Tuesday, 16 January 2018


The fields were on the other side of the trees on the left of photo

How we first experience a place is usually how we imagine it's always going to be - how it always should be in fact.  That's how it is for me anyway.  Case in point, when my family moved into a new house in another area in 1983, on the other side of the path which ran by our house, was a huge field - then a road, and then another field.  And I believe there were even more fields beyond that.

That's how it was for the four years and three months we stayed there.  Several years after having moved away, I revisited the area and was surprised to see that a large housing estate had been built on the previously adjoining fields.  The sense of space was gone, and the neighbourhood now seemed over-developed, not to mention claustrophobic.  From my point of view, the absence of the fields ruined the area, and I was glad that when I lived there, I experienced it at its best.  In my memory, that's how the place should look - and still does whenever I think of it.  (Just not when I revisit though.)

So do you feel the same about any place from your past where you lived or frequented when younger?  Do you lament any changes, or accept them with no qualms - or don't they matter to you one way or the other?  Should you feel the need to express yourselves, you know where the comments section is.

Sunday, 12 November 2017


"Why are you called 'Kid'?  Is it because you act like one?"

If I had a pound for every time I've been asked that, I'd have - well, I'd have a pound actually, so I don't suppose there's really too much interest in the topic.  However, I have to fill this blog with something, so - assuming you'll all bear with me in yet another act of shameless self-indulgence - I shall address the issue in the forlorn hope that anybody even remotely cares.

There was a period during my early teenage years when I called everyone "kid".  It was short, snappy, and it meant never having to worry about remembering people's names.  One day, I ran into a pal of mine in the company of a group of his friends.  Anticipating my familiar, well-worn greeting, he thought he'd get in first in a daring act of mockery at my little peccadillo.  (Feel free to supply your own amusing rejoinder to that last sentence.)  "Hi Kid!" he said with a cheeky grin upon his smug countenance, immensely satisfied with himself for - in his mind - 'beating me to the punch'.

His pals were unaware of his intended 'irony' however, and merely assumed it to be my nickname.  But ours is a drama decreed by the fates to be acted out (always loved that line by LARRY LIEBER);  I subsequently became friendly with that little group, who - in their innocence - always referred to me by that appellation.  And so the name stuck and I've been known as "Kid" - to them and to others - ever since.

But whence came the habit which led to me effectively naming myself?  Why did I call people "kid" to begin with?  I'm glad I pretended you asked.  You see, back in the early 1970s, there was a brilliant comedy show called WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE LIKELY LADS, starring JAMES BOLAM and RODNEY BEWES.  In fact, as they had alternating billing from week to week, if you re-read that last sentence, reverse the order of their names so that I don't hear from their agents or solicitors.

Although the programme was a comedy, it also had pathos, poignancy and profundity - otherwise known as the three Ps.  During the course of their frequent nostalgia-laden soliloquies, the characters often addressed each other as "kid" or "kidda".  In my devotion to the programme and my desire to emulate the two main characters, I soon adopted the practice of referring to everyone I knew (and even some I didn't) as "kidda", which resulted in some fairly puzzled looks.  That's because the words "kidda" and "kidder" sound pretty similar when pronounced with a lazy Glaswegian accent, and this made folks think I was accusing them of pulling my leg in some way.

"Kidder?" they'd say in a slightly bewildered manner (likewise mispronouncing it as "kidda") - "Kiddin' about what?"  Well, it didn't take me too long to realize that adopting the shorter option - "kid" - would avoid any unnecessary confusion amongst my sturdy band of companions and free me from having to endlessly explain myself.  It could've been far worse, as I'd once been in the habit of exclaiming "Jings, man!" in response to anything of even a vaguely interesting or surprising nature.

This inevitably led to all my friends and acquaintances calling me "Jings-Man" every time I appeared on the horizon.  Fortunately, I soon dropped the use of this 'oath' (doubtless acquired from reading too many BROONS and OOR WULLIE strips in The SUNDAY POST) and thus escaped any longterm association with the name which could've resulted in lasting damage to my delicate sensibilities.  I much prefer being called "Kid" - or "Sir", even.  (In fact, now that I come to think about it, "Master" is good as well.)

And there you have it!  The hitherto secret origin of how I gained my teenage nickname which has remained with me to this day.  And you also have an object lesson in the art of writing something about nothing - but you should only ever do so if your very life depends on it, so I have absolutely no excuse.

Monday, 30 October 2017


The incident described occurred just to the left
(and out of sight) beyond the closed fire door

When I was a lad at primary school, there was a boy in my class by the name of Euan (maybe Ewan) Sheperd, who giggled like a girl and was slightly effete.  I never realised it back then, but looking back many years later, it struck me that such was the case.  Euan may well be a big manly man now, but it would come as no great surprise to me to learn that he made the journey to Denmark at the earliest opportunity after leaving school.

But Euan isn't the star of this post - his is nothing more than a cameo role in this true tale from the dim and distant days of my childhood, when I was only about 8 years old.  Euan and myself were part of the double line of pupils waiting at the foot of the stairs one day, ready to ascend to the rooms above.  One of us accidentally tripped as the line started to move, placing us slightly out-of-step with our fellows, and Euan emitted a giggle.  Suddenly, Mr. Halliburton, descended upon us and violently yanked us from the ranks.

Pushing us against a wall, he started to shout at us, and was either going to belt us or give us 'lines'.  (Can't recall with certainty after so many years - it was one or the other.)  I'd had an encounter with Halliburton before (see here) and was determined not to let him intimidate me.  "I'm going to tell my dad about you!" I declared, and started to move towards the door leading to the playground.  (I lived at the top of the road, so my house was nearby.)  He grabbed me by the lapels and pushed me back against the wall, glaring at me menacingly.

At this point Euan burst into tears, eliciting a look of contempt from Mr. Halliburton, who then eyed us while he deliberated his next move.  An internal struggle seemed to be taking place - then he ordered "Get to your class!"  As Euan moved off, Halliburton pulled me back, lowered his voice and muttered "Don't ever threaten me with your father again."  Yeah, that'd be right - adults wouldn't put up with his p*sh, but kids could be easily intimidated.  Except for me that is.

I caught up with Euan as he dabbed his tears away with the back of his hands.  He forced out a giggle - "Hee hee - that always works" he whimpered, sheepishly and unconvincingly.  Yeah, sure - but even so it was no excuse to abandon dignity and self-respect.  However, Mr. Halliburton never tried to bully me or lay his hands on me again in all my remaining time at primary.  That's what I call a result!

Next:  Another tale about the tears of Euan.


The teacher's table sat in front of (and parallel to) the stage

I was rather shy and introverted as a primary school pupil and didn't mix well with my fellows.  Back in my day, it was the practice to pair off with a classmate when en route to anywhere in the school by saying "Take!", and clasping the hand of the favoured (or simply available) choice of partner before making our way (in a double-filed line) to which- ever part of the school we were led by the teacher.

One day (in 1966), the bell rang for dinner, and the playground emptied as the throng of kids made its way into the corridor outside the dining hall, pairing off while awaiting permission to enter.  (I'm unsure why we were in the playground at dinnertime, but we were.  Perhaps we were the second wave of hungry diners that day.)

Anyway, I hung back because I didn't have a pupil to pair off with - for two reasons.  Firstly, no one picked me, and secondly, I was just too shy to put myself forward.  My brother found me lurking in the corridor and enquired why I wasn't in the hall filling my face.  I explained my situation and he took me to see Mr. Curry, the janitor.  Wishing to avoid embarrassing me by saying "He's too shy to go into the hall by himself", he just said  "He was at the far end of the playground and didn't hear the dinner-bell."

Mr. Curry took me to the door of the hall, opened it and actually whistled to the teachers sat at the 'top table'. Mr. Halliburton, the depute head looked over, and Mr. Curry nodded at me in a contemptuous manner.  "Didn't hear the bell," he explained as  Mr. Halliburton came over, in a tone which suggested "a likely story".

Without saying a word, Mr. Halliburton grabbed me by the back of my collar and, no exaggeration, my feet barely scuffed the stairs as he ascended to his classroom on the top floor.  There, he administered several strokes of 'the strap', with such severity I had the wind knocked out of me.  Then he dragged me back down to the hall and said to one of the dinner ladies "Give this boy his food!"

Ignore the doorway on your left.  It was the doorway to the side of
it on your right from which Mr. Curry hailed Mr. Halliburton

I'll choose my next words very carefully.

What a nasty, sadistic b*st*rd!  No sympathy, no empathy, no clue about how to deal with kids who were a bit self-conscious or introverted.  How he was ever allowed to be a teacher, never mind a headmaster (as he later became) remains a complete mystery to me.  I met him at various times in my teenage and adult years, and though I was always perfectly polite to him, I never forgot the appalling way he had punished my 7 year-old self for merely being a bit shy and lacking in confidence.  Schoolkids today don't know just how fortunate they are, that's for sure.

One of his two sons was in my class in secondary school, and I always felt a bit sorry for him.  Not that he was a sad individual or anything like that, but I have the impression that he copped a fair bit of grief simply for being his father's son.  Mr. Halliburton hadn't been well-liked by quite a number of pupils, and poor Neville would've had that situation to deal with, unfortunately.  Probably the opposite of his primary school days I imagine, when none of his classmates would've dared touch him for fear of incurring his pater's sadistic and unholy wrath.

I last saw Mr. Halliburton around 9 years or so ago, but he was pretty ancient and I'd be surprised (though undismayed) to learn that he's yet alive.  If it's not already happened, it won't be long until it's Mr. Halliburton's turn to see 'The Headmaster'.  I'm not so bitter over my experience though, that I'd begrudge him being accorded the understanding, insight, and mercy that he seemed incapable of displaying towards his unfortunate pupils.

Hey, maybe I'm a better person than I thought.


Incidentally, there's a subsequent incident involving Mr. Halliburton where I defied his attempt to punish me again.  I'll tell you all about it another time.

Friday, 18 August 2017


In previous posts I've bored you all rigid with ponderous ponderings on the nature of time, as well as rambling reminiscences of my childhood and how I've never been quite able to comprehend how I went to bed one night as a teenager and woke up what seems like the very next day as the grumpy curmudgeon I am now.  Well, the bad news is that it's more of the same, I'm afraid.

As a child I was always looking backward.  When I moved from the first house I remember (but not the first I lived in), I made little pilgrimages to my old street to look at my former abode and derive some comfort from the familiarity of its presence.  What's odd about this over-developed sense of nostalgia is that I only lived three or four minutes away and was a mere five and a half years old.  Wow!  Not even six and already hankering after the 'good old days'.

This compulsion to revisit the past has been a prominent feature of my personality all through my life to this very day.  I recently added photographs of the views from the windows of my previous houses to my screensaver facility so that I can again gaze on familiar scenes whenever the mood takes me.  At the click of a key I can re-experience any one of several landscapes that once met me when I drew back the curtains in the morning at various stages in my life.

However, there was one particular house (the third after the aforementioned ones above) I lived in for several years that I didn't miss 'til over a dozen years after moving out (and two houses down the line) and I've often wondered as to the reasons for this 'delayed reaction'.  If you're interested (or aren't currently engaged in watching paint dry), feel free to join me as I explore the possible explanation for the curious complexity which has puzzled me for many a long year.

When I moved from the house in question (back in 1972), my life still revolved to a great degree around the neighbourhood it was situated in.  I continued to attend the school just across the road from it for another two and a half years.  I still went to Summer and Christmas fayres in the church at the top of the street, and my mother dutifully trotted along to the Sunday services every week, even though there was another congregation of the same denomination just around the corner from our new home.  (In fact, it was from this group that the one my mother went to had sprung.)  My friends all lived near or around my old domicile and I continued to frequent the area for quite a few years after.

It wasn't unusual for me to come home from school (and later, work), have my tea, and then return to my previous neighbourhood to hang about the local shopping centre (about thirty seconds away from my old front door) with my pals.  Perhaps that explains why I wasn't consumed with the same rabid pangs of nostalgia I nursed for previous houses;  I saw it so often that I simply never had a chance to miss it.  The ambiance of the house was preserved in our new home by the presence of the same furniture we'd had in every place we'd ever lived in - plus, our new house was similar in many respects to the first one I remembered, hence it conjured up a feeling of familiarity that pre-dated the dwelling we had just recently vacated.

It wasn't until we had again moved house (in 1983) and were ensconced in yet another new residence that I gradually started to miss the one we had quit way back in 1972. What's strange about this was that I was simultaneously wallowing in nostalgic notions for the homestead we had just left (to say nothing of the ones which preceded them both), so it certainly can't be denied that I was spoilt for choice when it came to such sentimental self-indulgence.  Maybe I'm just greedy?

Perhaps another reason I only started to miss this particular house when I did had something to do with running into an old classmate from primary school in the neighbourhood shops across from my old home in 1984 or '85.   ALEX LOWE by name, and as fine and decent a bloke as you could ever hope to meet.  We exchanged greetings, enquired after one another's well-being, and then Alex asked:  "Are you still living across the road?", nodding in the direction of my previous abode.  He was surprised to learn that I'd moved away about twelve or thirteen years earlier, and it made me wonder how many other people I knew still thought I lived in a place I'd left almost half my life away at that point.

Talking of Alex (and veering wildly off topic), I hope he won't mind me recounting that he once appeared in our secondary school play as a fairy, uttering the immortal lines:  "I'm a fairy, bright and gay, helping others every day!"  I don't recall anything else about that play, but Alex's turn got such a huge laugh on the night that everyone remembered it - and constantly quoted the lines back to him in lisping, falsetto voice over the course of the next few terms.  (I know I did, little bastich that I was.)  He always took it in good humour, being the fine fellow he is.

I'd planned to expand the scope of this topic and try and explore (in an epic exercise in tedium) wider themes than I actually have.  For example, what it is that draws us to our past and connects us to where we came from, and whether or not it has any bearing on the direction we take in life.  Can a house in which we once stayed shape our perceptions of ourselves, or would we be precisely the same as we are regardless of the bricks and mortar which shield us from the elements?  However, the realisation has now dawned on me that it's simply too big a concept to concisely and competently capture within the confines of a blog post - in an interesting and entertaining way, at least.

I'll have to content myself with the hope (slim as it may be) that I may have prompted some readers to indulge in a little quiet contemplation of whatever memories reside within the repositories of their own minds.

Or, failing that, helped cure them of their insomnia.

Sunday, 30 April 2017


I used to have an uncle;  nothing unusual about that - lots
of folk have uncles.  I had more than one uncle of course, but it's
one in particular I'm going to talk about today.  Let's call him Uncle
Willie - mainly because that was his name.  Although, in the interests
of historical accuracy, it behooves me to admit that I'm unsure whether
he was an 'actual' uncle or merely an 'honorary' one, in that convenient
bracket that older male relatives are placed when it's not known exact-
ly what their title should be.  He never struck me as a very nice man to
be frank, and he was eventually sectioned under the mental health
act for beating up his wife - who, unsurprisingly, happened to be
my aunt.  They were both quite elderly when all this was
going on, which is all rather tragic I suppose.

I remember being through in Edinburgh with my family
back in the late '60s, visiting one of my father's sisters (another
aunt), and Uncle Willie and his wife were there too.  We all left at the
same time and I remember Uncle Willie put his hand in his pocket and
slipped some coins into the hands of my other aunt's kids.  I was sur-
prised to see this act of generosity, because he'd never done that
with me or my brother.  I liked him even less after that.

Uncle Willie was a bit of a blowhard.  Full of tall tales and
unlikely stories designed to portray himself in the most flattering
light.  Anything anyone else had ever done, he'd done first or done
better - and sometimes even both.  He and his wife were visiting our
house one night, and he took the opportunity to regale my brother
and myself with tales of how fit he was and how he was able to
expand his chest to nigh Olympian proportions.

He could see from our expressions that we remained un-
convinced (nor were we much interested, truth be told) so he in-
sisted on demonstrating his 'amazing ability'.  At first he stood in a
stooped position with his chest as far back towards his spine as pos-
sible, then slowly stood up, thrusting his chest out as far as he could
and, arching his back while leaning forward, attempted to create the
impression that he'd achieved his stated goal.  When he was finished,
he proudly announced:  "Mabel, I've just expanded my chest by 11
and a half inches!"  He hadn't of course, all he'd done is made a
tit of himself.   We were too polite to say so, but we had a
good laugh at him after he'd left.

 I'm glad I've no nieces and nephews, because at least I know
I can never be regarded with derision or disdain in the way that
me and my brother discreetly regarded Uncle Willie.  So I suppose
the moral of this story is that if you want your young relatives to be
left with a good impression of you when you're gone, then you
should avoid trying to impress them while you're here.

Monday, 13 February 2017


Not long after our dog TARA died, a friend asked me to
look after his four-legged friend for a while, so I did.  Two weeks
after my doggie-sitting term had ended, I bought a puppy, ZARA,
who was the final dog out of three that my family had over a nearly
26 year period.  Let me tell you something - people who don't like
dogs - or any animals in fact - and are untouched by an animal's
death, are unnatural.  There's something missing in them and
they're very probably latent serial killers.

But that's another subject.  When Zara was a few months
old and still in the process of getting her jags, I was sitting in the
vet's one evening and a dog could be heard whining behind a door.
The vet came out to speak to me, and I caught a glimpse of a black
dog which must've been tethered to a table leg or something.  As I
was speaking with the vet, the whining increased and the dog start-
ed scratching at the door and yelping.  I asked what was wrong
with it and the vet replied "It's getting put to sleep."

Anyway, after my business was completed, I made my
way home feeling a little sorry for the dog, but too delighted with
my own pup to dwell on it.  A few years later, I ran into a friend, who
mentioned that he'd been given the very canine that I'd once looked
after, because its owner couldn't keep it any more.  "What happened
to it?" I asked him.  "I had to get it put down because..."  I forget the
reasons why, but I asked him where he'd taken the poor dog, and,
sure enough, it was the very vet's where I'd taken Zara for
her course of injections.

I checked the timeline with him and it matched.  It was then I
realized that the poor creature had been the dog behind the door,
and must have recognized my scent or my voice - hence its frantic
scratching, whining and yelping in an attempt to be rescued from
what it must have sensed was its final fate.  And I had failed it,
and it had gone to its end unloved and unwanted.

Looking back now, I'm not sure what I could have done, if
anything, but it still bothers me every now and again to this day.
I'd only looked after it for a fortnight or so, and it wasn't as if it was
'my' dog, but that poor creature must've hoped I'd rescue it and I let
it down, unaware of its identity 'though I'd been.  Humans are often
pretty useless when it counts, and I was found amongst that par-
ticular number on that sad and pitiful day.  Alas, I no longer
even recall the doomed dog's name.

Regrets?  I've had a few...and this was one of them.

Tuesday, 17 January 2017


was passing my former house in an old neighbourhood
 yesterday and, acting on impulse, decided to 'catch a swatch'
at the back garden.  I was saddened to see that the clothes poles
and lawn were gone, and that the garden had been re-slabbed to
cover the whole area.  It was a bit of a shock as the last time
I'd seen it, it was pretty much as it had been in my day.

I'm glad I'd managed to get photographs of the garden
back in 1988 and again in 1991, and preserved it as it used to
be in the halcyon days of my childhood.  For 20-odd years after
we'd flitted, the house and gardens (front and back) had remain-
ed mostly as I recalled them, but since then several significant
changes have been made, and things as I'd known them are
now a mere echo in the hallowed halls of history.

If I were ever to win the Lottery, I'd buy every house in
which I've ever lived and restore them as much as possible
to their former glory.  In a completely self-indulgent wallow in
nostalgia, I thought I'd take another walk around my old garden
and permit you to accompany me.  It wasn't much, but it was
mine - and shall forever remain so in the mystic bands of
memory.  Now, follow me - the past is this way.

Wednesday, 28 December 2016


When I was - oh, I dunno - around ten I suppose, me and my brother had a pet hamster called  (you'll never guess) Hammy.  The name was inevitable, both of us having grown up on TALES Of The RIVERBANK, one of the WATCH WITH MOTHER TV shows for kids.  Hammy had a cage which was sometimes kept in the kitchen, sometimes in the garden cellar.  We would watch in rapt fascination as he raced 'round his wheel for what seemed an absolute age, presumably enjoying himself.  Now I realize it was probably out of frustration and because he was 'stir-crazy'.

One day, my brother announced that Hammy was dead, and with the morbid curiosity that most kids are heir to, we examined the corpse.  Poor Hammy.  We tenderly wrapped him up in a brown paper bag and gingerly laid him in the refuse bin in the back garden, then retired back to the living-room to mourn our departed pet.  But then I had a sudden brainwave.  "Maybe he's only hiberna-ting" speculated, so we retrieved Hammy from the bin and laid him before the electric fire in an attempt to revive him.

Sure enough, after a while, Hammy came out of his state of suspended animation and sniffed the air.  What a narrow escape and no mistake.  I'm unsure as to  just how long Hammy was with us after his Lazarus impersonation, but one day I noticed he was missing from his cage in the cellar and a search of the confined space afforded no joy.  Perhaps a week or so later, I found him dead in our watering can (in the cellar), and even today I cringe in horror at the thought of his despair as he waited for a rescue that never came.

I think this time we buried him in the garden instead of the bin, but at least there was absolutely no doubt he was actually dead.  No consolation of course, but thankfully he was spared the awful fate of waking up as he was consigned to the grinding cogs of a bin lorry and meeting, perhaps, an even worse fate than the one which eventually claimed him.

Nearly 50 years later, I still think of Hammy on occasion, and find myself hoping he didn't suffer too much or for too long.  Any Criv-ites out there ever have a childhood pet which they still fondly remember today?  Resurrect them for a brief period by telling us all about them in the comments section.

Sunday, 11 December 2016


Do you remember, as a youngster, making your way home
on a dark evening after a day out adventuring, and, as you caught
sight of your house, glimpsing the amber glow of the standard lamp
in your living-room, penetrating the curtains like a beacon to light
your way home?  Do you recall the sudden surge of renewed ener-
gy that infused your weary limbs, egging you on as you realised
you'd soon be warm and comfy in  familiar surroundings?

So do I!  In fact, 33 years ago, after my family had moved
to a new house in another neighbourhood, I'd sometimes pass my
former domicile on dark nights and trying to recapture that feeling,
as I hadn't lived long enough in our new residence to have re-created
the experience.  I'd see the light emanating from my previous home
and imagine for a moment that I still lived there.  Then the moment
would pass and I'd set course for my new abode some distance
away, warmed and fortified by memories of earlier times.

Nowadays, I reminisce fondly about that magical expe-
rience whenever I pass one of my former homes on a dusky
evening, and as I've said elsewhere before, I sometimes feel that
I could wander up the path of any of my previous houses, put my
key in the lock, and walk in to find everything just as it used to be.
You'll find that it doesn't matter how much you enjoy going out,
holidaying abroad, or travelling the world - nothing compares
to that sudden electric thrill of recognition on catching that
first sight of home and hearth when you return.

  Dulce Domum indeed.

Thursday, 29 September 2016


Compare the scene above with the one below.  The above
photo was taken circa 1988, the second one was taken today -
from approximately the same pov as the first pic.  Look at how
congested and narrow the street now seems compared to how it
once was.  My town was built to accommodate Glasgow's 'over-
spill' and had large areas of green within and around the town
to make it open and spacious, unlike the confined housing
schemes of the City which had become overcrowded.

The green areas within were part of the plan, but almost
30 years ago were re-designated as 'under-developed land',
which has resulted in them being crammed with just about any
buildings that'll fit.  The town no longer has that open and spa-
cious feel, and I deplore the change.  Where is it all going to
end?  It doesn't look as if it's going to be any time soon.

Planners don't seem to take account of the fact that, if you
build housing on playing fields, there are fewer play areas for
the larger number of kids that will inhabit the area.  More homes
for families to live in, less space for children to play.  Why can't
those who make these sort of decisions see that overcrowding
a neighbourhood that was originally designed and built with
'breathing space' is a recipe for disaster in the future?

Is the same thing happening where you live?  Have
a vent in our comments section and feel better for it.


Just around the corner from my house is a block of flats
that's recently had some renovation work carried out (new roof
slates and rough-casting).  One of the paths that leads to the back
of the flats suffered some broken paving slabs in the process
and half of the path was replaced with nice new slabs.

I was struck by how fresh, clean and smooth they were
in comparison to the old ones, and it reminded me of how new
my town used to look back in the 1960s and '70s.  There are two
colours which I used to associate with my town - grey and green.
Grey (a nice light, bright grey) for the buildings, lampposts and
paths, and green for all the grassy areas and fields that
once existed (but now seem to have been built on).

Looking at the surviving half of the original path, it was
old and worn and discoloured, much as large portions of the
town now seem to be.  (And when I catch sight of my reflection,
as I also now seem to be.)   If only the place could recapture that
'fresh and new' look it once had, as too much of it appears a
little shabby and dilapidated compared to years ago.

Is it any wonder that yesterday can often seem
far more appealing than today or tomorrow?

Tuesday, 27 September 2016


I've lived in many houses over the years, but there's one in
which I stayed for around only 15 months back in 1964 and '65.
Curiously, it doesn't seem, in retrospect, that I lived there for any
less duration than houses I inhabited for longer periods, despite the
fact that I had only one Christmas and two birthdays in the place.
And even then, the second birthday (my 7th) fell on the day we
flitted to another house, so I tend to associate that cheerful
event more with my new abode than the old one.

That information doesn't have much to do with the tale
I'm now about to relate, apart from the fact that it transpired in
my short-term domicile mentioned above.  (Just setting the scene
in my mind.)  As I type, it occurs to me that I may have already
recounted this story, but I'll persevere anyway as, even if I
have, it's bound to be new to some of you.

If I remember correctly, #41 was the 'doubler' I bought on the night...
but I had #42 at the same time.  I maybe even bought them together 

My parents were out one night (not a common event), and
an aunt had been drafted in to look after me and my brother.  In an
act of generosity, she gave us two bob each, and we ran around the
corner to CHAMBERS newsagent and spent it.  If I recall correctly,
I bought another copy of an issue of TV21 which I'd already had and
disposed of (I was fascinated by its pristine newness and indulged
myself), and me and my bruv each bought a tube of BRITFIX 77,
a polystyrene 'cement' for plastic model kits, as it always
paid to be prepared.

(Anyone remember Britfix 77?  It was 'THE' glue of the
'60s it seemed, and I'm not exactly sure when it disappeared.
I think I've still got a later tube tucked away somewhere, but the
77 had been dropped by this time, and the design on the tube
was different.  It was made by HUMBROL.)

Anyway, we returned to the house to survey our spoils.  I
snapped the tip off the end of my glue's nozzle and put in a pin,
the customary method used for resealing the tube to prevent the
glue drying up or leaking.  As this was also what my sibling usually
did ('twas he who showed me), I did the same for his tube, thinking I
was being helpful.  He took exception to my act of consideration and
flew into a temper tantrum, throwing the glue on the carpet and
stamping on it.  The result of this was to expel the contents
of the tube directly onto my aunt's black velvety ankle
boots, newly acquired not too long before.

Understandably, being a mere woman (sexist?  Moi?),
she got all emotional and started crying, squealing about the
ruination of her fancy footwear.  "On, my new boots, my new
boots!" she wailed over and over.  "It was Gordon's fault!" my
brother blurted, somewhat disingenuously.  She eventually calmed
down, but my parents had to reimburse her for the cost of the boots
(a fiver).  However, perhaps because she'd been so emotional at the
time of the incident, she only seemed to remember my brother's
attribution of the 'accident' to me (although I was quick to offer
the correct account of events), and it was his version
which was relayed to my parents.

I recall this page from #41 because I cut out the figure
of Steve.  Handy thing having a spare issue, eh?

Some time later, while visiting my gran (my aunt's mother
 obviously), she referred to 'my' crime of ruining the boots, so
obviously it was believed by other members of the family that I'd
been the perpetrator of that particular infraction, not my brother.
Whether they thought I'd been the one who stamped on the glue, or
were simply holding me accountable because they considered my
act of removing the tip (but resealing the tube, remember) as the
provocation for my brother's outburst, I couldn't say with any
certainty.  Not that it matters much as, either way, I was
blamed for something I hadn't actually done.

Consequently, I always detected a certain amount of antip-
athy towards me from that set of relatives, who never seemed
to quite take to me.  They appeared to think the world of my bruv
'though, but then again, he always was an ingratiating little 'sook'
when it came to currying their favour, whereas I didn't actually
give a fig whether they liked me or not.

Still feel the same way actually - as do they.  25-odd years
later, two other aunts (not the one with the boots) 'phoned my
mother, but didn't immediately hang up at their end when the con-
versation finished.  The answerphone was on in case anybody from
IPC called me about work, as my parents found it hard to make out
English accents on the other end of the 'phone, and often forgot to
pass on messages anyway.  The answering machine continued to
record, and what followed was a vicious, vitriolic, slanderous
diatribe about me between the two aunts, which I still
have on tape to this day.

Remind me to tell you the details on a
 future occasion.  It really is a shocker.

Friday, 16 September 2016


Mr. TOM TIERNEY and granddaughter STACEY

In November 1965, my family moved into a new neighbour-
hood - new to us, that is.  I can no longer state with any certainty
whether it was on the first or subsequent evening that my brother
and myself met the other local kids, but I do remember one of them
introducing the group to us.  "Hi, I'm Tony and this is my brother
Kenny," said one of them.  Tony was TONY TIERNEY, and it
should come as no surprise to you to learn that his wee brother
shared the same surname.  (This was the '60s remember,
when siblings tended to have the same parents.)

There were others there too, to whom Tony introduced us
in turn, but I no longer recollect the precise roll call.  Probably
MARTIN and KENNY McLEOD maybe, but I do seem to recall
there being around four or five in total.  I ran into Gus in Glasgow
a few weeks back, and Kenny called in today to deliver the pics
you see in this post.  Which brings me to the point.

Daughter GERALDINE and her dad

Kenny's father, TOM (who I always called Mr. Tierney)
was a regular letter writer to the local newspaper (and others).
He wrote under the nom de plume of 'GOOFY' and his missives
offered an often whimsical view of life in general, and also opinions
on issues relating specifically to things happening within the town.
His alter-ego enjoyed a certain amount of celebrity status among
a loyal group of readers, whose daily lives were cheered by ex-
posure to his latest thoughts, theories and fancies.  If he were
alive today, he'd doubtless have a blog of his own.

Tom's wife, ALICE.  (Or Mrs. Tierney to me.)  Blackpool 1977

I mentioned him in a previous post a while back, and
Kenny was much touched by the fact, and, I believe, derived
a certain pleasure from seeing his father's literary contributions
receiving public recognition, even on such a low-key outlet as this
blog.  I asked him to provide a photograph or two of his dad so I
could add one to the other post (which I have), but I thought I'd
do another one specifically on Mr. Tierney, as he was such
a fixture of the neighbourhood for so many years.

I have extremely fond memories of living in that neigh-
bourhood -  for nearly seven of the most formative years of
my life.  Most of the friends I know today, I first met back then,
and it's been a source of some surprise to me over the years to
learn just how many of them thought I still lived there many years
after having moved away, so strongly did they associate me with
the place.  Of course, the fact that I was often back in the area
probably helped cement that idea in their minds.

A slightly blurred screen-grab of Mr. Tierney's 'scooter' in his
back garden, shot from my bedroom window in a video I made
of my old house in 1991 - 19 years after I'd moved

There are quite a few folk who remind me of the area,
but none moreso, I guess, than Mr. Tierney.  No doubt he's
putting about on his little scooter in a finer place than this one,
mentally composing his next letter to The Heavenly Times.
And I'll bet they're enjoyed up there every bit as much as they
were down here.  In fact, he's probably been made editor by
now.  So here's to 'Goofy' - he may be gone, but he'll
definitely never be forgotten.

Mr. Tierney, with KENNY & TONY

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