TYPICAL EDINBURGH WEATHER
It looks like we're having one of those 'four seasons' days. Not because we're eating pizza to the sound of Vivaldi, but that's what the Edinburgh'S weather can do sometimes. I've already experienced blue skies, black skies, being mildly warm in the sun, icy rain, unruffled calm and lean-into wind, gloves off, hood up, where's my sunglasses and why have my glasses got so wet? And it's not even 2pm.
I have questioned my choice of outerwear because I'm sweating underneath the layers, and wondering if I have enough on and is it all buttoned, zipped and pulled up as much as it can. I have checked the weather forecast on one app, then another, only to have the climatic schizophrenia confirmed. I have looked forward to getting out in the fresh air and sun, and wished I was back home in the warmth of a world governed by thermostat. I have potentially been confused.
Except I'm native to this city and I know what happens. Back in the seventies I found myself driving an ice cream van through snow on the first of May. Welcome to Edinburgh's weather, expect the unexpected.
Tuesday, 12 February 2019
Wednesday, 9 January 2019
2018, not all bad
SOME BEST BITS
2018 - what was that all about, eh? Probably not a year that history will look back on kindly. The orange man-baby stayed in the White House, his behaviour becoming ever more bizarre and alarming. At least the US has a constitution that manages to contain the worst excesses of the wannabe dictator, but has Brazil? The election of a brutal, homophobic misogynist takes the Trump trend a dangerous step forward. Meanwhile the UK does it's best to compete with America as leading international laughing stock as the farce of brexit continued to display the embarrassing incompetence of UKGov and aggressive vacuity of the brexshiteers. Scotland remains in the grip of a regime for which it did not vote and dismisses every issue it raises, the union feels more broken by the day. And if the far right is now a major threat to world stability it still takes place to the potential catastrophe of climate change - which brings us right back to the culpability of that corrupt crook in Washington....
So I'm going to indulge myself and look back at some personal highlight from a year that saw me go to 38 music gigs, 29 dramas or musicals, 27 comedy shows, 27 films on the big screen, and 1 poetry evening. I like to keep busy. And Edinburgh does insist on running all these festivals! Oh, and I managed to get through 54 books. So my way of having a more cheerful look at the recent 365 day period is to think back on what were my highlights in all that entertainment. And maybe a couple of disappointments.
Starting with best new music discovery. That one doesn't take a second's thought because The Kinnaris Quintet, first seen in February and again in November, could count me as a fan from their opening number. Their first album, Free One, is superb and has had many plays Chez Crawford, they have stage presence to back up the musicianship and imagination of their arrangements, and a couple of brief chats suggest they're pretty nice people as well. More in 2019 please.
Best play wasn't nearly as obvious, with some excellent candidates like McGonagall's Chronicles, Ken, Infinita and the surprising Sob Story. But I'll go for Still Alice not just for the quality of the performances and the staging, but for tackling such a tricky subject so well.
My favourite film was one of only two documentaries I went to see. But Nae Paseran! has characters, storyline, excitement, humour and pathos to match any drama, as well as an important political message. Going back to my opening paragraph, this film is a powerful reminder than even small actions can have big consequences in the fight against the rise of neofascism.
I'd like to have chosen someone new to me for my favourite comedy act, but none really stand out in my memory. Honourable mention to the very entertaining Iain F M Smith who I'd happily go to see again, but he's perhaps more storyteller than actual comedian. So I'll go for the man who made me laugh like no other all year, the surreal ragdoll that is Dylan Moran. I'll add a mention for two local acts that rival, when measured in chuckles, giggles and guffaws, the best the Fringe has to offer - Stu and Garry and Morrison/Sutherland that goes by the name of Fanny's Ahoy!. Who needs the big names?
It's become our habit to leave the final day of the Fringe free of bookings, and go up to the Half Price Hut to choose a couple of random shows. We ended with a musical called Trump'd which, sadly, was probably the biggest disappointment of our August. But that was trumped by the most enjoyable surprising discovery of the year, Where the Hell is Bernard? performed by Haste Theatre Group. Weird and wonderful and utterly memorable. Still makes me laugh when I think of them going down the "escalator"....
My favourite read was by far the oldest text I tackled this year. You know those books you buy and they go on the bookshelves waiting (and waiting and waiting) until the moment you feel ready to tackle them? So it was with Don Quixote. As with so many books pre-twentieth century it means persevering through the first thirty to fifty pages while your head adjusts to the author's mindset and language. Once over that hump you're in a different world, surely a major objective in reading fiction. The society described might be very different to our own, but the frailties, cruelties, kindnesses and love of humans are very familiar. Plus it's laugh out loud funny at times.
Some oddities to end on. Biggest disappointment of the year was the demise of my beloved Edinburgh Capitals. No more hockey, for the moment, and much as I'm enjoying discovering the pleasures of rugby spectating it's still no real substitute for what was lost.
Best personal achievement was completing the fifteen and half miles of Kiltwalk in what I felt was a respectable time for my advancing years. Not just for managing the course, but the pleasures I got from the practice walks I went on and wearing a kilt after so many decades.
I'll end on the most special surprise of the year. Going to see that lovely, lovely man Henry Normal and finding he'd written a poem for our 21st wedding anniversary.
Well done 2018. There's always joy out there to be found, and sometimes it's in as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. In a skirt.
2018 - what was that all about, eh? Probably not a year that history will look back on kindly. The orange man-baby stayed in the White House, his behaviour becoming ever more bizarre and alarming. At least the US has a constitution that manages to contain the worst excesses of the wannabe dictator, but has Brazil? The election of a brutal, homophobic misogynist takes the Trump trend a dangerous step forward. Meanwhile the UK does it's best to compete with America as leading international laughing stock as the farce of brexit continued to display the embarrassing incompetence of UKGov and aggressive vacuity of the brexshiteers. Scotland remains in the grip of a regime for which it did not vote and dismisses every issue it raises, the union feels more broken by the day. And if the far right is now a major threat to world stability it still takes place to the potential catastrophe of climate change - which brings us right back to the culpability of that corrupt crook in Washington....
So I'm going to indulge myself and look back at some personal highlight from a year that saw me go to 38 music gigs, 29 dramas or musicals, 27 comedy shows, 27 films on the big screen, and 1 poetry evening. I like to keep busy. And Edinburgh does insist on running all these festivals! Oh, and I managed to get through 54 books. So my way of having a more cheerful look at the recent 365 day period is to think back on what were my highlights in all that entertainment. And maybe a couple of disappointments.
Starting with best new music discovery. That one doesn't take a second's thought because The Kinnaris Quintet, first seen in February and again in November, could count me as a fan from their opening number. Their first album, Free One, is superb and has had many plays Chez Crawford, they have stage presence to back up the musicianship and imagination of their arrangements, and a couple of brief chats suggest they're pretty nice people as well. More in 2019 please.
Best play wasn't nearly as obvious, with some excellent candidates like McGonagall's Chronicles, Ken, Infinita and the surprising Sob Story. But I'll go for Still Alice not just for the quality of the performances and the staging, but for tackling such a tricky subject so well.
My favourite film was one of only two documentaries I went to see. But Nae Paseran! has characters, storyline, excitement, humour and pathos to match any drama, as well as an important political message. Going back to my opening paragraph, this film is a powerful reminder than even small actions can have big consequences in the fight against the rise of neofascism.
I'd like to have chosen someone new to me for my favourite comedy act, but none really stand out in my memory. Honourable mention to the very entertaining Iain F M Smith who I'd happily go to see again, but he's perhaps more storyteller than actual comedian. So I'll go for the man who made me laugh like no other all year, the surreal ragdoll that is Dylan Moran. I'll add a mention for two local acts that rival, when measured in chuckles, giggles and guffaws, the best the Fringe has to offer - Stu and Garry and Morrison/Sutherland that goes by the name of Fanny's Ahoy!. Who needs the big names?
It's become our habit to leave the final day of the Fringe free of bookings, and go up to the Half Price Hut to choose a couple of random shows. We ended with a musical called Trump'd which, sadly, was probably the biggest disappointment of our August. But that was trumped by the most enjoyable surprising discovery of the year, Where the Hell is Bernard? performed by Haste Theatre Group. Weird and wonderful and utterly memorable. Still makes me laugh when I think of them going down the "escalator"....
My favourite read was by far the oldest text I tackled this year. You know those books you buy and they go on the bookshelves waiting (and waiting and waiting) until the moment you feel ready to tackle them? So it was with Don Quixote. As with so many books pre-twentieth century it means persevering through the first thirty to fifty pages while your head adjusts to the author's mindset and language. Once over that hump you're in a different world, surely a major objective in reading fiction. The society described might be very different to our own, but the frailties, cruelties, kindnesses and love of humans are very familiar. Plus it's laugh out loud funny at times.
Some oddities to end on. Biggest disappointment of the year was the demise of my beloved Edinburgh Capitals. No more hockey, for the moment, and much as I'm enjoying discovering the pleasures of rugby spectating it's still no real substitute for what was lost.
Best personal achievement was completing the fifteen and half miles of Kiltwalk in what I felt was a respectable time for my advancing years. Not just for managing the course, but the pleasures I got from the practice walks I went on and wearing a kilt after so many decades.
I'll end on the most special surprise of the year. Going to see that lovely, lovely man Henry Normal and finding he'd written a poem for our 21st wedding anniversary.
Well done 2018. There's always joy out there to be found, and sometimes it's in as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. In a skirt.
Sunday, 6 January 2019
What is this strange thing called Success?
WINNING ISN'T EVERYTHING
As I wrote a couple of months ago, I've started going to spectate at Edinburgh Rugby home games. After several years spent watching in the rink next door the comparisons are becoming interesting. I've only been to four games so far, but the most striking differences become obvious quickly.
Compared to hockey the oval ball game feels much slower, the action more distant and less inherently skilful (they don't have to do all that they do perched on narrow blades across a slippery surface, do they?). And while the Fridge of Dreams was a chilly place to sit for a few hours it was, at least, consistently chilly, and dry, so you knew exactly what to dress for. Finally I miss the "Cheers" aspect of going to the rink, it did feel like a place "where everybody knows your name".
But then there are the pros too. I'm watching a much higher level of the sport than I got to see next door, with many of the players on the pitch likely to be heading for Japan in September/October, when the World Cup takes place. The whole operation is so much more professional, so much more twenty first century, from the big TV screens to the PA that's so clear you can actually make out what's being said. And five, six, seven thousand people make a lot more noise than five, six, seven hundred. (Even if the chants are nowhere near as entertaining....)
But the biggest difference of all is a simple one, and still takes the most getting used to. Edinburgh Rugby win matches. Regularly. Supporting Caps was never like this. I could almost wish I get to see them lose just to have that old feeling back again. But only almost.
As I wrote a couple of months ago, I've started going to spectate at Edinburgh Rugby home games. After several years spent watching in the rink next door the comparisons are becoming interesting. I've only been to four games so far, but the most striking differences become obvious quickly.
Compared to hockey the oval ball game feels much slower, the action more distant and less inherently skilful (they don't have to do all that they do perched on narrow blades across a slippery surface, do they?). And while the Fridge of Dreams was a chilly place to sit for a few hours it was, at least, consistently chilly, and dry, so you knew exactly what to dress for. Finally I miss the "Cheers" aspect of going to the rink, it did feel like a place "where everybody knows your name".
But then there are the pros too. I'm watching a much higher level of the sport than I got to see next door, with many of the players on the pitch likely to be heading for Japan in September/October, when the World Cup takes place. The whole operation is so much more professional, so much more twenty first century, from the big TV screens to the PA that's so clear you can actually make out what's being said. And five, six, seven thousand people make a lot more noise than five, six, seven hundred. (Even if the chants are nowhere near as entertaining....)
But the biggest difference of all is a simple one, and still takes the most getting used to. Edinburgh Rugby win matches. Regularly. Supporting Caps was never like this. I could almost wish I get to see them lose just to have that old feeling back again. But only almost.
Sunday, 23 December 2018
Hollywood life lessons
Mainstream Hollywood movies aren't usually the place to look for useful lessons in life. Escapism, romance and excitement maybe, but the blockbusters aren't often noted for philosophical gems. The films that have left me thinking more deeply about my existence have mostly been a bit more off the wall, a relatively recent example being the lovely Paterson. A far cry from the superhero genre that seems so dominant at the moment, a genre that has never manage to spark my interest. If I'm asked who my favourite fictional superhero is I always go with Catherine Cawood from Happy Valley - if you're fighting crime, looking after your alcoholic sister ans orphaned grandson and all the while coping with the aftermath of your daughter's rape and suicide then that make you a proper hero in my eyes.
But sometimes it happens and there is one big name production I've seen in recent years that provided a phrase, and an attitude, I've often found helpful since. Recalling that recently got me wondering what other famous movies have offered similar guidance - and surprised myself with the two I came up with.
I certainly don't think these three films are amongst the best I've ever seen, although all of them have their strengths, but each one has made me think about life a little differently, despite all of them being very much 'entertainments' rather than art films. They certainly don't offer up much by way of diversity, with all the central characters being male, white and middle class (of sorts). None of them would pass the Bechdel Test, although I did see someone suggest that the earliest of the trio has a brief moment that technically qualifies it. None of them pretend to be other than what they are. And the first two could legitimately be described as schmaltzy.
First on my list is also the best known. It's a Wonderful Life is one of those sickly sweet tales that gets wheeled out at this time every year and never loses it's popularity. Partly because James Stewart is always so watchable, but perhaps also down to it's reminder that often it's the smallest of actions that can have big consequences and that we don't always realise the impact we, as individuals, have on the lives of others. Interconnection, interdependence.
Four years after that Jimmy Stewart starred in Harvey, a daft comedy that's riddled with flaws and stereotypes, and relies heavily on the Stewart's charm to carry it through. Is Elwood P Dowd, Stewart's character, a delusional alcoholic, or the nicest man you could wish to meet, or both? There's a key quote that sums up the 'philosophy' on offer :
Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, 'In this world, Elwood, you must be' – she always called me Elwood – 'In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.' Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.
Dowd, and his imaginary friend Harvey, get people to talk, to unburden themselves. Sometimes all we have to be is nice. Oh, and maybe believe in a bit of magic too. Reality isn't always a welcoming place.
Finally the film that set me off on this thread, released three years ago. Bridge of Spies is based on a true story, but 'Hollywoodised' of course. Tom Hanks is the box office name (is Hanks a modern day Jimmy Stewart? - discuss), but Mark Rylance's captured Russian KGB officer is the heart of it all. When they first meet, in prison, lawyer Hanks is explaining what he can do to help the spy, and Rylance gets his first of three chances to utter those three words - Would it help? If you haven't seen the movie, and don't think you'll have the time, you can see what I mean in this YouTube compilation of the three utterances of those words.
Stoic philosophy in three words. And an acting masterclass from Rylance in defining a character with just one short phrase. Since seeing it I've been surprised how often that little mantra has come in handy (and I don't lead anything like a stressful life nowadays!). The bigger surprise is remembering that I owe it to Hollywood.
There are others I've taken lessons from, but none I can think of were as mainstream as the above trio, as consciously mass market and 'popular'. Sometimes inspiration can come from the most unlikely places. I think Elwood P Dowd would agree, though I can't speak for Harvey.
Anyone else had a similar moment of revelation?
But sometimes it happens and there is one big name production I've seen in recent years that provided a phrase, and an attitude, I've often found helpful since. Recalling that recently got me wondering what other famous movies have offered similar guidance - and surprised myself with the two I came up with.
I certainly don't think these three films are amongst the best I've ever seen, although all of them have their strengths, but each one has made me think about life a little differently, despite all of them being very much 'entertainments' rather than art films. They certainly don't offer up much by way of diversity, with all the central characters being male, white and middle class (of sorts). None of them would pass the Bechdel Test, although I did see someone suggest that the earliest of the trio has a brief moment that technically qualifies it. None of them pretend to be other than what they are. And the first two could legitimately be described as schmaltzy.
First on my list is also the best known. It's a Wonderful Life is one of those sickly sweet tales that gets wheeled out at this time every year and never loses it's popularity. Partly because James Stewart is always so watchable, but perhaps also down to it's reminder that often it's the smallest of actions that can have big consequences and that we don't always realise the impact we, as individuals, have on the lives of others. Interconnection, interdependence.
Four years after that Jimmy Stewart starred in Harvey, a daft comedy that's riddled with flaws and stereotypes, and relies heavily on the Stewart's charm to carry it through. Is Elwood P Dowd, Stewart's character, a delusional alcoholic, or the nicest man you could wish to meet, or both? There's a key quote that sums up the 'philosophy' on offer :
Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, 'In this world, Elwood, you must be' – she always called me Elwood – 'In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.' Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.
Dowd, and his imaginary friend Harvey, get people to talk, to unburden themselves. Sometimes all we have to be is nice. Oh, and maybe believe in a bit of magic too. Reality isn't always a welcoming place.
Finally the film that set me off on this thread, released three years ago. Bridge of Spies is based on a true story, but 'Hollywoodised' of course. Tom Hanks is the box office name (is Hanks a modern day Jimmy Stewart? - discuss), but Mark Rylance's captured Russian KGB officer is the heart of it all. When they first meet, in prison, lawyer Hanks is explaining what he can do to help the spy, and Rylance gets his first of three chances to utter those three words - Would it help? If you haven't seen the movie, and don't think you'll have the time, you can see what I mean in this YouTube compilation of the three utterances of those words.
Stoic philosophy in three words. And an acting masterclass from Rylance in defining a character with just one short phrase. Since seeing it I've been surprised how often that little mantra has come in handy (and I don't lead anything like a stressful life nowadays!). The bigger surprise is remembering that I owe it to Hollywood.
There are others I've taken lessons from, but none I can think of were as mainstream as the above trio, as consciously mass market and 'popular'. Sometimes inspiration can come from the most unlikely places. I think Elwood P Dowd would agree, though I can't speak for Harvey.
Anyone else had a similar moment of revelation?
Sunday, 4 November 2018
Rediscovery or Reinvention?
DECADES APART
I went to see a rugby match last Friday. Edinburgh versus Scarlets. And a couple of weeks ago when the city's team played Toulon. Nothing remarkable about that, there were a few thousand other people there too. But it felt a bit like going back in time. That game against the French side was the first fifteen a side match I'd been to in well over thirty years, so it had a sense of occasion for me, a kind of homecoming. And, better still, I enjoyed it. The fact that Edinburgh had a big win might have had something to do with that though.
I first went to watch an international at Murrayfield on 4th February 1967. Scotland beat Wales 11-5, and I was ten. By and large I've not really been a big sports fan over the decades, but I was hooked, back then, on the big rugby occasions, and over the following years I didn't miss a home international match. Including the 1975 game against the Welsh when a record crowd of 104,000 were crammed into a stadium with a nominal 80,000 capacity. Cosy, and we beat Wales that day too. After that you had to buy a ticket in advance to get in. By the time 1979 arrived I'd been to see plenty of club matches, sevens tournaments and to see Edinburgh play in the inter-district championship.
Then I moved south; way, way south, to the Hampshire coast, and getting to Murrayfield required a bit more time and planning. I still made it to most of the Five Nations home games for a few years, including the Grand Slam winner in '84 (great occasion, dour spectacle). But then I was married, work was more demanding, life changed and I didn't get up as often. I'd watch the games on telly, saw our guys win another Slam in '90, and then found my interest starting to wane. Rugby Union was turning professional and with the increase in money came a much more drilled and calculating approach to the game. Defences became dominant and entertainment levels dropped. By the mid nineties I'd stopped watching. I was left as a fascinated follower of motorsport, and little else.
Move on a couple of decades and I'd dropped the motorsport. Change is good. I'd discovered something completely new. Maybe I'd seen a few hockey matches in the Winter Olympics coverage, but had little idea of what was going on. Looked interesting though. So when, seven years ago, the chance of cheap tickets to see Edinburgh's team came along we thought we'd try it out. And loved it. It would be another three years before we were full time city residents, but we got to as many games as possible, started to get some feel for the sport, started to know a few people at the rink, started to feel a part of the community. We got in four full seasons when we finally moved here permanently. I was an Edinburgh Capitals season ticket holder and secretary of the Supporters Club. Our weekends from September to March contained a predictable element, a chance to shout, cheer, get on the emotional rollercoaster of live sport and support. Then, last April, that was suddenly taken away from us, and it seems like there's no going back (but that's a story for another day).
Could anything replace that sense of belonging, the excitement, the passions you feel as part of a crowd willing a team on. One thing that hasn't changed over the decades is the sense of tedium I get from watching football, so that was never an option. But a bit more than four years ago I'd been watching TV alone, when a rugby match came on. Argentine versus Scotland. I was tempted to watch, just to see if anything had changed. And when the name John Beattie was announced as one of the team I felt I had to give it a go - I'd seen his dad playing for our country!
They've tweaked the rules a lot since the nineties, and for the better it seems. That match was genuinely entertaining (and again it probably helped that Scotland ended up as winners!) and I thought I'd give a few more a try (no pun intended). The five nations were now six, the strips look almost futuristic compared to the looser items I recall, all the spectators get to sit down, and the players go off at half time instead of standing in the middle of the pitch sucking on a bit of orange. (Yes, that was how it used to be done, even in top level internationals.) It helped that once exposed to this new spectacle Barbara developed a bit of an interest too.
So going to watch Edinburgh ('my' Edinburgh?) seems like a natural progression, given the loss of my regular entertainment next door (Murrayfield ice rink is, often literally, in the shadow of the rugby stadium). And after the Caps disastrous final season (only five wins from fifty six league games....) it's good to go and support a side that goes into each game with a chance of winning. There's a friendly atmosphere, big screens to watch when the action gets a bit distant (I do miss the intimacy of the hockey rink), and it's pretty cheap for us seniors. And no colder than sitting in the Fridge of Dreams next door. This could be habit forming.
I went to see a rugby match last Friday. Edinburgh versus Scarlets. And a couple of weeks ago when the city's team played Toulon. Nothing remarkable about that, there were a few thousand other people there too. But it felt a bit like going back in time. That game against the French side was the first fifteen a side match I'd been to in well over thirty years, so it had a sense of occasion for me, a kind of homecoming. And, better still, I enjoyed it. The fact that Edinburgh had a big win might have had something to do with that though.
I first went to watch an international at Murrayfield on 4th February 1967. Scotland beat Wales 11-5, and I was ten. By and large I've not really been a big sports fan over the decades, but I was hooked, back then, on the big rugby occasions, and over the following years I didn't miss a home international match. Including the 1975 game against the Welsh when a record crowd of 104,000 were crammed into a stadium with a nominal 80,000 capacity. Cosy, and we beat Wales that day too. After that you had to buy a ticket in advance to get in. By the time 1979 arrived I'd been to see plenty of club matches, sevens tournaments and to see Edinburgh play in the inter-district championship.
Then I moved south; way, way south, to the Hampshire coast, and getting to Murrayfield required a bit more time and planning. I still made it to most of the Five Nations home games for a few years, including the Grand Slam winner in '84 (great occasion, dour spectacle). But then I was married, work was more demanding, life changed and I didn't get up as often. I'd watch the games on telly, saw our guys win another Slam in '90, and then found my interest starting to wane. Rugby Union was turning professional and with the increase in money came a much more drilled and calculating approach to the game. Defences became dominant and entertainment levels dropped. By the mid nineties I'd stopped watching. I was left as a fascinated follower of motorsport, and little else.
Move on a couple of decades and I'd dropped the motorsport. Change is good. I'd discovered something completely new. Maybe I'd seen a few hockey matches in the Winter Olympics coverage, but had little idea of what was going on. Looked interesting though. So when, seven years ago, the chance of cheap tickets to see Edinburgh's team came along we thought we'd try it out. And loved it. It would be another three years before we were full time city residents, but we got to as many games as possible, started to get some feel for the sport, started to know a few people at the rink, started to feel a part of the community. We got in four full seasons when we finally moved here permanently. I was an Edinburgh Capitals season ticket holder and secretary of the Supporters Club. Our weekends from September to March contained a predictable element, a chance to shout, cheer, get on the emotional rollercoaster of live sport and support. Then, last April, that was suddenly taken away from us, and it seems like there's no going back (but that's a story for another day).
Could anything replace that sense of belonging, the excitement, the passions you feel as part of a crowd willing a team on. One thing that hasn't changed over the decades is the sense of tedium I get from watching football, so that was never an option. But a bit more than four years ago I'd been watching TV alone, when a rugby match came on. Argentine versus Scotland. I was tempted to watch, just to see if anything had changed. And when the name John Beattie was announced as one of the team I felt I had to give it a go - I'd seen his dad playing for our country!
They've tweaked the rules a lot since the nineties, and for the better it seems. That match was genuinely entertaining (and again it probably helped that Scotland ended up as winners!) and I thought I'd give a few more a try (no pun intended). The five nations were now six, the strips look almost futuristic compared to the looser items I recall, all the spectators get to sit down, and the players go off at half time instead of standing in the middle of the pitch sucking on a bit of orange. (Yes, that was how it used to be done, even in top level internationals.) It helped that once exposed to this new spectacle Barbara developed a bit of an interest too.
So going to watch Edinburgh ('my' Edinburgh?) seems like a natural progression, given the loss of my regular entertainment next door (Murrayfield ice rink is, often literally, in the shadow of the rugby stadium). And after the Caps disastrous final season (only five wins from fifty six league games....) it's good to go and support a side that goes into each game with a chance of winning. There's a friendly atmosphere, big screens to watch when the action gets a bit distant (I do miss the intimacy of the hockey rink), and it's pretty cheap for us seniors. And no colder than sitting in the Fridge of Dreams next door. This could be habit forming.
Wednesday, 31 October 2018
Coming home politically
HOME IS WHERE THE VOTE IS
The first time I got to exercise my democratic right to vote was the second general election of 1974, which gave Harold Wilson the majority he'd lacked first time around in February. Edinburgh, and Scotland as a whole, had a very different political makeup then than it does now. Much like England there was a split between the Tories and Labour, odd pockets of Liberal adherence, and the SNP were an almost unknown minority party. At the time I lived in the west of the city and the constituency vote was largely split between blue and yellow, Labour a poor third. The winner, not who I voted for, was Lord James Douglas-Hamilton - it won't be hard to guess which party he represented....
My last vote in Scotland before moving south was the 1979 devolution referendum. I voted Yes. The losing side again. By then my political convictions had evolved into positions that I still largely adhere to today. Chief amongst them that the Conservative party was clearly devoted to furthering the interests of the wealthy at the expense of the mass of the people and it was a civic duty to do whatever I could to prevent them from gaining power. That's a viewpoint that the current UK political farrago reinforces to the nth degree.
Then I spent 35 years in England, the first 10 in Hampshire, the remainder in Southport. In each case I found myself back in that Edinburgh West scenario, the majority vote split between Tory and Liberal (later LibDem), with Labour nowhere in the running. Based on the aforementioned conviction I found myself voting Lib most of the time, sometimes Labour in local elections if it looked like they had a chance. Tactical voting was the order of the day.
It wasn't always comfortable. While most of the people I worked with tended towards progressive views like myself. the community didn't. It was "interesting" living in what was largely a naval town at the time of the wholly unnecessary Falklands/Malvinas conflict...
All of which is by way of explaining why life in Leith and North Edinburgh, where I've now lived for over four years, is such a homecoming. Not just because it means a return to the city of my birth, but because, finally, I feel politically at home. For the first time I can vote with conviction, knowing there's a good chance of my choice winning. That feels good.
So we've got an SNP MP, an SNP constituency MSP, and our list MSPs include a couple of Greens, including the great Andy Wightman. Leith and Leith Walk were, after the last council elections, the only Tory-free wards in the city. And, in the disastrous EU referendum, this constituency recorded the highest Remain vote in the country, and the highest of any in the UK outside London. It's diverse, lively and has a high proportion of young people (not me, obviously) which makes it, mostly, a tolerant and thoughtful place to live.
There's one minor dark spot in all this. My first vote after returning was in IndyRef. This area, like the city as a whole, voted No. But there's plenty of opportunity to ensure that changes next time round. Which might be very soon. Here's hoping.
The first time I got to exercise my democratic right to vote was the second general election of 1974, which gave Harold Wilson the majority he'd lacked first time around in February. Edinburgh, and Scotland as a whole, had a very different political makeup then than it does now. Much like England there was a split between the Tories and Labour, odd pockets of Liberal adherence, and the SNP were an almost unknown minority party. At the time I lived in the west of the city and the constituency vote was largely split between blue and yellow, Labour a poor third. The winner, not who I voted for, was Lord James Douglas-Hamilton - it won't be hard to guess which party he represented....
My last vote in Scotland before moving south was the 1979 devolution referendum. I voted Yes. The losing side again. By then my political convictions had evolved into positions that I still largely adhere to today. Chief amongst them that the Conservative party was clearly devoted to furthering the interests of the wealthy at the expense of the mass of the people and it was a civic duty to do whatever I could to prevent them from gaining power. That's a viewpoint that the current UK political farrago reinforces to the nth degree.
Then I spent 35 years in England, the first 10 in Hampshire, the remainder in Southport. In each case I found myself back in that Edinburgh West scenario, the majority vote split between Tory and Liberal (later LibDem), with Labour nowhere in the running. Based on the aforementioned conviction I found myself voting Lib most of the time, sometimes Labour in local elections if it looked like they had a chance. Tactical voting was the order of the day.
It wasn't always comfortable. While most of the people I worked with tended towards progressive views like myself. the community didn't. It was "interesting" living in what was largely a naval town at the time of the wholly unnecessary Falklands/Malvinas conflict...
All of which is by way of explaining why life in Leith and North Edinburgh, where I've now lived for over four years, is such a homecoming. Not just because it means a return to the city of my birth, but because, finally, I feel politically at home. For the first time I can vote with conviction, knowing there's a good chance of my choice winning. That feels good.
So we've got an SNP MP, an SNP constituency MSP, and our list MSPs include a couple of Greens, including the great Andy Wightman. Leith and Leith Walk were, after the last council elections, the only Tory-free wards in the city. And, in the disastrous EU referendum, this constituency recorded the highest Remain vote in the country, and the highest of any in the UK outside London. It's diverse, lively and has a high proportion of young people (not me, obviously) which makes it, mostly, a tolerant and thoughtful place to live.
There's one minor dark spot in all this. My first vote after returning was in IndyRef. This area, like the city as a whole, voted No. But there's plenty of opportunity to ensure that changes next time round. Which might be very soon. Here's hoping.
Friday, 21 September 2018
Of Kilts, Walks and Nosey Hungarians
KILT WEARING LESSONS
I must have been about twelve. My parents had taken me on a camping holiday in Hungary. This was the sixties, the Iron Curtain was an oppressive reality, and visitors from anywhere as far west as the British Isles were a rarity, not something most Hungarians encountered.
We went for a day in Budapest. Dad parked the car on the outskirts and we got a bus into the centre. I've no idea what prompted me to do this, but I'd decided I'd wear my kilt (Crawford tartan of course). This was a stupid idea on two counts. Firstly, kilts are hot to wear, and Budapest in Summer is humid, so I soon found I was in for a sweaty day. And secondly, as I was about to discover, the concept of the kilt wasn't a familiar one to the locals....
This became clear as we passed a news kiosk, when the vendor jumped up, rushed out and stared at me. All the way down a very long street. Every time we looked back there he was, until, thankfully, the road took a turn. Then there was the shop my mother wanted to visit, looking for, I think, an embroidered tablecloth. The shop was dim inside, cool compared to the baking streets, so at first I was pleased to go in. There was one woman behind the counter, serving the one customer in the shop. On seeing me she forgot about her client, rushed round from behind the display cabinet and, ignoring my parents, homed in on me, bent down, and lifted..... I was twelve.
Later, getting back to the car, a group of hairdressers emerged from their shop, keen to ask us something. We spoke no Magyar, they spoke no English. Mum and I retired to the Cortina, leaving my father to try and fathom out the cause of their excitement. After a minute or so, and a lot of sign language, his bafflement turned to laughter and he made his way back to us. It took a bit of time before he could speak well enough to explain that they'd had a bet on as to whether I was boy or girl.
I was twelve. I never wore a kilt again....
Until this year. Cue Kiltwalk, and the decision to do it in the proper attire. Once I'd got a few training walks in, and was no longer getting blistered feet, it seemed like a good idea to try a walk in the kilt. Discovering unexpected chafing, or negative effects from having a sporran banging against your willy every step of the way, was best found out well before the day itself. So I took to wearing the kilt into town, then on my walks, and it got to see a few Fringe shows. It even made an appearance on TV (link only available until 3 October).
And so we became a couple, and it served me well on my walking challenge. Although the nearest thing I got to an injury did come from a soggy kilt hem, the one day I walked in a downpour, when the constant rubbing of sodden cloth nearly had me bleeding at one spot at the back of my right knee. But we didn't fall out over it, I just took to carrying plasters with me every time we went out.
I like it. I'm surprised how much I enjoy wearing it, the feeling it gives me, and I'm sure it won't be hanging lonely in the wardrobe until prep begins for Kiltwalk 2019 (yes, I will be begging for money again next year). There's even a chance I'll look for another one.
It's taken five decades, but my childhood day of Hungarian trauma has finally been resolved.
And finally.... many thanks to everyone who supported me and donated money for my walk. If you'd still like to give something then please click on this link.
Proof I made it to the end :
And click on this link if you want to see how I managed to still walk like a vaguely normal human after fifteen and a half miles!
I must have been about twelve. My parents had taken me on a camping holiday in Hungary. This was the sixties, the Iron Curtain was an oppressive reality, and visitors from anywhere as far west as the British Isles were a rarity, not something most Hungarians encountered.
We went for a day in Budapest. Dad parked the car on the outskirts and we got a bus into the centre. I've no idea what prompted me to do this, but I'd decided I'd wear my kilt (Crawford tartan of course). This was a stupid idea on two counts. Firstly, kilts are hot to wear, and Budapest in Summer is humid, so I soon found I was in for a sweaty day. And secondly, as I was about to discover, the concept of the kilt wasn't a familiar one to the locals....
This became clear as we passed a news kiosk, when the vendor jumped up, rushed out and stared at me. All the way down a very long street. Every time we looked back there he was, until, thankfully, the road took a turn. Then there was the shop my mother wanted to visit, looking for, I think, an embroidered tablecloth. The shop was dim inside, cool compared to the baking streets, so at first I was pleased to go in. There was one woman behind the counter, serving the one customer in the shop. On seeing me she forgot about her client, rushed round from behind the display cabinet and, ignoring my parents, homed in on me, bent down, and lifted..... I was twelve.
Later, getting back to the car, a group of hairdressers emerged from their shop, keen to ask us something. We spoke no Magyar, they spoke no English. Mum and I retired to the Cortina, leaving my father to try and fathom out the cause of their excitement. After a minute or so, and a lot of sign language, his bafflement turned to laughter and he made his way back to us. It took a bit of time before he could speak well enough to explain that they'd had a bet on as to whether I was boy or girl.
I was twelve. I never wore a kilt again....
Until this year. Cue Kiltwalk, and the decision to do it in the proper attire. Once I'd got a few training walks in, and was no longer getting blistered feet, it seemed like a good idea to try a walk in the kilt. Discovering unexpected chafing, or negative effects from having a sporran banging against your willy every step of the way, was best found out well before the day itself. So I took to wearing the kilt into town, then on my walks, and it got to see a few Fringe shows. It even made an appearance on TV (link only available until 3 October).
And so we became a couple, and it served me well on my walking challenge. Although the nearest thing I got to an injury did come from a soggy kilt hem, the one day I walked in a downpour, when the constant rubbing of sodden cloth nearly had me bleeding at one spot at the back of my right knee. But we didn't fall out over it, I just took to carrying plasters with me every time we went out.
I like it. I'm surprised how much I enjoy wearing it, the feeling it gives me, and I'm sure it won't be hanging lonely in the wardrobe until prep begins for Kiltwalk 2019 (yes, I will be begging for money again next year). There's even a chance I'll look for another one.
It's taken five decades, but my childhood day of Hungarian trauma has finally been resolved.
And finally.... many thanks to everyone who supported me and donated money for my walk. If you'd still like to give something then please click on this link.
Proof I made it to the end :
And click on this link if you want to see how I managed to still walk like a vaguely normal human after fifteen and a half miles!
Thursday, 13 September 2018
Our very own poem, Our very own poet
VERSE SURPRISE
A hypothetical question for you. You're given the gift of all the time and money you need to go to an unlimited supply of live entertainment. With the catch that everything you see must fall within only one of these four categories - sport, music, drama or comedy. Which do you choose?
For me the answer is always easy. Music. Much as I love the other three, much as they've all provided me with some amazing memories, it's no contest. There are no highs like the highs I've had from a couple hours of watching and listening and moving to the sounds of Dallahan or Le Vent du Nord or Blazin' Fiddles or Stephanie Trick or Mr Sipp or the 3 geniuses that comprise the mighty Lau or.... the list goes on and on (but always ends with Lau).
But there's a genre missing from my list, as last night's gig reminded me. Spoken Word, Poetry, Storytelling, it goes by various names, but can have its own way of providing those special moments in life. I've not been to all that many across the years. Luke Wright was a fairly recent discovery, but the poetry gig that's stuck most in my head was over 20 years ago, courtesy of a friend who took us along to see a man called Henry Normal. And we became fans, read his books, found ourselves quoting lines to each other at odd moments.
You might not know the name, or his poetry, but you will be familiar with much of his other work. Along with Steve Coogan he set up Baby Cow Productions and among his many credits as writer and/or producer are shows like The Royle Family, Gavin and Stacey, Red Dwarf, Alan Partridge and the feature film Philomena. Not a bad list.
But now he's left TV behind and is back writing and performing as a poet. His appearance in the Poetry Cafe in London near enough coincided with our wedding anniversary, which seemed like a good enough excuse to make the trip. I was looking forward to seeing him again, wholly unaware of just how special a night it would be.
Because Barbara got in touch with Henry, asking if he'd give us a mention on the night. To her surprise he not only said he would, but he'd write a poem just for us as well. I was in the dark about this until the night itself and we had a chat with Mr Normal before the show. It was a hilarious and moving night , the (our!) poem was wonderful, and Henry is a lovely,lovely man.
You'd probably think that was the best bit of the night, but no. If you know Barbara you'll know she's pretty much the open book type, always honest, her emotions writ large upon her features. But she kept this a secret from me without a hint of it escaping. You can't imagine how proud I am that she's finally, after all these years, achieved a level of deceitfulness to match my own....
As for the poem, well here's a photo of the copy he presented us with, and a transcript in case the original is hard to read. Enjoy. We did.
MOT for the 21st WEDDING ANNIVERSARY of
Barbara and Blyth Crawford
MOT
Marriage on track
Mutual ownership treaty
Membership of team
Made of trust
Marvel of tolerance
Merger of two
Ministry of Tenderness
Mate on tap
or
MOT
Misery owned twice
Mad oath taken
Match own troubles
Murderer of time
Monogamy only token
Malevolent odious twin
Malign other twat
Must order termination
Tuesday, 11 September 2018
Advocard, my 15 mile motivator
YOU PUT SOMETHING IN, YOU GET SOMETHING OUT
In my last post I said I'd write about my experiences at Advocard, the organisation I'm doing Kiltwalk for next Sunday, so here it is. I've been volunteering with them for well over two years now, so I've got a good idea of what they do, what good they do, and also what they do for me.
Finding them was one of those random strokes of luck. Although it was my wife who suggested we go in for a look around the Edinburgh Volunteer Fair, it was me who emerged from it with a new role to take on. When the basics of being an advocacy worker were explained to me it just felt like it clicked with some of my own skills from my professional life, albeit with a very different application.
People with mental health issues often struggle to make their voices heard, especially when dealing with any form of officialdom. They may have difficulty in expressing themselves, or lack the confidence to stand up for themselves, or find they are too easily ignored. An advocacy worker can help them express what they want to communicate more effectively, help them to find, or sometimes act as, their voice.
That can take many forms. Writing letters or emails on their behalf, making phone calls, helping them to complete complex forms. Sometimes just listening and helping someone to organise their own thoughts is all they require. Although many of our meetings with service users take place in the Advocard office on Leith Walk, we also make home visits for people whose health issues, physical as well as mental, make it difficult for them to come to us. At other times I will be going along to the doctor, the psychiatrist, to meetings with social workers or housing officers, to MP surgeries and benefits offices. Anywhere someone might feel uncomfortable, challenged, inarticulate or even threatened.
Advocacy can be a tricky concept at first, but I was given a good deal of training before being unleashed on the public. I'm not there to give advice, but I can help someone to understand their options and priorities better. I'm not a carer, or a friend, or there to try and manage the service user. There are other organisations out there for those things. I am there to help someone have confidence that they will at least be heard, that what they want to say is put across in a clear and intelligible manner, and when asked for information they are able to provide what's required.
Although there are several themes that crop up frequently, such as complaints about poor housing or feeling ignored by the medical profession, the one thing an advocacy learns very quickly is that every situation is different, every person I see has different problems to the last. Mental illness can affect anyone, and I've found myself working with a lawyer, a university lecturer and software developer. But a lot of the people we see are from the more vulnerable sections of society, often too ill to work, frequently with wider health problems. They have a huge range of conditions too. Some can explain themselves well, but with others their illness makes it difficult for them to give a coherent account of why they've come to see us. Patience and sharp listening skills are called for!
Similarly the home visits may take me into parts of the city I might not otherwise find myself in, districts that are in sharp contrast to the image Edinburgh presents to tourists and festival-goers. But I've also found myself going out to a flat that must have been worth around a million. Like I said before, anyone can be affected, and there's no 'profile' of a 'typical' Advocard user.
As an ex civil servant I think I bring something useful to the role. Obviously I'm going to be comfortable with some of the jargon officialdom sometimes confronts people with, and filling in long and complex forms is second nature to me. But it's having been a business analyst I often find most useful. If someone wants to make a complaint I need to understand the sequence of events that led up to problem, but often the person I'm talking to isn't able to relate their story in a linear fashion, or an awareness of which facts are relevant. Being able to create a timeline out of a jumble of words becomes a handy skill to have....
And I think, as an ex-bullshitter, I'm pretty good at spotting when someone is doling it out.
Why do I do it? Well, I suppose in part it's that well worn and nebulous cliché of "giving something back", a sense of doing some good in the community. Not that it's always clear if I've been of any assistance, but that's the nature of the job.
It's also about the sheer variety of situations I find myself dealing with, trying to understand, and the different professions and people I encounter. But there are a couple of specifics I want to end on, one very personal to myself, the other with a wider purview. Firstly, retirement is wonderful, but it's easy to feel like you're no longer of much use to anyone. Being able to dig up some of my skills from the past and apply them to a very different environment is what I think of as my "reminder of competence". Secondly, seeing people who are sometimes at a very low point in their lives, sometimes feeling suicidal, and hearing their background stories has helped me keep in mind that the vast majority of us are only two or three coinciding events from hitting a downwards spiral. Most of us could find a way to cope with a serious illness to ourselves or others, or the death of someone close, or redundancy, or a sudden financial burden, or an accident, or having to move home, or falling out with friends or relatives, or.... The list goes on. But change one or two of those 'or's to 'and's and coping becomes much more difficult. I've met people who were leading perfectly normal, useful lives, only for some of those events to come along at once and finding they lack the resources to cope. Maybe they don't have a decent support network, maybe they don't have savings, maybe they don't have the skills. Maybe I wouldn't.
So that's why I'm walking for Advocard. Because any one of us might need it one day.
If you'd like to help me to raise funds you can donate by clicking on this link.
Thursday, 30 August 2018
Walking with a purpose
NOW I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING IT FOR
Following on from my last post here it seemed about time I wrote an update on my Kiltwalk plans. There's little more than 2 weeks until the day itself, and things have moved on since I first wrote about it in early July.
There's the good news that I won't be made to feel old by the other members of the group I'll be walking with. And the bad news that all of the others have, due to other commitments or ill health, had to drop out, so I'm now the oldest, youngest and only. Oh well.
I had been planning to surprise the others on the day with my attire. But since there's nobody left to reveal myself to I may as well admit that I took this seriously enough to buy a kilt (a bargain - £50 in Armstrongs in the Grassmarket) and start wearing it so I can be used to it by the time it and me are going the distance. It's the first time I've worn one for about 50 years, after a traumatic event a much younger me experienced in Budapest, but I've been enjoying it, even wearing it to a few Fringe shows. I have no idea what the tartan is (anyone?), but it's bright without being as offensive as some. It's also the lighter of the 2 weights usually available, making it a bit comfier on a warm day.
I've done quite a few training walks since that first post, but today was only the second in the kilt. The first time I tried was also the first walk on which it poured heavily and I was fair drookit, despite only doing about 7 miles. But a kilt is better than jeans in those conditions, nowhere near as absorbent, but one bit of the hem rubbed the side of my knee so much it was almost bleeding. I now know to take plasters in my bag....
Today it was the Water of Leith Walkway again, this time in the sensible direction, coming down from the Pentlands. It was dry, it was warm, and there was no chafing. It also provided an answer to one of the great existential questions of our time - what's it like to walk that sort of distance with a sporran banging against your willy every step of the way? Answer, nowhere near as exciting as you might hope.
Having been left to my own devices in this I was able to choose my own charity to donate to. I've gone with Advocard (http://www.advocard.org.uk) which provides advocacy services for people with poor mental health, people who might otherwise find themselves ignored or coerced by officialdom and other organisations. My choice reflects my own involvement, having been a volunteer advocacy worker for more than 2 years., and knowing what the service can mean to people. I'll write more about my experiences of Advocard in my next post.
Meanwhile, if you would like to sponsor me, please click on this link.
Following on from my last post here it seemed about time I wrote an update on my Kiltwalk plans. There's little more than 2 weeks until the day itself, and things have moved on since I first wrote about it in early July.
There's the good news that I won't be made to feel old by the other members of the group I'll be walking with. And the bad news that all of the others have, due to other commitments or ill health, had to drop out, so I'm now the oldest, youngest and only. Oh well.
I had been planning to surprise the others on the day with my attire. But since there's nobody left to reveal myself to I may as well admit that I took this seriously enough to buy a kilt (a bargain - £50 in Armstrongs in the Grassmarket) and start wearing it so I can be used to it by the time it and me are going the distance. It's the first time I've worn one for about 50 years, after a traumatic event a much younger me experienced in Budapest, but I've been enjoying it, even wearing it to a few Fringe shows. I have no idea what the tartan is (anyone?), but it's bright without being as offensive as some. It's also the lighter of the 2 weights usually available, making it a bit comfier on a warm day.
I've done quite a few training walks since that first post, but today was only the second in the kilt. The first time I tried was also the first walk on which it poured heavily and I was fair drookit, despite only doing about 7 miles. But a kilt is better than jeans in those conditions, nowhere near as absorbent, but one bit of the hem rubbed the side of my knee so much it was almost bleeding. I now know to take plasters in my bag....
Today it was the Water of Leith Walkway again, this time in the sensible direction, coming down from the Pentlands. It was dry, it was warm, and there was no chafing. It also provided an answer to one of the great existential questions of our time - what's it like to walk that sort of distance with a sporran banging against your willy every step of the way? Answer, nowhere near as exciting as you might hope.
Having been left to my own devices in this I was able to choose my own charity to donate to. I've gone with Advocard (http://www.advocard.org.uk) which provides advocacy services for people with poor mental health, people who might otherwise find themselves ignored or coerced by officialdom and other organisations. My choice reflects my own involvement, having been a volunteer advocacy worker for more than 2 years., and knowing what the service can mean to people. I'll write more about my experiences of Advocard in my next post.
Meanwhile, if you would like to sponsor me, please click on this link.
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