I’ve been away with the Scotland Writers football team twice over the last couple of months – first to “the most Scottish town in Italy”, Barga, and then to London to play England. Both great weekends, both defeats (unfortunately). No doubt more on this to follow, but if you’re interested in finding out a wee bit more about what life as an international footballer isn’t like, the Scotland issue of “The Football Pink”, just published last week, has an article by me about oor jaunt tae Italia. You can get it here, as well as many other fine vendors.
Because what the world is clearly crying out for is a Scots translation of Kafka, I’ve decided to write one. This is the first wee bittie of the first wee bittie.
It wis yon mornin, when Gregor Samsa awauk frae oot wanrestfu dreams, that he fund hissel transformt in his bed intae some kind o tairible beastie. As he lay there on his haurd, sheel-like rig, he raised his heid an leukt at the broon bumphle o his roond belly, sindert oot intae sections bi lang airches. Sae big an brent his muckle-kyte had growen that his blanket wis hairdly able tae hing ontae it, an wis ready tae slide aff awthegither. Compared wi this wappin bouk, his mony legs leukt peetifully shilpit as they flichtert daelessly afore his een.
“Whit’s the story here?” he thocht. This wis nae dream. His room wis still a warldlike human room, quate atween its fower fameeliar waws. On the table lay a range of saumple claiths – Gregor wis a traivelin salesman – an abuin there wis a pictur he had newlins cut oot o an illustratit jurnal an set in a bonnie giltit frame. It wis a drawin o a lady in a fur hat an a fur scaurf, sittin upricht wi a girthie muff o fur kiverin her gairdie, that wis liftit taewart the viewer.
Gregor turnt his glance taewart the windae, but the dreich wather – raindraps stottin aff the metal windaesill – made him feel awfy glumph. “The hicht o nonsense, this! Hou’s aboot ah get a wee bit mair shut-eye an forget aw aboot it,” he thocht tae hissel. But he couldnae manage it, for he wis used tae sleepin on his richt-haun side, an the wey things were richt noo he had nae chance o winnin tae a comfy poseetion. Nae maiter hou haurd he bunged hissel doon ontae his richt, suin or syne he’d whammle straucht back ontae his rig. He must o tried it a hunner times, shuttin his een so’s no tae leuk at his sprauchlin legs, an he gied up anely when he stairtit tae feel a dowf, fremmit stoondin in his side.
“Och, man,” he thocht, “This is some line o wirk ah’ve got masel intae! Day in, day oot, ayeweys on the road. Ah’d much raither hae ma ain wee shop at hame. Whit a nichtmare! The traivel, the trains, the misst connections – ye’re lucky when ye get a bite tae eat, an it’s aye rotten. Niver settin een on the same body twice, niver getting tae ken onybody, niver makkin a pal. The hell wi it!”
He felt a wee kittle up on his belly then; pusht hissel slawly up on his back taewart the headboard, the easier tae lift his heid; locatit the itchy spat, saw that it wis spreckelt ower wi a laid o peerie white plouks he kent naethin aboot; an went tae touch it wi yin o his legs, but resiled awa immediately fae the oorie shidder it gied him.
He sliddert back doon tae ontae his rig. “It’s nae guid this, up at the crack o dawn,” he thocht, “It maks ye doitit. A man needs his eight oors, ah’ve ayeweys said that. Yon ither salesmen! They’re livin the life o Riley, them. Pit it this wey – when ah gan back tae the guest hoose in the mornin tae copy oot the orders, wha’s anely just sittin doon tae brakfast? Nae prizes for guessin! But then, if ah wis tae pull somethin like that wi ma boss, ah’d be oot the door in double-time. An wha kens, mebbe it’d be aw for the guid. Ah mean, if it wisnae for ma mither an faither, ah’d hae jacked it in a hunner times ower bi noo. Ah’d hiv maircht richt intae the heid yin’s office, so ah wid, an telt him a few hame truths. Man, he’d faw richt aff his desk! Wha sits on their desk, onywey? Ah dout it’s meant tae mak ye feel smaw, gittin talked doon tae; an it’d wirk anaw, if he wisnae that deif ye’ve tae sit mare or less on his knee or he cannae hear ye. Well, there’s howp yet. Yinst ah’ve got the money thegither tae pey aff whit ma faither owes him – five years, eh, mebbe six – ah’ll gie him a piece o ma mynd. Aye, there’ll be some big chynges then, ah’m tellin ye! But ah suppose in the meantime ah’d better get up. Ma train’s awa at five.”
An he leukt ower at the alairm clock tickin awa on the caibinet. “Name o God!” he thocht. It wis hauf past six – naw, worse – the hauns had creept forrit nearby tae quarter tae. Had the alarim no went aff? He coud see fae the bed that it wis set for fower o’clock as uisual; it must hae rung. Aye, but then, hou coud onybody hiv slept throu aw that dirdum, lood eneuch tae shoogle the hale room? His sleep had no been tranquil, true, yet it had been aw the mair deep for that. But whit wis he gonnae dae? The neist train wisnae until seiven; an he’d be hilter-skilter even tae catch that, wi his saumples no packed up an his heid still full o mince. An even gin he managed that yin, the boss wad still be on the rampage – the office assistant was ayeweys there tae see the five o’clock train in, an his report on Gregor’s absence wad hae been in a lang time ago. Yon wis a richt wee souk, fair-fleggit an uncharitable. He coud ayeweys report nae weel; but Gregor had no had a day aff seek in the hale five years on the job, an it wad leuk awfy suspicious if he suddently took yin noo. The boss wad turn up wi the doctor fae the insurance company in tow, indict Gregor’s paurents o haein a guid-for-nothin son, an cut aff aw objections bi referrin tae the doctor, tae wha every ailment wis a seemple case o skiveitis. An it wad be a soond diagnosis, since Gregor, apairt fae bein a wee bit drousie fae sleepin that lang, felt awthegither hertie, an had even wauken wi somethin like an appeteet.
He was still thinkin aw this ower at howdie haste, no able to mak his mynd up tae get oot o bed, when – just as the alairm clock hit a quarter tae seiven – there came a tentie chap on the door near the heid o his bed.
“Gregor,” the voice cawed – it wis his mither’s – “That’s quarter tae seiven. Shoud ye no be awa?”
Yon gentle voice! Gregor was startelt when he heard his ain voice in reply, sae unalike it wis tae the voice he’d had afore. It cam fae somewhaur deep doon inside him, an wis blanded in wi a pynefu, undevaulin squeakin soond that left his wirds unnerstaunable anely at the instant they war spaken, afore drounin them in echos. It wis a voice naebody coud be shuir o hearin richt. Gregor wantit tae answer, tae expleen everythin, but unner the circumstances he had nae choice but tae say “Aye, thanks mither, that’s me getting up noo.” The widden door must hae misgysed the chynge in Gregor’s voice, for his mither seemed satisfeed wi this an shauchelt awa. But throu the peerie conversation that had taken place, the ither members o Gregor’s faimily war made awaur (tae their surpreese) that Gregor wis still at hame, an afore lang his faither cam knypin at the door, quately, but wi his fist.
“Gregor!” he shoutit, “Gregor! Whit’s gaun on?” A wee while efter he shoutit again, this time in a voice deep wi wairnishin.
“Gregor! Hoi! Gregor!” Meantime, at the ither side door, cam his sister’s plaintive cry.
“Gregor! Are ye no weel? Are ye needin onythin?”
Gregor directit his answer tae baith doors at yinst. “Ah’m awready ready!” he cawed, tryin haurd tae take the stryngeness oot his voice bi pronooncin every syllable as carefu as he coud, an leavin lang pauses atween the wirds. His faither went back tae brakfast, but his sister whispert tae him, “Gregor, please, ah’m beggin ye – open the door!” But Gregor had nae mynd at aw tae open it, an insteid he lay there congratulatin hissel on his carefu prattick, whit he had picked up on his traivels, o ayeweys lockin aw the doors at nicht, even when he wis at hame.
Some stray observations on speaking about Scots language and Flemish immigration at the Edinburgh Book Festival this week.
1) People are a lot more interested in the influence of Flemish immigration on Scots language than you would think. The event at the Garden Theatre was sold out, despite my earlier, gloomy prognostications. (Apart from three seats near the front, ostentatiously reserved for “Alexander”.) Interestingly, not many of the folk in the audience were of Flemish ancestry themselves, which means that either A) people were there just because they were genuinely intrigued, or B) Patrick DeWitt, who was on at the same time, had sold out.
2) I also met Scotland’s newest Flemish immigrant, who had just moved here on Saturday. He was very nice, and a much better argument in favour of Flemish immigration than anything I might have said.
3) An hour is a lot less time than you think. From having assumed that the event would incorporate a good half-hour of staring silently, pleadingly into the audience for somebody to ask a question, we went on to overrun by quite some time. The questions were very good, very interesting, and I learned quite a few things myself – someone suggested a possible connection between the French word “drache” and the Scots word “dreich”, and another audience member speculated about a possible Flemish/Dutch influence in the Hawick pronunciation of the word “mei”.
4) The Book Festival would not be the Book Festival without my getting a bit carried away telling someone how much I liked their book. This year’s victim was the aforementioned Patrick DeWitt, who I spotted in the Authors Yurt and proceeded to gush to about The Sisters Brothers until I was literally dragged away. (For a photoshoot, I should point out.) If I’d been permitted to stick around for a little longer, instead of having to go away and talk about Flemish or something, I might even have bumped into Gordon Brown behind the scenes, although I haven’t read any of his books so I’m not sure what I would have said to him. Something about how well Raith Rovers are doing, probably. I wouldn’t really know what to say about the prime minister stuff.
Thanks to everybody at the Festival for looking after me, and for inviting me in the first place, and also to my fine partners for the event, Roger Mason and Willie Kelly. Roger is spearheading some fantastic work in the field of Scots-Flemish relations at St Andrews, and I look forward to reading the fruits of his labours in the not-too-distant future!
“Selkirk FC vs the World!” is the end result of the first season of my poetry residency at Selkirk Football Club, and collects together twenty-five poems and short stories I wrote for the club throughout the course of the year. From a Subbuteo league in post-apocalypse Glasgow to the 1930 World Cup Final, these pieces are, I suppose, a wee mind-map to what I think about when I think about football; or, in other words, the whole book is a kind of 200-page paean to the act of being grimly resigned.
Not that I’m done thinking about football just yet, or writing about it, for that matter. But the residency has been a fantastic platform to write about the things I’m really interested in (i.e. post-apocalyptic Glaswegian Subbuteo leagues) and also to learn a bit more about how lower league football (i.e. the vast majority of football played in this or any country) actually happens. Huge thanks to Selkirk FC and everyone involved with for that.
You can pick up a copy of the book here – you can even review it, which would be lovely and make me feel as if I’m not just banging my head repeatedly on the dangerously low overhang of the Selkirk dugout. It’s nicer than macaroni pies, better for you than Bovril, and cheaper than actually going to a game. Best of all, if you buy it this weekend it’s completely gratis. There’s not a lot in Scottish football nowadays which is free, Kris Boyd apart. So you can’t really say much fairer than that.
I love Eyemouth. I really do. It’s such a wonderful, picturesque town. My in-laws were up house-hunting in the Borders last week, and when we brought them to Eyemouth at the weekend it looked like we weren’t leaving without at least a seaside bungalow added to our portfolio.
Of course, in this sunny spate of weather everything in the Borders is looking at its best. But Eyemouth is so often underappreciated and overlooked that it was particularly nice to see it on one of its prettier days, and especially to visit its new arts venue, the Hippodrome, gleaming by the side of the Maritime Museum down at the Harbour Road.
Ian and Paula Todd, whose brainchild the Hippodrome is, have done an incredible job in converting the former Fisherman’s Mission into one of the most impressive new arts venues I’ve seen in a long time. Not just that, but in the short time they’ve been up and running they’ve attracted some absolutely brilliant performers to the Borders, including – on Friday night – myself and none other than the amazing Ian McMillan.
Now, Ian is one of those rare, vital figures whose appeal cuts right across the artistic spectrum. Friends who I’d long assumed didn’t have a poetic bone in their body suddenly revealed themselves as raving verse-o-philes once they found out Ian McMillan was coming to the Borders. God knows how difficult it is to get folk out for anything nowadays, so to have a venue like the Hippodrome full to capacity for a poetry event, as it was on Friday night, is a wonderful thing.
I’m very glad that the convention is for opening acts rather than closing ones, because I would not have wanted to follow the poetic force of nature that is Ian McMillan. The guy is just a phenomenon, a one-man masterclass in taking an audience wherever he wants to go. I don’t know how many calories laughing burns off, but there’s no doubt folk were coming out lighter in every way than when they went in. Wonderful audience, fantastic venue, and an amazing privilege to share a stage with… Well, they say you should never meet your own heroes, but then they probably never met Ian McMillan.
I was back at the Hippodrome on Saturday morning, this time with my wife, Sara, for our creative writing workshop “Eye Write”. Some absolutely fantastic writing came out of the workshop, as well as (hopefully!) some great new writers. It was particularly lovely to see a real range in terms of age and experience – our youngest writers were primary school age, and the work they produced was impressive to say the least. If the writing bug catches folk that early on, the sky really is the limit for what they can achieve.
I was genuinely gutted to have to finish up the workshop when it had overrun by almost half an hour. Ditto to leave Eyemouth a wee while after that, heavier by the weight of a 99 flake and two shoefuls of sand. Yet without venues like the Eyemouth Hippodrome to draw folk in, and funding from Borders Live Touring to make these events viable, there’s so much about places like Eyemouth that would go utterly unappreciated. The Hippodrome is providing a vital service, not just to artists and audiences but to the town as a whole. Long may that continue.
Two things. Firstly, I am absolutely terrible at gauging likely audience numbers for events. Secondly, I always assume that anything that has me in it is going to be a flop, or worse, a fiasco. So I was awfully surprised and gratified to turn up for my wee stint at CABN’s PechaKucha event in Galashiels last week to find the fantastic Mac Arts Centre at the standing room only stage. Better – and this, I think, is the crux to the whole thing – it was full of people I didn’t even know. You can get awfully used to ploughing your own wee creative furrow in the Borders, and not really interacting with anyone outside the handful of people who are working in the same area; it was interesting to see and hear from folk who are engaging in other areas of the arts.
PechaKucha, in case you didn’t know, is a kind of presentation format where 20 slides are shown on-screen for 20 seconds each while the presenter talks about them. The emphasis, therefore, is towards snappy, energetic talks with relevant, interesting visuals. It might sound a bit gimmicky, but presentation skills are tough things to learn, and formats like PechaKucha are great ideas because they stop people from just, say, reading out PowerPoint presentations word for word with their backs to the audience. As someone (i.e. a writer) who is slightly predisposed to labouring the point, I got a lot out of working to the PechaKucha format, and to anyone who’s looking to learn a wee bit about the craft of presentation, I’d 100% recommend giving it a go.
Anyway, my presentation, “Corridors of Uncertainty”, was about the relationship between art and sport, which seems to be a relatively untapped source of inspiration in the Borders, especially when you look at our proud history in both areas. I talked a wee bit about my work with Selkirk FC – Bobby Johnstone, Nil By Mouth – and how much the creative community can learn from the initiatives of local clubs like Selkirk, Hawick Royal Albert and Gala Fairydean. I also tried to flag up the fact that, with the local culture and leisure trusts recently integrating to form Live Borders, it’s a fantastic time for creative professionals to start finding ways to engage with Borders sport. The opportunities are definitely out there, it’s just a matter of finding them.
The presentations aren’t up online yet, but they will be eventually. In the meantime, for a wee bit more information about the event and the other presentations, you can visit the Galashiels PechaKucha page here; or, if you’d like to come along to (or even participate in!) the next PechaKucha night in June, it’s definitely worth checking in with the indispensable CABN at their website.
Historian Daniel Gray (author of “Stramash”, amongst many other fine volumes) and Nil By Mouth’s Dave Scott are on the road for the next few weeks as part of a ten date tour of Scottish football – and we were hugely fortunate that the guys chose Selkirk FC as one of the stopping-off points for an evening of free pies and football banter.
And the banter – facilitated by our very own David Knox as MC – was brilliant. Daniel’s readings really set the tone – lively, light-hearted, but at the same time keenly observant of the places and characters which make Scottish football what it is. I read a few poems of my own, to what was without a doubt one of the friendliest and most receptive audiences I’ve ever encountered. And then there was the football quiz – which I regret to admit my team finished second in, despite the fact that Paul Wheelhouse MSP came through for us with some truly inspired answers. Know which football team is nicknamed ‘The Brewers’, or who the Scottish League’s most-capped manager is? No? Our Minister for Community Safety does.
It was a great opportunity for Selkirk FC to showcase themselves as the fantastically friendly and hospitable club they are – but what’s particularly nice about the Nil by Mouth events is that they aren’t so much anti-bigotry as simply pro-football. There’s no finger-wagging, no pious lectures – just good crack and proper celebration of the beautiful game. And with plenty of dates still left on the tour, you would be crazy not to get along if you can. Check out the Nil By Mouth website for more details of the campaign and of the fabulous work they do:
By the way, I don’t just write crap poems about football – I write crap poems about loads of things, including rugby. Here’s a Border ballad I wrote last year about Tony Stanger’s slam-winning try against England in 1990 – repeat on Saturday?
Slaw, as they maircht at Murrayfield,
Slaw, as the sons o Troy,
An fower o thaim war Borders men,
An ane wis but a boy.
Slaw, as the winds that flauchtert oot
The saltire’s pirlin waves,
Slaw, as the pipes an drums that dirlt
Thair readiness tae play,
Slaw, as the hair that rose oan necks,
Slaw, as the cloods that pairt,
Slaw, as the sun that lingrt oan
Young Stanger’s breelin hert.
Na lang syne, no faur awa,
A schuilboy haed he been,
The toast o Wilton’s rugby boys,
The star o Hawick Linden;
For greater things thay’d merkt him oot,
But thay coud no hiv kent
The weirdfu paith they set him oan
For Murrayfield wis bent.
Thair callant lad in Scotland blue!
It wisnae tae be guesst,
Camsteirious raiders tae repel,
An honours tae contest,
Thare up aheid, Calcutta’s cup,
O winnin unco dear!
Dug oot fae England’s huird o gowd
Whaur it haed languisht mony year,
Syne Stanger’d watcht as Leslie, Aitken,
Renwick, Calder, Rutherford,
Haed strampt the dirt that he nou stappt oan,
Wore the shirt that he nou wore,
Bled tae lift the prize nou dashelt
Dull as ony English trinket,
Bled tae see their kintra battert,
An watchin, nou… He dauredna think it.
That nicht the English, drivin northart,
Haed reakt the cross o Peebles toon,
An barrackt thair bi Reekie’s shaiddae,
An watcht Saint Andrew’s flag gan doon,
Thare held thair coort; thare stuid for shaw;
Thare ruis’t the Scots thair tent;
Thare gied bi smirl an glent o een
That nane o it wis meant;
Whaur Will, the English leader, fed
Oan leuks o jealousie,
A Hotspur o the modren day,
Formt Albion wis he.
Aye, herts at hame are glegsome things,
Tae vauntie wirds aft gien;
An whitna laund is furrin lang
Tae an emperour’s reivin een?
But o! Whan Flouer o Scotland skirlt
Wha o that ten an five
Lined up in white but thocht hissel
The anely Englishman alive!
Then Finlay Calder, tiltit forrit,
Breuk the English ranks,
The teemin Scots surged in ahint,
But Tony, oan the flanks,
Could anely watch as fortuin jinkt him,
Inches focht an won,
Men clung tae earth tae beir the gree
Thay’d pass oan tae thair sons,
While i’the sky artillerie sang
An vollied wi dreidfu speed,
The ominous boom o boot oan ba
Aback an up aheid,
An Guscott, blade o English steel,
Pierced in tae steal the try –
Young Stanger feart this game o crouns
Wad likeweys slip him by.
The match wis mair than hauf-gates past,
An Stanger’d still nae guid,
Thare wisna speed the wide warld ower
Tae jouk the gresp o Underwood,
But the English owerraxin knapt
The ba tae Celtic hauns,
An Jethart Armstrong snecks it up,
Like ane dumfoonert stauns,
The English closed; still Jethart stuid;
Then sprang a merry trap,
A hervest-shaw o English limms
The ba flung ower the tap,
An Hastings, waitin, reeled it in,
An presst it tae his kist,
Wi scarcelins blink tae heave it furth
Ayont the English midst,
Bi Hastings’ boot the ba wis hoist,
An Stanger unnerneath,
Bi Hastings’ boot the ba wis hoist,
A nation held its braithe,
Thare, whaur the thristy cloods contest
The skies wi hungert wund,
The birlin ba tae baith praisents
A gallus fechtin-grund,
Thare, while young Stanger stuid aneath,
An watched the waitin sky,
Jim Telfer rowst fae aff the bench
An yollert, “Tony, fly!”
Fly, Tony, fly! An Stanger flew
An Underwood turnt an wheeled,
An the air wis fou wi the flash o blue
An the din o Murrayfield,
Fly, Tony, fly! An the earth wis sheuk
Bi a thoosand egglin feet,
Fly, Tony, fly! An the ruff wis drumt
Bi the up-clap o unburdent seats,
Yet i’the mid o clamihewit
Ane boy wis stainch an calm,
His een war bent oan heivin,
His hauns war open palms,
He kent thare wis noise, an he haurd it,
The shaidaes war grandstands o derk,
But the square blue sky that he ran ablo
Wis the same ower Mansfield Park;
An he thocht as he ran o Auld Hawick,
He thocht o the place he wis born,
But maist o aw he thocht o the Chase
Oan a Thursday simmer’s morn,
When the Cornet’s men, oan horses,
Went streamin up the knowes,
Theretil tae race the common launds
Wi aw the haste that care allows,
An Tony, juist a Wilton lad,
Haed watcht thaim as thay flowed
I’the stour o dist an the brattle o cluits
Oan that lang an nairae road,
The Chase! Tae some it stuid for forebeirs
Pursuin thair stowen guids,
While ithers said it meant the flemin
O reivers fae border wids,
But maist fowk kent it bode the callants,
The orphants o Flodden field,
Wha rode tae fell the English raiders
Wi haurdlins a swuird nor shield,
Whit, tho the nicht wis pitch an gealin,
Whit, tho the best war boys,
Whit, tho thair faithers left thaim nuthin
But the lair o English ploys,
Whit, tho thay wistna ocht o fechtin,
Whit, tho thay wept guidbye,
Back thay cam hame wi strowds an whoopin
An the English banner hie,
That banner same each Cornet syne
Haed heezed abuin the Chase,
That banner same young Stanger kent
His hauns wad niver grace.
Thae hauns that reakt up then as noo,
Thair destinie tae try,
A soothren pensil, gowd an blue,
A teair-drap fae the sky,
Fly, Tony, fly! Ma bonnie lad,
Gan haste ye tae the prize,
For Underwood is but a man
An yow are mony Robbie Dyes,
Fly, Tony, fly! Yer boots are the feet
That wad win Calcutta’s cup,
Fly, Tony, fly! Yer hauns are the hauns
O a nation risin up!
The skies war wearit, drapt thair toy,
It tummelt tae the laund,
Whaur Scotland’s dirt the chancy ba
Lowpt straucht tae Stanger’s haun.
The rest is kent. Hou Alba leart
Thair skrimish haed been won,
Hou Bill McLaren chowkt back tears
(The boy wis mair a son)
Hou fitba grunds an shoppin malls
Made dunder tae the news,
An Will an England misbelieved,
A fecht thay thocht thay’d niver lose,
An Stanger walkt wi heroes,
An ramplt as they daffed,
An slawly maircht athwart the field,
He held the ba alaft;
Slaw, as they maircht at Murrayfield,
Slaw, as the sons o Troy,
An five o thaim war Borders men,
Tho ane haed been a boy.
The Janice Forsyth Show did a wee feature on my residency at Selkirk last week. You can hear it here for the next month or so – it starts 1hr 30m into the show.
What’s been especially good about the residency so far is that it’s crossed the streams a bit in the way that we were all hoping it would. On one hand we’ve had artsy folks like The Janice Forsyth Show wanting to talk about the poetry side of things, and on the other hand there’s been Sky Sports and the like looking at the residency from a football fan’s point of view. That’s been great, and a nice wee challenge, in terms of trying to come up with poetry that’s both interesting and accessible – or at least only moderately boring.
I don’t know if I’ve actually succeeded in that, but what I have done is line up some fantastic poems to appear in the Selkirk match programmes this season, once our pitch recovers from its winter pounding. Transfer budgets are tight this weather, but a good loan signing or two can make all the difference, and I’m fair chuffed that Stephen Watt, Stuart Paterson, Andrew Blair, Lee Garratt, Chik J Duncan and Finola Scott will be amongst those making a guest appearance at Yarrow Park in 2016.
A few points would be nice in the coming months as well, and things seem to be moving in the right direction. We got beat up at Gala in our last outing, but looked a lot more dangerous after switching to a back four at half-time. Preston at home this weekend – it’s winnable. Onwards and upwards.
I’ve written a piece for Bella Caledonia about William McIlvanney. There isn’t too much to add to what I’ve said over there, except that there are countless writers in Scotland who would never have set pen to paper if it hadn’t been for Willie, and I’m one of them.
The piece is in Scots, as part of a new stream on Bella which is being stewarded by Billy Kay and Matthew Fitt. Given the current dearth (with a few honourable exceptions) of news or current affairs commentary in Scots, it would be fantastic to see this initiative pay off for Bella Caledonia and its readers. Billy’s call for articles and article ideas can be found here.
A langer spiel aboot the Scots leid is nae dout kythin – for nou, here’s ma wee bit blether aboot Scots fae ma beuk launch: