I'll hopefully, injuries permitting, be getting to see Big Bill and King Boff in action a lot this season, when they return to the Edinburgh Rugby fold. But for now Edinburgh eyes are on one of Argentina's biggest stars, and one of the world's great goal kickers, Emiliano Boffelli. While I think anything other that final I began the last paragraph with would be a travesty, my heart will still be with the blue and white hoops.

Vamos Los Pumas! Vamos Rey Boff!

(But I still want to see Kolisi lifting the trophy again, for much the same reasons as I did four years ago...)

Where does the time go?

 

THE OTHER NIGHT I WENT FOR A MASSAGE

Not the whale music kind, and definitely not the happy ending type. This was more your "two steps removed from sadistic torture" kind of massage. Something I've been having every few weeks in the hope that they, and my sudden conversion to pilates, will help ease the back pains I have been having for several months. My regular manipulator being away for a few weeks, I had a new guy giving my back the treatment, and finding his own ways to make me experience pains I didn't know I had. Lovely man, from Dundalk, and we chatted as he rubbed and pummelled away at me. He asked that question that so many people do when you're retired - "What do you do with yourself?"

To which my first response is usually "What the hell do I do with myself?". Because I never seem to do much, and yet the days are full and I'm never bored. So I thought I'd look back at the month just ending to see if it offered up any clues.

September's always a month with a bit going on anyway. The Fringe has just ended, and live entertainment switches to sport, and the theatre. Hockey and Rugby begin, and it's time for another season of A Play, a Pie and a Pint. There's our wedding anniversary, and Barbara's birthday. Oh, and I've got into the habit of helping out a bit on the Advocard stall on the day of the Edinburgh Volunteer Fair.

This specific September added in a march in support of Scottish Indy, a short city break, a brief period alone at home, and a music gig. That's a fair bit of time accounted for already. But there's still a lot left...

So what do I do with the rest of the time? I wish I knew.  I sit at my PC and write things.  I look at smaller screens and get annoyed with the idiots of the world (definitely trying to cut back on that one).  I read.  Play with the cat.  Usually a bit of voluntary work.  A weekly pilates class, immediately offset by cake in a nearby cafe.  TV in the evenings.

And... exist in my own head.  It's a place where I've always been able to spend a lot tiome.  Maybe from being an only child, more likely from being naturally unsociable.  I didn't tell him that bit.

Kilt Wake?

 

NOT WALKING NO MORE?

No begging this year. Not from me. No long walk, no charity fund raising, no point to the kilt. This year I will not be doing Kiltwalk.

I did register. I did start doing practice walks from early May, gradually extending the distance. I did , once, manage to do over ten miles. And then I stopped. And feel better for doing so. Well, physically at least. The back pain got too much for me and common sense finally overrode pride to call a halt.

But the back has been better since. Maybe that's partly down to cutting out the hours of plodding. But it could also mean that the regular pilates and sports massages are proving beneficial. And that I might continue to improve. Later this year I should be getting the "have you tried turning it off and turning it on again?" treatment on the heart again, but this time with the assistance of a drug that doesn't like me to have grapefruit. So maybe my breathing will be better too...

Hope is a hard habit to shake sometimes. So maybe it's too early to consign the kilt to the grave. Next year I might be begging again.

To Sicily via the page

 ADDIO SALVO

The primary perk of the pensioner period in life is, at least in theory, time. Lots and lots of time. Even if you still don't know where it goes to. Which, to me, means time to read. All those books I've bought over the decades (because I really needed them...) but never got hold of one of those 'round tooit' thingies you need to get going on reducing the great pile of the unread. But I've been able to find my reading 'tooit' (many others continue to go missing).

One of the great joys of having the freedom to read and read, day after day, is immersing oneself in a series of novels so that, for a period of weeks or months the characters become a part of your family. I'm particularly fond of consuming detective series in this fashion. And so, in the past few years, I have become friendly with the likes of Rebus, Wallander, Beck, Van der Valk and, my personal favourite, Castang.

Salvo Montalbano, Commissario of police in the fictional Sicilian town of Vigata, achieved some fame in the UK throuigh the regular showings of his eponymous series (and the prequel Young Montalbano) on BBC4. It appears to be a cheap filler for them when there's nothing better to hand. And cheap it is. This is one of those "so bad it's good" TV programmes. At times the acting is risible, direction predictable and the settings devoid of real life. But it was a fun watch, sometimes funny in unintended ways, and the basic storylines were usually well worked out. Because the stories themselves closely followed the plots of the original books, from the hands of Andrea Camilleri.

Those books have gathered a lot of critical praise, and a large readership, in part due to the screen versions no doubt. I picked one up a while back, liked what I read, and decided I would wait to acquire the complete set before setting off to spend a few weeks in a fictional Sicily.

I began with a book that was out of sequence chronologiocally, but made sense in setting the scene.  This was a book of short stories which opened with Montalbano's First Case, which explains how Salvo got to become the Chief Inspector of Vigata.  This would later become the basis for the first episode of TV's Young Montalbano.

Then into the novels.  All twenty eight of them.  It is soon apparent that this is vastly superior to the TV version.  While most of the main characters are broadly similar, Salvo has a much richer inner life.  The books are very funny (Intentionally!).  Like Mankell and Sjöwall&Wahlöö, Camilleri uses the genre to make comments on the political and social situations of the day (he has a lot of fun highlighting the idiocies of the Berlusconi period, rather less showing up how badly cross-Med migrants are treated).  

There's an interesting development about half way through the series.  By then the TV programme has taken off, and the name of Montalbano was much better known in Italy.  Which the Salvo of the page resents, complaining that the TV version is a decade younger, and often sharper of thought, than he is.  Although at least he's still got a decent head of hair.  But his obsession with the ageing process becomes a permanent theme from then on.  

The credit for conveying so much of Camilleri's Sicilian authenticity goes to translator Stephen Sartarelli, who does an excellent job of conveying the idiomatic sense of the originals (which were written in a mix of Italian and Sicilian), and providing footnotes to help the reader understand references that would otherwise pass the them by.  He's also helpful in explaining much about the food that Montalbano consumes so much of - the gourmand of the page is there on the screen, but without the loving descriptions of the dishes being enjoyed.  Reading has never made me feel so hungry, or given me so many recipe ideas to try out.     

Much as I'd enjoyed the series throughout, by the begining of book 27 it was good to know the end was not far off.  And yet.  27 contained a surprise, turning into more of a full blown thriller than the others.  And 28 breaks the mould.  To begin with, it was written out of sequence, several years before publication, and was given to the publisher with the instruction not to make it public until after the author's death.  The title, Riicardino, is at odds with the rest of the series.  And the story takes the meta laspects of the fictional Montalbano mentioning his own (more fictional?!) TV alter ego, and raises it with phone conversations between the character and his own author.  This final volume is a much more literary effort than the others, more philosophical, and a reminder of the essential humanity of these books.  

And isn't a policeman who cares about his fellow human beings what we all want?  Along with convoluted plots, unlikely but logical explanations, and a cast of familiars that are recognisably flawed people.  On the debit side women get a raw deal, little more than adjuncts, or provocations, most of the time, although in part that's a reflection of Sicilian patriarchal culture.  And in Ingrid Sjöström, Salvo's Swedish friend, there is one female character who is strong and highly competent, although it's a shame she dfoesn't crop up more frequently.  But I will still miss Mimi, Fazio, Cat, Livia, Enzo, Pasquale, Adelina and, most of all, the main man.  He was always as entertaining as I could have wished for, no mean compliment over so many volumes (and 2 months dead from 1 to 28).

Now... has anyone got a complete set of Simenon to hand?

[The photo shows the late Andrea Camilleri with Luca Zingaretti, who plays Montalbano in the RAI TV series.]

Isnt it a bit warm for this?

 

Previous posts mentioned being back Murrayfield ice rink to watch the return of the Edinburgh Capitals. The season has been over for a couple of months now, and won't return until September. But at least there's still been events to follow. The same coach remains in place. Most of the top players have signed up for next season, plus a couple of new faces. Sadly my personal favourite has returned to Germany, but you can't have everything. We still look like having a team that, once again, should be challenging for silverware. More to the point, we have another season of hockey to go to, after so many away from the sport.

But, unlike previous years, there's a new aspect to the off season. Murrayfield ice rink has been converted into Murrayfield roller rink (and has had a decent paint job to spruce it up). That's kept the punters coming through the door. And offered up the chance to see a another variation on sport, but still with Caps playing. Inline roller hockey.

We missed out on the first match due to another commitment (which was a shame, as it sounded like a thriller, Caps beating Dundee Tigers 7-6), but went to our first game today. Playing against Whitley Bay Sea Kings, this would prove an easier challenge for the home side, ending up 13-4 in our favour. So maybe not the most competitive of games.

But it was still fascinating, to be seeing the similarities and differences in relation to the 'normal' hockey that is our standard diet there. The skills are broadly similar, as is some of the equipment, and the rotating bench of players. There's one few player on the ice for each side, only one official, and the pace is slower. Rules are simpler too, with no offsides, no icing (or equivalent), no heavy body hits. There was only one brief fight, tame in comparison with those it's icy companion throws up, and provided the only penalties of the game. The clock continues to run down, even when a goal is scored, so the periods are much shorter. throw in the removal of Zamboni time and the roller game is over in an hour or more less than the blade one. If the overall spectacle is a bit less exciting than the winter games, it was still a fun watch.

But the biggest difference was in being a spectator, and not just because there were a lot fewer of us. It was the novelty of sitting in the rink, looking at my bare arms, and wondering where my usual five layers of clothing had got to. On what was one of the hottest days we've had this year, it was a relief to come in out of the sun to a place that was considerably cooler than being outdoors. But not so cool that you couldn't sit there comfortably in shorts and tee. This is not something I will be repeating once September arrives, and that interior gets back it's usual title - Freezerfield.

Pink cowboy hats helping the egg shaped ball

 

A PERSONAL THANK YOU TO FANS OF BEYONCE AND HARRY STYLES

BT Murrayfield has been taken over this weekend and last by the abovementioned pop singers and their gaudily dressed followers. Best avoided as far as I'm concerned.

But that doesn't stop me from being grateful to them all. Someone told me the prices of the cheapest tickets to go and see these events. Eye watering, especially for what they are. But so, so welcome. These people are handing over a lot of money to the SRU. The SRU fund Edinburgh Rugby. My 2023/24 season ticket for the Dam Health Stadium has not increased in price from last year. Because the SRU are raking in the dosh from other sources...

And for that I don't care how weirdly they want to dress, as long as they're handing over all that cash.

Old but evolving

 

NEVER STOP CHANGING

Do you have a particular word that you know perfectly well how to pronounce properly, but also know that there's a mispronunciation lurking deep within your brain which is always likely to leap out at you unexpectedly?  I have one that has it's own special annoyance.  It was a word that was common when I was growing up, usually as an adjective for flooring or kitchen tablecloths.  Then it seemed to fall into disuse and I could feel comfortable knowing I probably wouldn't have to use it.  Until, like a bad smell you thought you'd got away from, it made it's reappearance.  Now with a brand new meaning that seems to be everywhere.  There was nothing wrong with record, or album, or LP, or 33, but they have all been superseded by my linguistic nemesis.  Yes, the word is vinyl.  Which I do know, really I do, should rhyme with spinal.  So why does a part of me want it sound like compile?  I have no idea where that came from.  I do know it will always be there within me, and care will always have to be taken...

A few months ago I posted on here about 2022 being the year when I started to feel properly old, due to some physical health issues that have sprung up, and the consequent treatment.  Sooner or later, it's something we all have to face up to, in some form or other, as the years pass.  And I have to admit that my mental abilities maybe aren't all they once were either.  A bit slower to process information sometimes, a bit more forgetful.  My driving certainly isn't what it used to be.   All these things I accept as part of growing older.

But there's one aspect of ageing that isn't as inevitable as the above, and which I will fight off succumbing to with every facet of my over-the-hill mind and body.  I don't know what the name for it is, but it's that mysterious and insidious visitor that leads older people into bigotry, brexshit and Daily Fail reading.  The ones who think that growing up with ice on the inside of their bedroom windows never did them any harm.  The ones who imagine there's some strange force that's not allowing them to say Merry Xmas.  (And who rant against people who use that 'X'...)  The ones who don't want people who "aren't like us" to have any rights.  Who think immigrants should be "sent back where they came from", that anyone reliant on social security for their food and housing needs "to get a proper job" and that the BBC has become "woke" (even if they don't know what it means).  

No thanks.  That's not a road I ever intend to head off on, for the only end points are irrational fear and unwarranted hatred.  I'll stick to becoming more left wing as I age, more convinced that Scotland needs to go it alone, and more in favour of extending human rights to marginalised groups like trans people.

But I can see how so many of my contemporaries end up heading towards the dark side.  

Potential Pill Popping Problem

 

POPPING FOIL IS AN END TO SPONTENAITY

Over the past few weeks I've been playing about, at my GP's suggestion, with the dosage of one of my medications.  The one that helps my heart to function reasonably efficiently despite the misfire it has developed.  This resulted in me now taking a lower dosage, which feels like a mildly positive result, but It's still going to be one of three pills I'm taking daily for the foreseeable future.  Getting older can be a bit of a bugger sometimes.

A few years ago I wrote this post about the time I was in Aberdeen, and thought how easy it would have been to pull out my credit card and vanish for a week.  Which I didn't do of course, because I'm not that actually adventurous in reality.  But it has occurred to me that even the option has now been removed.  Not without some level of foresight.  Of carrying a week's worth of pills with me.  I'm not sure what would happen to me if I didn't, but I'd prefer not to find out.  Experimenting with differing doses of bisoprolol in recent weeks has demonstrated just how much I'm affected when the levels of drugs in my system change.  

It's not as if this was something I actually wanted to do.  Yet it still saddens me to realise that I've lost even the possibility of becoming the person that I was never ever going to be anyway!  Crazy, eh?

Story Time

Many years ago I used to write short stories.  Well, I tried to, although most ended up unfinished, or binned because I wasn't happy with them.  In time the urge faded.

Until the past few years, when I felt tempted to give it another go.  The urge was back, but so was the frustration.  Most of my efforts were never completed, and I'd move on to something else instead.  Maybe I needed something to help me focus?

So I set up a blog, called Bits and Pieces (I wrote about it on here back in October 2019), where I could post completed stories and poems.  Which still didn't create the necessary motivation.  In 2021 I undertook a 365 Project, trying to write something every day of the year in response to a daily prompt to creativity.  It didn't result in 365 stories, but I did write something every day.  Not all were fiction, and a couple of them ended up on here as blog posts.  I did end up writing, and mostly completing first drafts of, a lot of stories and poems.   Some of them even seemed, to me, to be half decent.  But were they really?

I find it hard to share my writing.  While I do it primarily for my own pleasure, there's still a nagging voice in my head wondering if anyone else might enjoy anything of what I've created.  Now more of the 365 Project output is on Bits and Pieces.  And I'd be delighted if a few people read what I've put up there, and maybe even commented on what they found.  Negative comments would be even more valuable than positive, as they might help me improve in future.  

The impetus behind me saying this is the posting of what I felt was my best story of 2021.  It;s called Yellow Coat and joins 26 other stories, and 6 poems.  Most are extremely short, barely stories at all, with this latest addition being the longest to date.  

You can find the new story here

And the whole of Bits and Pieces here

Somebody, anybody... talk to me please?

Sometimes it's good to be disappointed

 

ENJOYING THE DISAPPOINTMENT

Back in November I wrote about being back at Murrayfield Ice Rink (now renamed Murrayfield Ice Arena) and being able to watch 'our' team again, the Edinburgh Capitals.  I wrote about the sense of belonging, and the return of those old feelings of hope and disappointment that came with being a Caps fan.  Now I write, a few hours before the final match of the league season, about how disappointing last night was.  And how much I savour that sense of disappointment.

Four months ago we were watching a team that was largely comprised of ageing veterans and inexperienced teenagers.  A team playing it's first home match because, up until then, they'd had no ice to call home.  Who'd had to cross the water over to Mordor (aka Fife) for their first training sessions.  Who'd played all their early league matches on away rinks.  Who'd had their first home match postponed due to technical issues, so that their first experience of skating out on Murrayfield's ice would be to play the league leaders.  (In front of a far bigger crowd than many of our youngsters had encountered before, which they initially found quite daunting.)  It was good to be back, good to have a team to support, and there were no great expectations.

If, back then, you'd have told me that we were going to finish second in the league, and that we'd be in the hunt for the league title until the final few minutes of the second last match, on the final weekend, I'd have bitten your hand off.  I don't think I'd have believed you.  Why raise such unrealistic hopes?  But here I am, feeling disappointed that the team couldn't quite manage it.  And savouring that disappointment.

Because to be disappointed you have to have had hope.  Which is something this team have given us.  Back in 2018, when we were last able to watch the Caps perform, 'hope' was largely defined as "let's hope we don't get totally gubbed this weekend".  The standard of hockey might be a bit lower than it was back then, but the standard of hope has been raised considerably.  A few weeks ago we were in a position where, if we won all our remaining league matches we'd be champions.  That hope was fully kindled when Barbara and I travelled up to Aberdeen and watched our guys beat Lynx, those aforementioned league leaders.  Then we lost to that same Lynx at home.  But hope returned, as both teams, went on a losing streak, and suddenly the outcome of the season came down to one more game up in the north east.  So important a match that Aberdeen even put on a live stream, for the first time in SNL history.  And hope burst into life when we took an early lead.  Only to be dashed in the closing moments, as we went down to a 3-2 loss.  A deflating moment, yes, but this morning I can enjoy my disappointment.

Tonight the Caps play North Ayrshire Wild, a team who've only won two games all season.  It's now a meaningless fixture, in terms of league positions, but it's still hockey, it's another chance to cheer on our team and enjoy the spectacle.  It will, hopefully, bring another big crowd to Freezerfield, and the size and passion of the support has been another big surprise of the season, with numbers exceeding fifteen hundred at times.  It will be fun.

It's not quite the end either.  The final league positions are used to determine the seeding for the end of season playoffs, and Caps will have a quarter final against Kilmarnock Thunder.  Win that, and we'll be into the Playoffs Weekend, being held at Murrayfield on 8th and 9th of April.  Another chance to win some silverware.  Another chance to hope.  And maybe, this time, skip that sense of disappointment...?

Where's the alternative?

 WHO'S ANYBODY?

So we're to have a new First Minister in a few weeks from now.  Maybe that's something that was needed.  Although it feel more like the SNP government has been in power for too long. They are running out of ideas, and have serious issues over competence, corruption and honesty. So it would be good to have someone else to vote for, to usher in a more complete change that might bring in real improvements after the next Holyrood election. But who  is that alternative?

Twitter in these Muskian times seems flooded with right wing nutjobs.  And diehard unionists.  Often the same people.  My feed covered in them, unsolicited and largely unwelcome, like a dog crapping on your dinner.  Yes, I could simply block, or see only people I've chosen to follow, but there's something to be said for 'know your enemy', so it's worth persevering and seeing what the people who are causing the problems are saying.

And it gives the opportunity to ask questions.  There's a particular kind of right wing unionist who persistently whines and whinges about the SNP government, and makes constant personal attacks on the outgoing First Minister.  Mysogyny is never far away.  I've taken to asking them what seems like the obvious question - Who is the credible electoral alternative we should be voting for?

And the answer is always the same - Anybody.  When I point out that I've never seen the Anybody Party on any ballot paper their replies become more vague, or they vanish or block.  Most liukely because even they know there isn't a proper alternative.  Only Labour can oust the SNP as a government.  The Tories might like to pretend they could, but Scotland sees through them.  And if greater competence, less corruption and more honesty are the attributes being looked for, then their Westminster record shows them to be ten times worse than anything the SNP have done, without even the latter's humanity.

Which leaves Starmer's party.  Because much as I have some liking for Sarwar, he is still going to have to do the party line from London.  Which is avowedly unionist, doesn't commit to trying to reverse brexshit, and seems increasingly dostant from anything recognisable as socialism.  So what's the point of Labour?  To replace the nasty party in England for sure, but what can they offer this country?  I wait to be wooed.

In the meantime we can only wait to see who the new FM will be, and what they offer.  Sadly, it doesn't really have to be much to be better than the other lot.

You can choose your friends - but would your family choose you?

 

A FAMILY OF STRANGERS

I think it's fair to say that we were never a close family.  While I knew all four grandparents, they weren't a regular presence in my life.  There was even, very briefly, a meeting with one great grandfather.  But the older generation figure who featured most in my childhood was my mother's great aunt, who was more of the 'granny figure' in my life than my actual grandmothers, for reasons that would take too long to explain here, but are also the cause of my mother not seeing much of two of her three sisters.  And while there were five aunts and two uncles, only two of the former still lived in Edinburgh, while the rest were relative strangers, or even unknowns.  One I only met once, another I have no memory of, despite being told I'd seen her when I was three.  

A couple of weeks ago I attended the Genetic Clinic, as part of the ongoing investigation into the various bits of me that seem to going a bit wrong.  Before going I was asked a lot of questions about family members, and my ignorance ensured the process was over surprisingly quickly.  While I knew what my parents died of, I had no idea about their parents.  Having no siblings or offspring meant that was out the way quickly.  And other than one aunt who was a heavy smoker and died in her forties from lung cancer, I hadn't a clue about the others.  I knew at least one was dead.  But the last time I saw one of them was over twenty years ago, at my dad's funeral.  

Did I have cousins I was asked.  Oh yes, eighteen of them.  But I last saw one almost forty years ago, and had had no contact with any of them since.  Several I never met, I've forgotten most of their names, and I think there may have been two I never did learn what they were called, as they always seem to be talked about as 'the twins' (they were over in the US).  So I couldn't be a lot of help about their health conditions.

Two days later something a bit weird happened.  I was contacted, on Facebook, by someone called Jonathan Crawford, asking if I was Harry's son.  Maybe Jonathan was one of the cousins I never met, or whose name had refused to lodge in my brain?   I had a look at his Friends list and amidst more Crawfords than I'd seen in a long time I recognised three names.  Fiona, Catriona and Murdoch were the children of Liston, the one sibling my father always spoke warmly of.  Liston had long since moved to Australia, but I called him for a chat after my mum died in 2005, and enjoyed talking to him.  I remember liking him and his kids when I was in my early teens, as we met a few times, but I hadn't seen or heard from this trio of cousins for half a century.  

It turned out that Jonathan wanted to tell me that his dad, Jimmy, had died a few days before.  And I definitely remembered Jimmy.  But I wasn't about to tell my new found relative why - he was upset enough already.  I already associated Jimmy's names with funerals.

I'll be entirely honest before I relate the next part of the story - I am an unreliable witness.  My memory of events in my childhood is inconsistent and, I'm sure, highly selective.  Looking back at old diaries has confirmed I forget much, and distort what I do recall.  The first part of what I'm about to write happened not far short of fifty years ago, and there's nobody left who I can ask to confirm or deny my version of events.  But I think I recall enough to have good reason not to trust Jimmy.

My paternal grandmother died in 1975.  My father, the only one of her family still in the city, was named executor.  Both his brothers came up from their homes in England to attend the funeral.  Liston travelled by train, and must have stayed in a hotel or with someone he knew.  Jimmy drove up, in his Volvo estate, and spent the night in his mother's tenement flat.  The morning after the funeral Liston was still around to say his goodbyes, but...

You might have been wondering what the photo at the top of this post could possibly have to do with family.  By now you may have started to make a guess.  Come the morning of the day after and Jimmy was gone.  And his Volvo.  And most of the carpets and rugs in the flat.  Volvos were big cars.  My dad was not impressed.  OK, he was livid.  I don't think Liston thought much of his departed brother either.  The bad taste never really faded away.

Fast forward twenty seven years and here's Jimmy at a funeral in Edinburgh again.  My dad's. 

 No, he didn't nick anything this time, but he hung around longer than he needed to and pissed off my mother, who'd never really liked him anyway.  I found him too full of himself, pompous and brash.  And that was memory number two of Jimmy.

Jonathan doesn't need to know any of this.  He has own version of Jimmy and he should keep hold of it.  I have no intention of keeping in touch.  (He looked like a tory in his profile pic, but maybe that's me being a bit too unkind!)  However I did contact one of Liston's trio, Fiona, the eldest.  And we had a wee online chat.  She gave me email addresses for the others, and we've had a short exchange.  And I learned that Liston is still alive and independent, out in Oz, the last of the bunch.  

Will we be in touch in future?  Will I ever meet any of them?  I don't know.  Maybe it was a flash in the pan, or perhaps something will come of it.  It might be interesting, but I'm of the view that you can't miss what you never had.  I was happy enough without family before, and that won't change.

But a part of me keeps thinking it was a shame none of this happened before I got asked all those questions about relatives.  I'd have been able to tell them I actually had some!