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Diary o a Wimpy Wean

DiaryWimpyWeanSae, ah forgot tae mention, BUT! Diary o a Wimpy Wean, ma Scots owersettin o Diary of a Wimpy Kid, is oot noo! The Wimpy Kid novels amang the brawest, funniest buiks for bairns that are kickin aboot the noo, an ah’m gey chuffed tae awbody – no least o aw Jeff Kinney, the scriever o the originals – that’s let me hae a crack at pittin wan o thaim ower intae oor ain leid. An thanks tae the guid fowk at Itchy Coo (Matthew Fitt an James Robertson) an awbody at B&W Publishing, ye can noo snap up a copy at maist buikshops, online or aff. Yer best bet, tho, wad be tae gang straicht tae the publishers theirsels: check thaim oot here!

Till Houletgless an the Messenger o God


Mony’s the holy man wha wad be gled tae absent hissel fae this marounjous warld an aw its coorse realities, but it coud niver be said that the Bishop o Dunkeld wis yin o them. Yon messenger o God wis a man o action; an whenever there wis tithes tae be collectit, or dens o ill-daein tae be leukit ower, the bishop wis shuir tae be richt in there wi baith his sleeves rolled up. He especially liked distreebutin the alms, if that’s whit ye wantit tae caw it, and that wis jist whit he wis daein in front o the kirk yon sunny Monday morn.

“Here!” he shoutit at some aumous auld wumman, “Ah’m jist efter giein a penny tae yer man – is this you cadgin yin as weel? Whit, dae ye think ah’m made o money?”

The bishop had lang syne makkit alms-giein intae a kind o game wi hissel, wrastlin tae see hou mony gaberlunzies he coud turn awa empty-haundit, an hou mony o his pennies he coud manage tae hing ontae. But he’d had a sair couple o weeks o it in the kirk, whit wi wan thing or anither, an this Monday he wis airtin tae beat even his ain record.

“Aye, weel, tell yer faither ah dinnae care hou seek he is, he comes alang himsel or he gits naething. Ah’m no giein ony pennies tae ony bairns.”

“Awa wi ye! Ah’d be as weel giein yer penny straucht tae Tam the tavern-keeper an cuttin oot the middle man!”

“You! Ye’ve a cheek! Gin ye can affuird that egg ah saw ye ramshin Seturday past, ye needna ony catter aff o me!”

An sae it went, until the hale sorry munge o them had been sent awa yin bi yin, an the bishop wi eneuch siller still in his pootch tae mak a cantie jingle. But as he turnt back taewart the kirk, the bishop’s hert sank tae see yin mair body waitin there, leanin wi his rig anenst the doorframe o the kirk. The man’s airms wir foldit thwart his chist, his richt cuit crossed ower his left.

“Faither,” the chiel said, noddin.

Tho the man had cam tae toun anely a fortnicht afore, the bishop awready kent Till Houletgless for a smatchet an a God-left wratch. It wis weel-kent that he’d nae suiner lowpt doun aff his mare than he’d been oot cuitlin the laubourers no tae pey their tithes tae the kirk, as weel as a hantle o ither ongauns for which there wis nae proof but plenty o suspeecion. The bishop ee’d Till waurily as he climt the staps.

Yer Grace tae you,” the bishop said, “An ah’d hae thocht a chiel that knaws the Guid Beuk as weel as you mak oot tae wad ken eneuch tae ken that.”

Till smirlt an noddit his heid in greement.

“Aye, ah must hae misst that bit,” he said, “Mynd, it wis awfy haird tae concentrate on ma readins the morn wi the laundlaird pappin aw ma stuff oot the windae.”

“Aw aye?” the bishop said wioot meetin Till’s gaze. Till unfoldit his airms an crosst them again.

“Ah dinnae faut the loun, ken. Telt us the guid fowk o the toun had been pushin doon on him. Noo ah’m no shuir wha the guid fowk o the toun are, but ah’d howp tae ken them when ah saw them.”

The bishop said naething, but glenced nervously at the sliver o space atween Till an the doorwey.

“Sae onywey, faither,” Till went on, “That’s me rooked. Ah’d gied the fella the next week in advance, an shuir ah’m no gittin that back again. Ah’d ride on if ah coud, but ma wee dun mare’s needin shoddit, an ah hinnae a penny tae ma name. Sae when ah heard fae a carlie ye were dolin oot siller the day, ah thocht ah’d come doon an see for masel.”

The bishop, suddently sensin a shift in the balance o pouer, strauchtened hissel up.

“Ask an it shall be gien ye,” he said importantly.

Till thrust oot his haun an leukt at him.

“Weel, here’s me askin,” he said.

At the sicht o Till’s empty palm in front o him, the bishop’s ain fist clencht ticht aroond his hantle o pennies. They crinched aroond in his pootch like a haunfu o gravel.

“Ah didnae mean ask me,” he snashed, “Ah’m jist the messenger. Ah meant ask the Laird. Aw things are in his boonty. He giveth…”

“An he taketh awa,” Till said, staunin up. “Aye, it’s got the lot, that beuk. Weel, ye’ve gied me plenty tae think aboot, faither. Ah’ll see ye later.”

An Till Houletgless dicht his hauns aff an walked across the square.


When the letter fund its wey intae the messenger’s hauns the next morn, he didnae ken whit tae mak o it. There wis some unco airticles cam his wey, makkit oot tae the maist unlikely addresses – but he’d niver yet tae deleever a message backit oot tae ‘God’, an he wisnae shuir at aw whit tae dae wi it. Wi nae sma embarrassment he scleusht alang tae the kirk an haundit the letter tae the bishop.

“Ah ken it’s no for yersel, yer Grace,” he yammert, “But ah couldnae think wha else tae…”

The bishop wheesht him wi a wave. The letter wis unsealt, an its attercap haundwritin furlt oot alang a pagefu o inkblots an stourie fingerprints.

Dear God,

Ah howp this message finds ye weel. Ah’ll no fash ye wi aw the uisual havers, as ye’re nae dout a busy man these days, an ah ken ye ken wha ah’m ur.

Listen, ah’ll tell ye whit it is – ah’m needin a wee tap o a penny tae git ma mare reshod, an when ah asked yer freend the bishop for it, he said ah shoud apply in writin directly tae yersel. He micht no hae said writin, tae be fair, but ah tried shoutin an that didnae seem tae wirk. Onywey, ye ken yersel, when ye ettle at tellin a thing in person, it ayeweys comes oot wrang.

Weel, ah’m no wantin tae pit ye on the spot, but ah coud dae wi yon penny suin as ye’re able tae spare it. Ah seem tae mynd ye’re no awfy keen on usury – or is that some ither body ah’m thinkin o? – but ye’ll hae yer money back in full bi the end o the month.

Thanks again. Ah’m an awfy big admirer o aw yer wirks, especially the trees an aw that. Brilliant.

Aw the best,


The bishop’s mynd wis racin as he read the letter, yinst an then a second an a third time. On yin haun, he didnae want tae gie a faithless skellum like Till Houletgless onythin mair than a guid lounderin. But then, on the ither haun… Tae send a haithen sic as Till an actual message frae God, an breeshle him oot o toun intae the bargain – yon wad be veectory sae hale-an-hauden as tae mak the bishop’s heid birl jist bi thinkin aboot it. Efter hummin an hawin ower it hauf the mornin, the bishop finally wapped up a haufpenny in an orral o paper an haundit it tae the messenger.

“Tak this tae the scoondrel yon letter was frae,” he said, “An mak shuir he thinks it’s fae God.”

The messenger left, an for the lave o the morn the bishop idly imagined a newlins repentant Till ridin slawly oot o toun on his wee dun mare. Sae vogie a thocht wis it that anely nou an then did he think tae rue the loss o his haufpence.


When Till Houletgless did quit toun, the bishop wisnae there tae see it – it wis a Monday, an he wis still sleepin things aff. But frae the clip-ma-clash he wis shuir it wis a chynged an chastened Till wha had troddelt aff intae the distance that morn, wi hardlins a wird or a backwart glence. The througate Till had set aff upon wad tak him tae St Andrews; a fact which gied the bishop nae end o satisfaction, as the Archbishop there had lang syne owed him some siller fae a caird-game. Tae hae got shot o his ain scourge bi dumpin it ontae his enemy seemed itsel like a blissin direct fae the Awmichtie.

It wis wi a licht hert an a lichter purse that the bishop went oot that efternuin tae dish oot the alms. He wis in the mood for a celebration, an he wis in that much o a hurry tae get back inby for a swallae that he even let gan a couple of bawbees he micht itherwise o hung ontae. In nae time at aw the croud wis skailt awa, an the bishop turnt back tae the kirk anely tae find an unco man leanin anenst the doorframe, waitin.

The bishop speelt the staps huily an fairly, no leukin up. When he raxed the tap, the man finally spoke.

“Ah ken it’s no fir yersel, yer Grace,” he said, “But ah couldnae think wha else…”

The bishop opened the letter. It wis in the same spidery script as afore, wi the same tentless merks aw ower it.

Dear God,

Muckle thanks for yer help wi the siller. It wisnae eneuch tae pey for the shoddin, but the blacksmith widna tak ony catter fir it onywey, so it aw wirked oot in the end. Wad ye credit it? Ah guess that’s whit fowk are gettin at when they say that ye wirk in mysterious weys. An there’s yon blacksmith thinkin he wis jist daein me a guid turn.

Onyroads, here’s yer money back. Aw howp ye wirnae ower pushed wioot it. Let me ken if ye’re ever needin a lend yersel.

Aw the best,


P.S. No wantin tae tell ye hou tae gan aboot yer business, but the next time somebody asks ye for a haun, cut oot the middle-man an gie it them direct. Yer messenger stole the hauf o whit ye sent me.

An doun in the letter’s bottom corner, aneath a muckle reid daud o sealin wax, the Bishop o Dunkeld carefully peeled aff a bricht an shiny penny.


I was hugely proud to have been involved in organising the first ever spoken word at the first ever HawickFest. Seemed to go over pretty well – our poets were very happy, anyway!


My old pal and Scots scriever extraordinaire Rab Wilson wrote a very nice piece about the event over at The National – you can find it here:

Stowed Out up next!


Stanger’s Chase

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?

Stanger’s Chase

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.

“Intae the Snaw” book launch.

The launch for “Intae the Snaw” – and my wife Sara Clark’s novel, “Summer’s Lease” went fabulously. In addition to a whole host of friends, family, and miscellaneous well-wishers, we were immensely privileged to be introduced by Paul Wheelhouse MSP.

I thought it would be a great opportunity to talk a bit about the Scots language, which it always seems cheeky to do at ordinary readings – the video of my speech (and my reading) is below. The book itself also contains an introductory essay on Scots in the modern world, if you’re interested in finding out more!

Home again, home again.

It’s been about ten years since last time I had my own website. It was a lot easier back then, since it was actually a cadged corner of someone else’s and I didn’t have to do anything. Nowadays it’s amazing the amount of stuff you have to know just to be able to ASK for help with websites. Looking for solutions to even “beginner” problems on the Internet is like that episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm where Larry David is trying to get people who help him change a car tyre. Hopeless.

Apparently there is now a lucrative cottage industry in the construction of websites and social media for creative types, but as none of the creative folks I know have any money, and none of the folks I know with money are creative, I’m not sure quite how this has come about. Needless to say, I don’t have two thousand pounds to spend on this (or anything), so for the foreseeable future please enjoy this shoddy approximation of what I’d like you to think is actually happening.