Peter Barr Cormack

An unusual title you might say but allow me to explain as all will be revealed! Peter Barr Cormack was one of my three favourite Hibees of all time along with Joe Baker and Alex Cropley. All very different players but owning a little genius each in their own way.

Like the aforementioned Joe, I had the great pleasure of watching Peter play both with Hibernian and Nottingham Forest to whom he was transferred to for £80,000 in 1969.

From a very early age Peter displayed a maturity beyond his years. His legendary debut against Real Madrid in which he debuted with a goal in Hibs’ 2-0 victory is well-charted in the history of notable moment in the club and what an amazing feeling that must have been for the young Peter Cormack. Much more was to follow in a distinguished career for the good-looking young man with the shock of dark hair, bursting into Hibernian’s ranks.

I have often talked with interest about Peter with other Hibbies who managed to watch him in his prime. It seems that everyone who saw him had an opinion about him, particularly about the unique way in which he moved about the pitch. One friend, a Portobello man, related to me once about how he would watch Peter Cormack at Easter Road from the East Terrace and skip all the way back home to Porty after the game, imitating Peter’s trademark high-stepping gait. Peter had this appearance of kicking his legs up high behind him when he ran – a run that was always instantly recognisable amongst a group of players in the middle of a game. I recently spoke to another long-time supporter who likened Peter’s run to that of a racehorse galloping! Here was far more to Peter Barr Cormack than an unusual run however as he was to show.

Whatever persuaded Hibs to offload their talented young player I’m not really sure. I’ll make the standard conclusion that the board at Easter Road wanted or needed to ease Hibernian’s cash flow – there could be little other reason as Cormack began to show, growing in stature in the original English Division 1, firstly with Nottingham Forest, then with a powerful Liverpool side, led by the legendary Bill Shankly – perhaps no mean judge of a player one might say.

Peter was one of those players that represented a certain era for me personally – along with George Best and a select few he seemed to be part of a vanguard of young footballers who were part of the generation that I looked up to. Georgie Best had just been crowned ‘El Beatle’ after his exploits in the European Cup, and seemed a lifetime away from men like Bobby Charlton and the old guard. There was an awful lot happening in society at this time – The Beatles had grown their hair long and were taking drugs for one thing! ‘Flower power’ had been all around and young people were seeking the route back to San Francisco – with or without flowers in their hair.

The footballers that I and my pals at school were most avidly collecting bubblegum stamp cards for were of guys that looked like Georgie…and Peter. Bobby Charlton and his generation were definitely ‘square’. A ‘Peter Cormack’ could be worth up to five ‘Alex Stepney’s’ on he bubblegum card black market!

Peter had a very good time of things at Nottingham Forest’s City Ground by the banks of the River Trent. Although toiling in a poor and degenerating Forest side, years away yet from the new messiah Clough and just after an, at their best Joe Baker and Ian Storey-Moore – both golden boys to the Forest faithful, Peter played in midfield and scored creditably from that position for two seasons. He also added to his final tally of nine full caps in the dark blue of Scotland.

The point that most of the local media and supporters picked up upon was the fact that many of those goals had been headers. Perhaps at first glance (no pun intended) this might have seemed unusual. Certainly Peter though by no means being a small man was certainly no towering giant in the penalty box either. His height alone was not the reason for his menacing ability in the air, but rather his perfect timing. Peter was one of those players that could put his head in where it mattered first. His exquisite timing also dictated that in a melee of players going up for a high ball in the box, his would be the one that appeared to ‘hang’ there in the air – often being at the peak of his leap, with his head on the ball when other lesser players were already on the way down to earth. At odd times in history these unusual players have identified themselves to the public eye but very rarely so.

Other Hibs friends have told me just what a good goalkeeper Peter was ironically. The same talent and technique that gave him great jumping ability he could also use in the goalies shirt. One Hibby whose opinion I respect greatly is of the opinion that if Peter hadn’t become an International outfield player, he certainly would have been capped as a goalkeeper.

Peter was neither a one-trick pony of a player either. His graceful play, passing ability and nimble footwork were a joy to watch. He had an array of crowd-pleasing tricks on the ball too. I have heard people say he wasn’t notable for his tackling ability but I’ve never necessarily subscribed to that notion having seen him dig in during midfield battles well.

Of course whilst showcasing all this talent it became quickly impossible for Peter’s situation to remain the same. Bill Shankly at Liverpool had noticed the young Scot’s sparkling displays and wanted him as the last part of the jigsaw at Anfield. Peter was introduced to the Liverpool team after an, expensive for that time, fee of £110,000 and furthered a very successful career on Merseyside. for five seasons before being transferred to Bristol City. Similarly it has been my experience to note that those fans of Liverpool FC that ever saw him play, like those of Hibs and Forest have only very fond memories of his captivating style of play. A cursory check though any Liverpool website will confirm that.

When I sometimes see the all-too-few pictures of, and information about Peter Cormack, in books and on the Internet I have to say I often wonder why others at times are more spoken of. Perhaps it’s simply that his years at Hibs were not more extensive. This however could be quoted in the case of Joe Baker and many other great and very good players at Easter Road. Those that do talk about him however usually glow about his skill and style – the way he played. Peter Barr Cormack’s way was the Hibernian way.

Joe and Me

“Joe Baker Dies of Heart Attack” (October 06, 2003)

Those were the words that made my heart sink just two years ago when I discovered that a great hero of my childhood had passed on. I am sure that many can recount a similar feeling when I say that this man was something of a cornerstone of my younger days, hero-worshipping him, studying everything he did on the pitch and avidly reading every few words I could about the great centre-forward as I knew he was. There too were the stories from a Hibernian-supporting father. In truth there was never any possibility that he wouldn’t become my hero.

I’m sure there was something about Joe that transcended pure hero-worship though, judging by the effect he had on football supporters whoever had the blessing to call him the centre-forward of their team. Who can forget the homage paid to him back in Torino for all those years ago? The Baker Boy played but a mere single season in Italy with another young prodigal, Denis Law, yet still he is remembered with much fondness and not a little acclaim.

Much has been lovingly written about Joe, not least in the Mass Hibsteria fanzine and on this website. For an anecdotal history and a full account of his many achievements, please note the references at the foot of the page to two excellent articles.

My aim here is not to compete with those excellent words but to offer a different and personal slant on the Joe Baker story, for this man wove through my younger days, seemingly inextricably.

Denis Law inspects Joe’s face after his recuperation
from their infamous car accident in Torino

As a youngster living in Nottingham, though a firm Hibernian supporter, I was ironically able to watch a great Hibernian hero at something like his peak. This is not an opportunity that would have been afforded me in Edinburgh not being old enough to watch his exploits at Hibs the first time around. Although I was too young to understand everything that was happening on the pitch I was under no illusion that I was watching anything but a great and legendary player in Nottingham. Joe just had that special ‘aura’ about him which was very hard to explain and which belongs to the very few.

The football fans from the red side of Nottingham could hardly believe their good fortune when Joe, from Arsenal, signed on the dotted line at The City Ground. Joe had a stunning goal-scoring record at Highbury which at my last inspection was superior to Thierry Henry’s in goals per game – no mean feat. What was very noticeable was how well the Nottingham public took to Joe – like a favourite son. Still to this day the football fans of the city talk of the number nine in hushed and reverential tones. Similarly one can also still view the odd ‘Baker 9’ garibaldi red Forest jersey around the city. How I love to see that.

By my calculations it’s around thirty-eight years since Joe wowed the big, City Ground crowds with his surging forward play, how many players do you know with that kind of longevity of popularity – especially as Joe played for Forest for only a relatively short period of time?

Shortly after Joe died I met a friend, a friend who is a Nottingham Forest supporter of many years standing and one who has seen many wonderful internationalists play for his team winning a large quantity of silverware. His first words to me that evening were simply and sadly, “my one and only all-time hero died this week”. The words were almost unnecessary but the understanding between two lovers of the great game was implicit.

Those schoolboy images of him remain extremely vivid to me, the equal or more than any other player I can think of. I still see the low through ball hit between two defenders and Joe in a blur or acceleration racing onto the pass leaving his markers yards behind. Not only did he have blinding pace but the quickness of thought that made him almost unstoppable at times. Another strong image is of him turning a defender and shooting explosively with either foot equally. Add strong aerial ability, superb close control, and agility around the box and one has the master centre-forward which is what Joe was.

The dynamic Baker in the red shirt of Nottingham Forest crashes in another goal

How pleased was I when he re-signed for the Hibees, passing by an unhappy period of injury at Forest and then Sunderland. Deep in my heart I knew it was all over though, we would never see the great forward in his pomp of the likes we had done before. For the Nottingham fans there was to be no gnashing of teeth at Joe’s unhappy departure as they knew he would never be the same as befitted his free transfer from the club, much as they loved him. One last fling at Easter Road seemed very appropriate to me as a Hibernian supporter though.

My one last poignant memory of Joe and me was after the news of his death. I received a message at home on the lunchtime before Hibs’ next game in which he would be honoured before the kick-off. The message simply asked me if I’d like to be a part of the minute’s silence for Joe which was going to happen at Easter Road and to stay by my mobile phone.

That afternoon shortly before 3pm I received a call from a very good friend and Hibby sitting in the Famous Five Stand. I wasn’t at home though as I wanted to share my last moments with Joe Baker somewhere special. In the locality where I live there lies forestry, part of what would have historically been ancient Sherwood Forest. I took my daily jog through those woodlands and sat on a bench at a clearing amongst the ancient oaks and birches on that sunny Saturday afternoon and took the call I had been awaiting. A brief announcement from my friend, and I listened in to the sound of silence and utter respect from my other home at Easter Road.

As I sat there in silence looking at the autumn sun glistening through the trees with just a pair of horses for company in the nearby field, I remembered what Joe had meant to me as a boy. I think Joe would have appreciated his one last day in the sun too – in the green fields of Nottinghamshire.

Public Grieving

Like some I’ve no real time for public grieving and have been slightly irritated by the media-driven incidences of it recently over Diana…then I realised my own hypocrisy.

Back in 1989, I and three work colleagues were appointed from our place of work to drive to Liverpool and take the proceeds of a collection and lay a few flowers for the 96 dead of the Hillsborough disaster. As one might imagine, that particular matchday left a legacy in this city too as Forest were Liverpool’s opponents that day.

I still don’t regret doing that for any reason. Thinking about it draws me to examine what the difference in feeling was between that time and the Diana thing. There is a difference for me personally and it’s not all to do with being an anti-royalist (as I am). On that sorry occasion back in ’89 it was ordinary folk that suffered. Many, many, of them. It was senseless, avoidable and it affected guys just like me – people who were/are liable to be found doing something innocent like standing on a football terrace on a Saturday afternoon watching the team they love. Standing in a crowd cheering on ‘the lads’, the next moment laid out on a makeshift stretcher at the side of the pitch, devoid of breath and of life. I can publicly grieve about that because the situation is so crass. I don’t feel shame or any embarrassment in that.

In those days ‘public grieving’ wasn’t the industry it appears to sadly have become. The people who went to Anfield and stood four-deep in a queue hundreds of yards long outside the Shankly Gates did it because they cared for their fellow football supporters and regular guys. I firmly believe that. A couple of the lads I travelled with were huge Forest men and had no love for Liverpool football team whatsoever. They realised quite rightly that some things are much more important in life however – in spite of what Shanks said.

Just another slant on public grieving.

Hibs and Hearts United

Sometimes fate can play the strangest of hands. Today was to be a fairly normal Thursday for me, the only difference was that I wasn’t to be working today but rather had suggested a walk with a friend through some of the villages by the River Trent here in Nottinghamshire.

What has that to do with the leading lights of Edinburgh football you might ask? Bear with me as all shall soon become apparent.

During the country walk, as is the custom on these occasions, there was need for a libation. Not by good fortune but by good planning, a beautiful old public house named ‘The Reindeer’ at Hoveringham village had been planned at a point through the amble in order to fulfil this most welcome of desires.

As I made my way into the ancient bar and met the blazing log fire, a senior couple asked where the lounge might be. I directed them through to the cosy little bar, complete with original beams and extensive view out to a midwinter cricket pitch aloof in its frigid silence and bereft of the summer sounds of willow on leather. Thinking little about the brief encounter I sat with my walking friend and chatted over a couple of pints of excellent Czech lager – perhaps not strictly in keeping with this old English environment, but certainly one modernisation that sat well with my sensibilities.

It was after donning our warm winter coats to hit that first blast of winter fresh air laced with the most welcome yet unseasonable bright sunshine outside, that the few words spoken to the gentleman earlier took another fascinating turn. Leaving The Reindeer Inn, I noted on a small table by the doorway, a single copy of that days edition of The Nottingham Evening Post. The ‘Post’ was inverted with its back sports page with a ‘screamer’ headline reading:

“AT LAST! A WORLD CUP CAP FOR REDS HERO IMLACH!”

The headline referred to FA Cup winner’s medal holder, the late Stewart Imlach, Forest’s Scottish international left winger from the 1950s’. ‘Stewy’ had a very distinguished career on the wing for the Nottingham club – so much so that he was selected to represent his home country, Scotland in the 1958 World Cup in Sweden.

Mass Hibsteria has for some time now known about the unjust situation where Stewart and many other former Scotland internationalists were not awarded caps for their country as up until 1975 they were only handed out to players who appeared in matches versus the home countries. Of that number it should be immediately pointed out that our own great inside-forward and later manager, Eddie Turnbull was one of those to end his career cap-less, even though appearing some nine times for his country in what was a much less busy international calendar at the time.

Watch and listen to the story of Stewart Imlach
– The man known as “The Rabbit” by the Nottingham Forest faithful
due to his dazzling speed,

Scotland Today, article and video

Knowing that my friend – a lifelong Nottingham Forest supporter would be interested in the story as I was, I pointed out the story in the newspaper to him. We had talked about the anomaly of the cap situation previously and at that time he had told me of his times watching Imlach’s memorable days patrolling the left-wing berth for the ‘Reds’.

Looking over the happy news of Stewart’s and the rest’s soon-to-be awarded caps, there came a soft voice with a hint of an accent I know so well from behind us. “Do you remember him?” asked the gentleman I had spoken to earlier on the way in. “I don’t but my friend does, I’m very aware of the story though” I replied. I indicated to him that here in this gentle and quiet spot of rural Nottinghamshire – a most unlikely spot perhaps, he was speaking to a life-long Hibs supporter and that the website I visit and contribute to had alerted the campaign for Stewart Imlach et al’s caps to be awarded.

At this his eyes lit up! “Gordon Smith – The Famous Five, I saw them play!” This man was actually a Hearts supporter all his life and, in the days, when it was quite the fashion to watch ‘the other team’ on opposite Saturdays, had gone along regularly on a Saturday afternoon to watch the great forward line in green and white of his team’s great rivals.

We all are able to wax lyrical about our own team’s heroes. I’m no different when I get to thinking about Joe Baker, Peter Cormack and other personal Hibs idols of mine from the past. There is something different however when you see an old-time opposition supporter glowing about the days when he used to watch your team.

As he spoke the years rolled away as if they never happened. My new acquaintance, Norman, “call me Norrie”, told tale of the Gay Gordon and his dashing, cavalier wing-play. “Make no mistake – there was no one like him”. Norrie went on about how the five forwards would interchange and how nobody had seen this before. He told of how Gordon would run across the pitch to the opposite flank and the whole forward line would shuffle one position across to accommodate his brilliance in another area of the field.

Something I had forgotten about was Gordon Smith’s innovatory ways for the time. Norrie explained that if the surface of the pitch didn’t suit his footwear, the great man would change into a pair of baseball boots at half-time, in order to continue a display of his dazzling footwork.

Norrie loved watching The Famous Five. He explained that his own team were good enough but relatively uninteresting compared to the space-age football on display at Easter Road in that era. No shame on Heart of Midlothian this as surely Hibernian in full flow must have been some spectacle in those days.

It was time to go, the wind was blowing its chilly February blast outside The Reindeer, but my heart was hugely warmed by this man. He made me understand and realise once again that this really is only a game. That he harkened back to a more simple time, when we all understood that, was not lost on me. Given a choice in thinking and talking about Bosman rulings, share issues, pre-contracts and all the rest of the modern paraphernalia of the great game or alternatively talking to a man like Norrie about Gordon Smith there is simply no contest. We parted on a warm handshake but not before we talked of our respective teams and their resurgences and were happy to agree how wonderful that was to see. “Edinburgh forever” was the feeling of the man from Haymarket and myself.

During the course of our conversation, Norrie asked me about the Mass Hibsteria website. He told me he would look out for it and pay a visit. I sincerely hope he does and I’m sure he will be assured a warm welcome.

Over to you Norrie…

Santorini

I’ve never been to Greece before, never particularly had a hankering to either particularly, apart from something deep down inside wanting to stand on the steps of The Parthenon where my dad had stood all those years ago, smiling with his buddies in their smart white Merchant Navy uniforms. The town of Marathon might have been an honourable exception too, as you will understand I have a little of that in my soul. Melanie however had travelled many of the Greek Isles and suggested one of them as an ideal destination. I really felt on this occasion that Mel should have the autonomy in choosing – especially as I was somewhat modus non operandi of late, (selecting which colour underpants in the morning had become something of a problem). So Santorini it became, specifically the resort of Perissa on the smallish volcanic island in the Aegean Sea was to be our home for the next seven days.

Perissa Beach

After a short and uneventful journey we arrived under the merciless sun, alighting from our air-conditioned coach at the apartment. Initially both of us were a little dismayed at the standard of the accommodation which was barely adequate and seemed far worse after a sleepless, hot, noisy and fitful night. Thankfully this was to change. We acquired air-conditioning and shut the outer doors during the next evening and had a much-needed rest. In the meantime we had begun to explore our new surroundings.

The small ‘developing’ resort of Perisso seemed rather empty. There were many tavernas with gaping spaces in the seating areas and one or two slightly exasperated owners at the doors exhorting passers by to come in ‘yes please’. ‘No thank you’ bade I. No matter we were here for the three r’s – rest, relaxation and reading. In fact Perissa we quickly established had a nice beach, albeit impossible to walk on in bare feet foot due to the black volcanic pebbles absorbing the day’s heat but beautiful nonetheless.

Both Mel and I being very happy to attempt whatever was available in gastronomic produce began to explore the menus of the various tavernas by night. In my case I was looking for the ‘fruits of the sea’ or in general anything that might happily wiggle out of a shell or own eight legs at some point of its evolution. What we did find was that many menus were very similar in content but that were was plenty of variety generally within that.

One of the sights that had become quickly familiar to us was that of stray cats and dogs on the island. You may at this point quite rightly ask what this has to do with eating out but please bear with me as I hope to make it worth your while. On our second taverna visit there was an animal incident more worthy than any of those silly clips that the public send in to those endless home video shows, no this was of Tom and Jerry proportions but infinitely funnier in real life rather than the usual animation. Tucking into our appetisers we noted yet another small but perfectly formed kitty sitting but two feet from our table in some expectancy of a little squid perhaps from some fellow diners. Suddenly from between the gingham-clothed table tops lurked a large but stealthy dog, a canine with great powers of patience – hell this pooch could have stalked buffalo for days. Moving ominously inch by inch within range of the cat’s rear end it waited and waited… Suddenly all hell let lose as a fellow doggy who the kitty had been keeping a nether eye on some yards let out a hoarse bark. At this command the stalker-dog bit the cat’s ass (I throw that expression in as it is my understanding that is a Canadian-ism – and a good one too if I might add) The cat leapt up in the air in a vertical take-off strategy that would have done a Harrier Jump-Jet proud and let out a loud REEE—OWWWW!!! Before scarpering amidst some bemusement and mirth from fellow revellers. We had almost seen our first kill in Santorini.

A little about the island
As you will note Santorini is of a somewhat distinct shape. The large area of sea you will view in the centre is actually the mouth of a volcano, the faint area of land just visible on this picture remains the active part of the volcano and this is habited, the last blow being in the 1800’s. Startling sunsets are available from particularly the east coast areas of Thira and Oia (at £4.50 per pint actually) to sit on a cliff side café and watch this daily slice of drama. In order to have a look around we hired a small jeep for the weekend. The jeep was an interesting vehicle – not least for the full seven inches of ‘play’ in the gear stick. Obviously this and the complete lack of any symptoms of a suspension system made for an authentic Greek journey, this was how I attempted to rationalise our temporary transport at least.

Of interest was the archaeological dig at Akrotiri. The large village made out of mud blocks and dating back to 1500 BC had only comparatively recently been exhumed from the ashes of two huge eruptions by the island’s volcano and is at this time having a roof built over it to protect its precious secrets from the elements. Some say this settlement may even be the lost village of Atlantis, it’s not for me to say but what I can state with confidence is that Akrotiri is a fascinating and absorbing visit and not to be missed if travelling in this part of the world.

Unveiling the past – Akrotiri

The ancient capital of Thira was our next destination. Here we could view the lost tribes of Gucci and Prahda dwellers in their natural habitat through the grid of small, thronging streets. I fought off an infinitesimal desire to purchase a flowing white cheesecloth creation a la Demis Roussos and soldiered on through the hot streets of Thira, silver mining with Mel. Please lord I never want to see another jewellery shop ever again.

After the obligatory sunset view we chose a restaurant as even my powers of patience were now being tested by the tempting thought of battering to death the next taverna owner with a pork kebab skewer due to their ahem, ‘persuasive’ tactics of asking you into their restaurants. ‘A very large Amstel draft’ I heard myself ask in some desperation before scouring the laminated menu for further wiggly things. All was well ultimately. Nourished by more fish than a seal could gorge in a week and washed down by copious amounts of Dutch lager I entered the throng yet again with my partner. Suddenly matters became all too much. I spotted the Irish pub I had eyed jealously earlier and bade Mel a fond farewell in her ceaseless quest for more silver. You could tell the pub was Irish as there was an old U2 video playing on the big screen and a picture of a Jack Daniels on the wall? My slight concerns were put to one side as the diminutive American waitress swooshed over to me as if on small casters, ‘what will it be sir?’ Fighting off the urge to ask for a crocodile sandwich – and make it snappy, I ordered a large Irish stout or beer as our American friends cutely like to misname it. The girl on casters came back in an unseemly short period of time carrying a frothing pint with a shamrock inscribed on top and, blessing good old Ireland, I found myself at peace with the world again – particularly American waitresses, or any waitresses in fact.

Sunset from Thira

The rest of the evening did not pass without incident. After a ride home in the jeep with square wheels (or so it seemed) we arrived at the apartment, an entrance that would be accompanied by one of those many random squeals and yelps that Mel often elicits and which I obviously studiously ignore as they would engender me having to ‘do something’. On this occasion it was a cockroach that had taken a liking to our accommodation – hell it probably lived there a long time before us I thought as I went to acquire a broom in my underpants, (NB the broom was in the hall not my underpants I hasten to add) As I went for the sucker using all my wasp fighting skills acquired as a boy growing up in the UK I recalled a friend in Atlanta’s excellent description of the cockroach as a ‘flying armour plated filth machine’ how memorable was that almost Shakespearian phrase I thought as I gave the creature a further sock with the broom.

The roads in Santorini are interesting, some day they may even have cars on them. Easily the single most annoying thing on the island (apart from the taverna owners naturally) were the motor cyclists and scooter-ists. In my dreams and at the height of my annoyance I thought of rigging up cheese wires across the expanse of the road outside the apartment and ensnaring the island’s youth in this manner. Instead however I consoled myself with the fact that these youngsters had very little chance of gaining sexual intercourse on an evening by owning such modes of transport. Ha! One up to the sports cars, suckers.

Sadly and inexorably our holiday came to end as they all do, unfortunately it was something of an exasperating end due to a six hour delay and no Euros left (a rather unfortunate combination it has to be said) I consoled myself with a nice warm Dutch lager on the plane however.

Goodbye Santorini you were interesting while you lasted. A further recommendation for other future travellers would be to look up the nearby resort to Perissa of Kamari which looked exceedingly attractive upon inspection, though I would not deter anyone from Perissa and its value for money and spacious beach.

Further Santorini information:

http://www.greektravel.com/greekislands/santorini/

http://www.santorini.net/home.html

Nice One Cyril

Recognise that song title? Some of the more mature amongst us certainly will. It’s one of those silly tunes that’s been in the back of your head for over thirty years now. Don’t worry, you’re not alone and you can get help. It’s called the plague of the football song. The chirpy ode to former Tottenham Hotspurs’ stalwart Cyril Knowles is hardly alone in the cringe stakes, we all know of a whole catalogue of bad football songs, indeed there are very few ‘good’ ones. It’s important that we establish a distinction here straight away as the author enjoys nothing better than a rousing good chorus of’ Glory Glory To The Hibees’ at the appropriate time, (i.e., in the day or at night, but no it’s not the joyous coming together of a group of like minded supporters I talk of here, but rather the sad collection of dubious collaborations between groups of highly paid professional footballers and oft ‘celebrity’ fans to record a platter for the general consumption. They’re all flooding back now aren’t they? I’m sorry…I really couldn’t help myself.

Donovan Leitch (Donovan)

The very first vinyl album I ever bought in school days was by Donovan. It was a ‘Greatest Hits’ offering (of which there quite a few).

The man himself appeared on awful breakfast TV this morning in the studio answering questions and giving a ‘performance’ of his 1966 hit ‘Sunshine Superman’ which I remember so well.

It was perhaps a great pity they didn’t allow him to sing rather than the very poor mime that viewers were treated to. The signs were there before he even opened his mouth with the note perfect to the original intro.

Predictably quizzed about the sixties by the Thunderbird puppet look-alike, Andrew Castle and his presenting partner, Donovan dropped a few names but was nevertheless very interesting in his answers in spite of his somewhat ‘old hippy’ persona. I kind of warmed to him I have to say.

From a career that was all about the sixties when he was quite prolific, Donovan provided some good music I reckon – most of it tucked away as album tracks rather then the very commercial stuff most people are aware of.

I always recall him being regarded as a ‘second-rate Dylan’ which I felt slightly unfair as both singers took their influences from the same people such as Woody Guthrie and began in the same place. Naturally there has never been a lyricist like Dylan nor probably ever will be, but I felt there was a place at that time for Donovan’s more gentle and ethereal style in the pop music of the day, opposed to Dylan’s more acerbic outpourings.

Main impression from the TV this morning was that if this guy ever wrote a book about his life I would definitely buy it. He would have a long and thought provoking tale to tell. Complete with a lot of huge names who were of his acquaintance in those days.

 

Hibernian and its charitable roots

My hand is held high; yes I am a traditionalist, in many matters, but particularly in our beautiful old club.

I think it desirable to look to the future, with one eye on the past. Lessons once learnt should be held close and cherished.

The ‘oul bhoys’ should never be forgotten, they gave us this legacy, this football club, one that some us fondly believe is like no other.

One of the reasons that Hibernian is so unique in its ethos is largely because of the original good work carried out by its founding fathers, the kindly Canon and the men who stood by him as he carried out his work to help the underprivileged – those in dire need of charitable help.

Thoughts at this time of year inevitably go towards those less fortunate than ourselves. I thought it the best of all times to offer this as a suggestion to the people charged with and giving of their time and efforts in helping our football club survive and prosper, as it must.

As a suggestion for the relevant steering committee, whichever that might be, could we pursue a course of action towards returning to our roots in some small way? That of helping people in need? I feel it would cement the reason why we are all here supporting, loving, and yes, even fighting about this dear old club of ours, God bless us!

The return of such an ethos would bring another relevance as to why we are all Hibernians. The reason why we are all here still, after all these years, talking to each other, sometimes even from different lands, on a daily basis. Proud of the Green and White in our hearts.

Of course the first thought on this might well be ‘what does that do for the club?’ I could attempt to answer that by saying it would give Hibernian a better profile and all of those associated types of things, and that, I feel, would be true. To state that it would again return us to our ‘uniqueness’ would also perhaps be equally true. There would be benefits for the club, of that I have no doubt.

Most of all though we would be doing something for others that need help – the truest and most important concept of Edinburgh Hibernian Football Club. I can think of no finer tribute.

Erin Go Bragh

The Wide Boys

Scotlandhas had a prodigious history in producing a long line of wingers. Indeed our very own Hibernian gave to the world the man who was termed the ‘Prince of Wingers’ in the great Gordon Smith,seen him don the green and white jersey.

What is it about these men that sets them apart in temperament and style from players in other positions? It’s always been a source of curiosity to me. Some people talk about eccentric goalies, and in fairness there have been plenty of those between the sticks, a role perhaps akin to being the drummer in a band? I however am fascinated by these wizards of the dribble, these men who leave the field of play with a liberal amount of chalk dust on their boots after hugging the touchline all game. These wide boys.

Some time ago this subject became focused in my mind after having a conversation with a former colleague who had spent some time reporting for the Lincolnshire Echo newspaper. His assertion was of, ‘you know – he was one of those useless ******* wingers’, (he used reasonably earthy language) when referring to an erstwhile Scottish tanner ba’ player who had the misfortune to find his career washed up in the arid football atmosphere of the east of England cathedral city for many unfruitful seasons.

After dusting down my Celtic pride I realised his point. For every great winger there are a number of great pretenders and just general numpties. Flattering to deceive is the first skill that any decent outside right or left should learn rather than how to put a half-decent cross over.

The modern wing-back appears to have largely taken over the traditional winger’s role but these players are not the genuine article. For one thing they run back and help their team mates and no self-respecting winger would ever consider such recklessness. They are there to attack, that appears the simple logic behind the thinking of the wide man.

There are many types to the genre, the most instantly recognisable classifications being the ‘Wee Jinky’ type and the ‘Flyer’. Think Jimmy Johnstone for the former, (naturally) and Arthur Duncan for the latter for stereotypes of these performers.

Whilst wee Jimmy was arguably as good as it gets in this role as five foot nothing of pure trickery and bamboozlement, lesser imitations of the man are more easily swept under the carpet. Whilst Jimmy could easily beat four men on a mazy run, (watch out for that expression) lesser wingers must necessarily learn the skill of beating the same man four times. All well and good if he can finally be unloaded of the ball by the patient defender too after exhaustion sets in, (wingers only truly run about a bit when they have the ball). Whilst this is the most likely outcome for the Wee Jinky, there are usually other options open to the Flyer.

Those of us who can say we saw Ned Turnbull’s Tornadoes will always have a special place in our h***ts for Arthur Duncan. This paragon of the flying winger fraternity entertained us all for many winters with his dashing wing play (keep an eye on that term too). A great and loved, long servant to Hibernian, Arthur could on occasion frustrate even his most loyal fans. Who can forget that sprinter’s pace down the touchline, possibly only equalled by Erich Schaedler backing up behind him in the left back berth? It’s at this point that we need to think of outcomes again. Whilst the Jinky will often meekly surrender the ball to a bemused full back after drilling himself into the turf with just that one turn too many, the Flyer might more likely be seen running the ball straight over the by-line and into the crowd. If he knows his job properly he will also be seen following the ball into said crowd too at this point. It’s times like these that strong relationships are bonded between the Flyer and his long-suffering followers.

The second option open to this type of winger is a humdinger too. An experienced Flyer must understand the art of a decent anti-climax too. Picture the scene because we have all been there. The midfielder or full back releases the flying wingman from a deep position; the winger sets off like the proverbial bat out of hell down the line showing fine close control (i.e. not letting the ball run any more than twenty-five yards in front of him) and finally makes it to his spiritual home at the bye-line, ball intact. This is the point where matters from looking promising take on a new form as the trigger is drawn for that pinpoint cross into the middle. Over the ball goes…and pitches adjacent the opposite corner flag before bouncing haplessly out for a throw in on the opposite wing despite a despairing slide from the opposite wide man. Even worse than this is the cross that finds its way behind the net as angry-looking team mates glower over from the penalty area. The skilled Flyer will at this juncture use all his experience and glare disbelievingly at an imaginary divot at his feet before running back, shaking his head.

I could perhaps be accused of being a little facetious here but in truth I have always, like many others enjoyed watching wingers play. They bring expansiveness to the game that is sadly often lacking in modern football. Wherever there is a decent winger in some kind of goodish nick there is always bound to be entertainment to follow.

It’s true to say that many of the greatest exponents in this position have been Scottish and it’s on some of those characters I’ll concentrate here. I’ve already mentioned my admiration for Jimmy Johnstone, but there have been so many. In a similar vein Willie Henderson was charged with attempting to equal Jimmy’s exploits over the other side of Glasgow, a similar kind of player, Willie did that well enough to earn Scotland jerseys. His team-mate on the opposite wing Willie ‘Bud’ Johnstone actually combined the characteristics of both the Flyer and the Jinky. An interesting anecdote I heard about Bud was that during Rangers’ infamous training sessions running up and down the dreaded sand dunes of Gullane, Willie would actually perform these runs in pit boots. No wonder he was flying come Saturday afternoon…

Willie was one of the few people I have ever seen sit on the ball during a game – surely the ultimate embarrassment to the opposition? He was playing out of his skin for West Bromwich Albion by this time (and into selection ready for his most notorious hour in Argentina but that’s another story entirely.) Against the not-so-mighty Notts County this particular afternoon, Willie was having an absolute field day and looked to be thoroughly enjoying himself against the bothered and bewildered County defence. Finally he showed his mastery (and boredom) by perching his back side on the ball down by the left corner flag as the perspiring Notts rearguard looked at each other nervously to decide who would try to take the ball away from him. Some in the home crowd scalded Willie as you might imagine, not me, he was doing his job of entertaining the paying customers – and doing it sublimely.

Uddingston native, John Robertson (the Forest and Scotland player not the Newcastle reject) was another I never tired of watching. Robbo’s innate football ability only really saw light of day when Brian Clough moved him from midfield and barred him from the chippy. This coincided shortly afterwards with a rich vein of form for several seasons operating as a conventional outside left which took John to European silverware and Scotland caps. In a way there was no mystery about John’s wing play, whichever way the full back went he went the other, simple eh? Pin point crosses and in addition the most cool and deadly penalty taker in the business were other weapons in his armoury. Clough’s TV assertion referring to the Scotland party heading for Argentina ’78, that Robbo ‘has so much skill he should fly the plane’ sticks in the memory.

Former long time Leeds outside left Eddie Gray was another favourite. In a team full of hard men, (even the forwards) Gray stood out as one player who’s game was purely based on skill rather than cynicism. Gray was often unfairly compared to George Best over the Pennines which seemed a little unfair to me. He was the scorer of my favourite goal of all time (barring Hibs of course!) On that occasion Eddie seemed to beat practically the whole Burnley team in a solo effort of breathtaking artistry with the ball. Gray danced his way along the left touchline before working his way in towards the opposition net leaving defenders floundering this way and that in his trail before slotting home. A goal of absolutely staggering skill.

I could hardly end these words without mentioning some of our own Hibernian touchline favourites. My apologies if I’ve left yours out. Mickey Weir on his day could be almost unstoppable; also a great fan favourite to this day and an unforgettable sight in those new-style baggy shorts he was asked to wear alongside his team mates of the day. I very much liked the tandem of Kevin ‘Crunchie’ McAllister and Michael O’ Neill that Alex Miller introduced to Hibs. Hibs were a joy to watch at last with these two wingers operating in the same side. They were also a good foil for each other in style. McAllister earned his ‘Crunchie’ tag as a youngster playing in a team with another boy called ‘Crunch’, apparently, thus he became know as ‘Wee Crunchie’.

I’ll end on one of our greatest men, outside left of the inimitable and legendary Famous Five, Willie Ormond. Perhaps all of the Five were overshadowed at times by the glittering skills and matinee idol looks of Gordon Smith on the right-wing, but Musselburgh native, Willie should, like the others be remembered in his own right as a wonderful talent. Like the rest of the Five I only have others’ reminisces to form a judgement on, including those of my own family. One need only listen for a few moments to an appreciation of Willie by his two remaining line mates Lawrie Reilly and Eddie Turnbull to understand what a talent he was. Any man who could impart the classic quote, ‘if I’d had a right foot you’d have never heard of Pele’ had to cut a bit of a dash didn’t he?

Glossary of winger terms

Wee Jinky – Usually small and very manoeuvrable, the jinky will normally rely on trickery and ball play to outfox the opposition. Not averse to taking on the same defender several times the jinky is primarily an entertainer. There is often a problem with peripheral vision in these types – they don’t have any.

Flyer – the fabled ‘Flying winger’, an outside man of breathtaking pace but not necessarily any other talent whatsoever. Often tall with a raking stride. Most often seen running in straight line towards the corner flag with a posse of defenders giving chase.

Dasher – as in ‘he’s a bit of a dasher, (see ‘flyer’)

Mazy dribble – a long, weaving run that confuses winger and defender alike.

Nijinsky, et al – the names of famous race horses can often be used in the identifying of flyers. This is to be encouraged.

Dribbling – the prime weapon of the Jinky, often used as a precursor to falling over.

Buccaneer – this is usually applied to a player most usually considered to be too large and bulky to play the wide position. ‘The buccaneering winger’. Robust play is the key term here in the buccaneering winger who will burst forth at any opportunity, splaying great sheaths of defenders from his path with a large barrel chest.

Moving back – all good things come to an end. The last bastion of the winger just before the boots stay on the peg forever. Not always 100% successful as any good winger worth his salt will have spent the last fifteen years of his career without making a single worthwhile tackle.

Singer’s Night…

At the Robin Hood and Little John pub, Arnold, Nottinghamshire.

A tale from last Wednesday evening as I know there are many pub singing aficionados out there, like myself.

Of course Wednesday evening was a special one – Scotland had thumped the Norwegians and my England-supporting friends were crying into their beer after ignominious defeat at the hands of Northern Ireland. The ideal time to go out for a drink then…

Taking a walk through the dark streets of the neighbouring suburb I approached ‘The Robin’ and could hear something that sounded a little like music emanating from the whitewashed building – yes it was ‘Vocalist/Keyboard Entertainer’, Mickey, on his organ, leading a loud refrain of Y Viva Espana! Hooray!

As I entered the old pub I noticed a rather glum looking greying old flag of St. George, tied up on a balcony of some flats opposite, rather forlorn and looking all but fluttered out. Yes – this was going to be a good night I thought grinning to myself with the effects of schadenfreude still resonating strongly as I entered the pub.

Immediately through the door, I was met by no less than a seventy-five year old ‘matador’ dancing up to me, joining in enthusiastically with Mickey’s promptings. They’re fabulous things those electric organs aren’t they? Not only can they make birdsong sounds but Mickey can even imitate the clicking of castanets on there. Or perhaps it was El Matador’s knees clicking, I’m not sure. The young girl taking duties on the microphone was…er of the fuller figure; her heaving breasts appeared to follow one around the room like those scary white balloons from ‘The Prisoner’ series with Patrick McGoohan. She had a belting voice however.

The call rang out for, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…and regular guest singer Arthur himself – an octogenarian with an Elvis quiff zoomed out from between someone’s legs and up to the mike in around 0.25 seconds. Now the mike and Arthur obviously love each other, but sadly Arthur is crap but has still not realised that fact yet. Finally, after three songs and weeks of my life, another singer prised the mike out of Arthur’s hand with a crowbar after a rendition of Ken Dodd’s epic ‘Tears’. Yes I was shedding them Arthur.

From my vantage point at the bar a rather large man with a Catweazle beard was brushing shoulders with me. From his associates I heard his name was ‘Big Malc’. Big Malc had only three teeth. Shortly, he received the nod and was at the mike doing an imperfect Elvis impersonation – complete with flat cap and donkey jacket.

“Tek a maaahhh haaaand”

“Tek a maaaahhh who-ell laaaaf teeeuuww”

“Cos‘ aahhh caaa—uuunnnttt heeeyyy-uuullppp”

“A-fallin’ in-a-huv-a-with-a-yeeww!”

It was stunning stuff; either that or I was very drunk. Deciding the latter was far more likely I headed off with the music still ringing in my ears, (and five pints of Guinness coursing through my veins).

I was just reaching for my Mp3 player for a little private sing-song on the way home, (Frankie Miller – Caledonia, no less, ya bass!) when I heard a large commotion coming from the flats where the grey England flag was strung up on the balcony, opposite the pub. Six officers of the law were carrying a young man by his nostril hair out of the flat where the flag was tied up. He was suitably handcuffed and thrown unceremoniously into the back of the meat wagon not before shouting,

“Leave me alone ya b***ards – I’ve done nothing wrong – she’s upstairs f***ing laughin’ at yer”

Seems like the England defeat had been all too much for that particular individual.

They tell me the age of variety is dead but you know I’m not so sure.

Oh what a night.

The Bad Comedians

The Noble art of Comedy?

A little article reflecting upon many a bad comedian over the years, vintage and otherwise. I’d like here to propose a toast to some of the very worst of the worst. Who better to begin with than this curious man?

Charlie Drake

“Hello my darlings” rang out the familiar catchphrase from the diminutive ‘comic’, but can anybody tell me what was remotely funny about this man? Very much in the ‘I look a bit peculiar so laugh at me’ mould, Charlie was a popular star of 1960s TV. Unfortunately his goblin-esque appearance offered his career little longevity.

I heard a great story about Charlie Drake from a friend, Ali Tait.

“He was doing his end of the pier summer show at one of the seaside resorts in England, and he got chatting to a pretty young chorus girl, telling her that he’d noticed her, and that she had star potential, and that with a word in the right ear, he could make her a star,as he had all the contacts. The girl thanked him very much and said she was very flattered. To this, Mr Drake said “now, what would you say to a little f***?”. The girl summoned up all her dignity and said “goodbye, little f***!” Classic!”

Oh how we laughed.

Another instant admission to the Bad Comedians Hall of Infamy…

Roy Hudd

Just take a look at those great foaming gnashers – feel like laughing? I thought not. Roy has seemed to have been around forever and is a regular laugh a decade man. I initially set eyes upon this man as a kid watching his regular weekly show which as a normal five-year old I felt was a bit insulting to the intelligence and a bit simplistic. In one sketch I recall Roy dressed up in Lincoln Green to depict the outlaw ‘Robin Hudd’ and so it seems he has been robbing the Beano book of gags to give to poor us ever since. His riotous play on words using his surname still stands as he inflicts the more recent examples of his ‘art’ through “The Huddlines” radio programme.

Gag for Roy please – make it nice and tight.

Oh how we laughed.

Okay, I’m on a roll now. Anyone prepared to confess a liking for this guy?

Arthur Askey

“Buzz buzz, buzz buzz, buzzy bee, buzzy bee” sang the little maestro in his infamous trademark ditty accompanied by his ‘amusing’ little jig. How entertained by himself Arthur would appear, sadly not reciprocated by many of his audience. Oh how I would love to have seen the little twat crash and burn at the infamous Glasgow Empire – how DID he live so long anyway? That must remain a mystery.

In his early days Arthur could be heard on the ‘wireless’ with his erstwhile pals Ben Warris and ‘Stinker’ Murdoch I’m led to believe. Sadly the only thing that stunk were Arthur’s gags. Only to be compared with his jokes were his matchless catchphrases such as “Ayethenkew”, “Hello playmate” and “Right before your very eyes”.

Stop it Arthur – I’m crying.

Oh how we laughed.

Billy Dainty

What more can be said about this man? One word really. Sh*te.

Oh how we laughed.

The next inductee.

Norman Vaughan

Pictured above, how this sub-Tommy Trinder ‘comic’ ever had such a career I’ll never know. Perhaps he found his true vocation in those ‘Roses grow on you’ TV advertisements which have somehow managed to elude the clutches of Chris Tarrant’s sarcasm.

I can picture him now, out of his depth comparing ‘The Palladium’, acting his head off like some second rate Bruce Forsyth with his clever catchphrases of “Swinging” and “Dodgy’ He was chosen to take over the game show, The Golden Shot due to his ability in being the only man alive who could make Charlie Williams seem funny.

Kindly stick your Roses up your hole Norman.

Oh how we laughed.

Jimmy Cricket

“There’s more…”

Thankfully, not for some time Jimmy…

Oh how we laughed.

I truly can’t see many people dissenting with this choice.

Peter Glaze

The Crackerjack (altogether now – Crackerjack!) ‘star’ made a gloriously bereft of humour duo with partner in crime, Leslie Crowther, a man himself who was well known in Nottingham for…er…coming from Nottingham and…er liking cricket a bit.

Peter would always be the one who received the well aimed jet from a soda fountain in his coupon whilst acting his little head off. Mercifully he never appeared to progress to anything else apart from act as Leslie’s and later Don McLean’s  stooge (imagine that?).

The picture above demonstrates ably how ‘funny’ Peter was, note the hilarious hand expression and endearing grin of this particular jolly japester.

Call the side doctor, I’ve split mine.

Oh how we laughed.

Rod Hull

How unfortunate for him that the bird was a flightless one when he fell off that roof.

Oh how we laughed.

JIM BOWEN

Bullseye!

Bullsh*t more like, Jim.

Oh how we laughed.

Two numskulls for the price of one this time, it’s:

Mike and Bernie Winters

Two morons for the price of one, this pair were the only known comedy double act to feature two straight men. Let’s just say that when Bernie branched out with a new partner Shnorbitz the dog, the hound was funnier.

Forever in the shadow of comedy giants Morcambe and Wise, the brothers split many times, and I don’t mean our sides. Whilst Mike was meant to be the ‘smart, sophisticated’ one, Bernie played the grinning oaf perfectly…only he wasn’t playing…

These guys made Cannon and Ball look like comedy geniuses.

Another word from Ali Tait on the gruesome twosome.

“The story goes that this pair were appearing at the Pavilion in Glasgow, a notoriously tough crowd, and Mike Winters came on stage and did a few minutes before his hopelessly unfunny stage foil followed him on. As soon as the other one hit the stage, some wag in the audience shouted “aw f***! There’s two o’ the c***s!”

Oh how we laughed.

An entirely personal one now that some may indeed not agree with.

Lennie Henry

Subtlety is not this man’s strong suit. When in times of lack of favourable audience response (i.e. often) he can be observed getting louder and more animated whilst resorting to leanings from his ex TISWAS-esque characters from decades ago and sub-‘Desmond’ rants.

I’m sure Lenny is a very nice guy and we know that he does his bit for charidee which is truly admirable, I mean, marrying Dawn French, but for Christ’s sake Lenny just go away will ya?

A big custard pie in the face for this useless tw*t.

Oh how we laughed.

“The Master of stand-up comedy”

“Lennie Bennett is one of television’s most prolific performers and is generally regarded as the ultimate professional. Indeed, few entertainers can equal his record of having had at least one series of his own show televised every year for the last 16 years.”

So runs the publicity blurb for former ‘Lucky Ladders’ host…

Lennie Bennett

Talent with a capital ‘S’ for sh*te, this man’s wit knew no beginning. After stumbling onto our TV screens with his equally vapid stand-up partner Jerry Stevens he ‘progressed’ into the role of that most unloved of celebrity types – the game show host. Lennie was at his finest when handing out the prizes on Lucky Ladders. This seemed to consist of a small ladder painted gold which stood on a piece of Styrofoam. Apparently, these works of art had to be handed back by the contestants after the show as they only ever had seven of them made.

Lennie’s early days on TV also took in that spiritual home of the Bad Comedian – ‘The Comedians’, where he was known as something of a giggler. At least one person was amused.

Oh how we laughed.

Now here’s a face you’d never tire of punching.

Timmy Mallett

Yes I know he’s for kids but he has actually been well adopted by some grown-ups – well students anyway. This man’s trademark catchphrases make the utterings of Bruce Forsyth look like the witticisms of Oscar Wilde on a good day. “Utterly brilliant” and “bleugh” were two of his most inspired moments, it actually all goes downhill from there, believe it or not.

In searching for the pen pictures for most of the above comedians it has been considered suitable for the purposes of this article to show the protagonist at their most ridiculous. Searching for Timmie’s, well it was difficult to find one that made him look half-way intelligent, nay sane.

I know what I’d like to do with that ****ing mallet…sideways.

More from Ali:

“Waking up on a Saturday morning in my twenties with a beasting hangover was made a million times worse if my nieces were staying if I went downstairs while the Wide Awake Club was on TV. Just catching sight of that tosser on TV was enough to turn an honest-to-goodness, bought and paid for hangover into a psychotic rage. Still… didn’t last long. By the time my oldest niece was about five, she’d outgrown his humour and was more interested in Thundercats on the BBC instead!”

Oh how we laughed.

Introducing comedy’s answer to Daniel O’Donnell, it’s…

Roy Walker

Apparently softly spoken, genial Irishman Roy had the ideal training to be a comic, he was Northern Ireland champion at hammer throwing and once was a part of the Vienna Boys Choir. Another funny man who succumbed to the game show idiom, one of Roy’s best known catchphrases on the show of the same name was “It’s good but it’s not right”. Well right on one score at least Roy. His other famous saying can also often be heard, “say what you see”. Happy to oblige Roy – your act is shite.

Oh how we laughed.

David Badiel

This man brings up an interesting theory. Some believe that to laugh at a comedian one has to like them too. (First rule of comedy, Spike). This man focuses that belief in me as I can’t stand his overbearing sarcasm (something which if used appropriately can be very funny of course) In his case he actually does seem to be a supercilious tosser.

Almost as funny as neuralgia.

It was ten years ago today

It’s the tenth anniversary of Princess Diana’s untimely death in a French road tunnel and how the full of the subject is the media. This morning the two major channels covered the church service commemorating her death and of course there are thousands of words of text in the newspapers about the subject.

Does anyone tire of this scene, this mass grieving for someone most of us never met? I am ever incredulous at the supposed interest after all these years and can only assume that it is stoked up by a media who are short of genuine stories to print and broadcast. This may all sound a little harsh and certainly I’d admit to being no fan of the royal family – far from it – but I find the way that the story of her life is continuously foisted on the public to be tiresome and transparent. It’s time they let it go and it has been for a long period of time.

Most of us have lost loved ones along the way. I don’t see any vast outpouring of grief for those close to me and others who have departed – after a much harder life than the Princess’s. It was a shame when she died, time to let it go now.

Stay Alive

Big Country, Rescue Rooms, Nottingham. Friday, 17th August, 2007.

It was a friend north of the border who gave me the heads-up about this impending gig in the heart of Nottingham’s Studentland. The gig and tour are being carried out as a twenty-fifth anniversary commemorating the band’s brilliant debut album. “The Crossing”. Sadly of course, the band’s singer, main songwriter and twin lead guitarist, Stuart Adamson is no longer with us after his desperate loss through his suicide in Hawaii in 2001. His influence on the band and it’s music is still evident though. So is the love and respect for him from his former friends in Big Country.

Elvis – 30 years today

So, thirty years today then. It’s three long decades since the ‘King’ of rock and roll died an undignified death. I remember the night but I can’t say it was memorable in itself. I’d paid one of my regular trips into the city of Nottingham to go drinking with college mates from my printing course of the day. On arriving home the TV was playing out a homage to the rocker from Tupelo Mississippi. It wasn’t exactly a ‘the day they shot Kennedy’ moment for me but, yes I do remember what I was doing that evening.

Perhaps everyone has been touched by one Elvis song or another. It would have been difficult to live in an exclusive bubble without hearing some of his music at some time. Though I’m not particularly a fan I do believe he was perhaps the original artist that one liked ‘at least something that he’d done’. Whilst respecting his huge and influential place – perhaps at the very paramount of the rock pile, he did however leave a somewhat strange legacy along with hours of epic vinyl history.

The Elvis impersonator.

Face-off?

Social networking sites are one of the latest big deals on the Internet. It seems as though owning a straight-ahead personal website is now considered somewhat passe. Is this possibly because they take greater effort in constructing?

Facebook, often favoured by students, MySpace which offers opportunities to promote your band, organisation or various talents and Bebo, tending to be loved by the younger set, offer an easy gateway and presence onto the world wide web. In but a few minutes, one is proclaiming his or her favourite colour, band or latest profound thoughts to a network of friends but there are concerns about these sites

 

The JJB Experience

I’d a free invite into corporate ‘hostility’ at Wigan Football Club for their game against Watford this past Saturday and duly dropped by at the JJB stadium. Our party of four males was aged between 7 and 77. The former of which I was charged with entertaining for a good part of the afternoon! Remember what it was like when you were that age? Football games were such a mystery – they still are to some of us!

The hospitality package included a three-course dinner in one of the lounges at the stadium. Sure there was a choice of but one meal but I had a very good scran all the same thank you. A small army of young ladies kept the drinks coming over too.

Two former top-flight referees (whom I didn’t catch the names of) MC’d the proceedings in a jolly Northern way with plenty of crap gags and the odd sweary word thrown in. Part of the presentation were the various quizzes and competitions before and after the game. One couple were asked to stand up by the man with the mic as they had chosen to travel up from Watford for the game on their honeymoon. “It was either Wigan or The Maldives” quoth the blushing bride to the assembly only half-jokingly I considered.

Justin Fashanu

This story about the late footballer and gay icon came to my attention recently. http://briandeer.com/justin-fashanu-1.htm Justin Fashanu’s life is a pretty sad story. The article above makes uncomfortable reading. He and brother John were brought up in a Barnardo’s home I understand and it’s interesting to see the way their respective lives developed in different ways considering their challenging start in life.

Justin Fashanu

I recall when Brian Clough splashed out £1m on Justin to buy him from Norwich City for Nottingham Forest. His reputation had arguably, largely been established by one long-distance wonder goal and whilst many big clubs were interested in him, Clough and Taylor performed a typical ‘smash and grab’ raid for the big, physical striker. Things didn’t work out at all for Fashanu at The City Ground. After the huge fee that Forest had paid, his performances were unfortunately mediocre at best and not punctuated by regular goal scoring. Fashanu was well known to be visiting a gay club or two around Nottingham at the time when football still lived in the past (and arguably still does in some ways) regarding more enlightened thinking about sexuality. Justin’s private life and more likely his lack of product on the pitch appeared to succeed in antagonising manager Clough, an d his intolerance to lacklustre performances on match day. Finally, one morning, Clough banished Fashanu from the Forest training ground as his patience ran out with Justin. My understanding is that Fashanu refused to leave the ground and at this point Clough called the police to intervene and escort the player away. A short time afterwards, neighbouring club, Notts County signed Fashanu for a cut-price £100,000. His outings for Notts however, were marked by the same ineffectiveness as displayed on the other side of the Trent. His time at Forest and Notts signalled his long descent into mediocrity, a career that never really began in some ways.

Justin had few successes as a player afterwards although continuing to play football until 1994. He moved to the United States in 1998 where he came under the scrutiny of the police after a seventeen-year-old boy accused him of sexual assault. An arrest warrant was issued for him in Maryland but he had already left his accommodation and fled to England.

Justin Fashanu took his own life in 1998 and was found hanged in an east London garage, The suicide note he left stated that he felt he would not receive a fair trial due to him being a homosexual, the note also claimed that the sex with the young man had been consensual.

It’s a matter of conjecture how Justin’s life and career would have shaped up if that one wonder goal had slipped the wrong side of the post.  Truly a sliding doors moment and a tale with a tragic ending.

Miles Better

You really have to hear this.

Last night, my mate Mike was telling me about this minor car accident he had been involved in recently. Nothing particularly unusual about it, just a standard rear-end shunt when a guy hit him up the rear end of his little Audi.

Nobody hurt, they retired to a quiet road opposite to exchange details. Here’s the good bit. the other driver handed his business card to Mike. His name was…
MILES PONSONBY!!!

Mike was very proud that he had at last met a guy named ‘Miles Ponsonby’.

If anyone can offer a suitable headline for this incident I shall forward it. I can think of a couple straight off but I won’t spoil the fun!

Shifting Sands

I stumbled across an interesting discussion about the perils and woes of shift working and sleep deficiency today. How it brought back sore memories.
So many of those comments regarding shift work were familiar to me. I worked shifts in the print trade for around twelve years and I would never do them again. A large part of the problem was switching between shift patterns and attempting to adapt physically, mentally and socially.

One of the problems for me personally was an inability to get a good quality and quantity of sleep on night shifts. I used to dread that pattern coming around because absolutely nothing worked for me. I’d turn in at 7am and be wide awake by 10.30am as frustrated as hell and exhausted. To rub it, in I’d probably been struggling to stay awake whilst at work.

On mornings, (5.50am-1.30pm), I’d burn the candle at both ends. I figured I was always going to be exhausted anyway so I might as well go out and enjoy myself and take four hours sleep before heading off to work.

Glasgow 1 Terrorism 0

 

Exciting times (but not in a nice way) for the old country this past few days then. Terrorism is back in Scotland after those long years since the Lockerbie air crash. The Glaswegian locals had something to say about this event though.

 

John Smeeting, one of the locals who tackled the terrorists at Glasgow airport was interviewed by CNN. He was asked about his role in restraining one of the terrorists:

“Me and other folk were just tryin to get the boot in and some other guy banjoed him” !

Bravo John – dinnae mess wi’ the ‘weegies’!

Stags and Hens

 

The City of Nottingham where I live has been a constant source of sightings for this curious phenomenon for many years as one might imagine. With a tight and concise city centre with literally hundreds of drinking establishments within staggering distance this will perhaps always be the case.

It wasn’t always so. I’ve never had the misfortune to have been the subject of such a revelry (only the victim) but having experienced my 21st birthday booze up in the city many centuries ago I can tell you it was a pretty lame affair by today’s standards.

Two pubs (Ah the old Flying Horse) and a four-mile walk home with my mates as there was a bus strike on was the story of my wicked abandon that night. Why I was even fit enough to be on the golf course early next morning. The pivotal moment was the ritual offering of a pint glass full of various spirits and a rousing command to drink it all from the assembled thirty-odd friends. I took a few sips and further declined, passing the steaming elixir around and thus living to fight another day.

How things have changed. On any given night around the weekend* in Nottingham City centre (*this perhaps only excludes Mondays and Tuesdays these days) there are the colourful and joyous sights of groups of pink cowboy hats adorning ‘hens’ screeching away from the back of stretch limousines and much more. Nurses and French maids are always a welcome sight of course…

Member of hen party checks her mobile

Nosmo King

Almost a couple of weeks in and it’s been interesting to observe some of the changes since the smoking ban came about in England on July 1st. Being a person not adverse to visiting the odd public house or two I of course as a non-smoker welcomed that fateful day when I and my friends would be able to catch our breath in a public bar and other public places.

I’ve always tried to live and let live with smokers as we all have our own particular vices. This has not detracted from my dislike of going home smelling of stale tobacco after every evening out, nor the displeasure at struggling to draw breath, especially in some bars with low ceilings. The latter is a frequent occurrence as the pubs I often visit tend to be older, more historic buildings with just such a construction. It’s been a source of resentment to me that some of those places I would no longer visit because of that problem. Now no longer however.

There have been a few problems with the fallout from the ban. Outside every public building there now appears to be an ugly pile of disused cigarette ends from the groups of people taking a desperate drag outside. One also has to fight through a thick smog to get into those same buildings sometimes. The litter bins are often draped with discarded cigarettes, balanced precariously in lines across the edge of the bin, uggh!

Another development has been the types of constructions pub managers are setting up outside their businesses. These range from a few ‘Martini trees’ with strategic outdoor heaters to full-blown marquees. The latter plastic abominations often look incongruous stood outside some of the more handsome old pub buildings and have fallen foul of the authorities. One of my locals found itself with a visit from the local council one evening due to a marquee stuck on the front of the attractive old pub. Apparently it had three sides to it which constitutes a need for planning permission one presumes.

After trying to accede to people’s need to smoke for practically ever, it dismays me to hear smokers referring to themselves as ‘victims’ now. What on earth do they think the rest of us all were for all those years whilst being forced to inhale their smoke second-hand and smell like a dirty ashtray after an evening out?

Lowdham Festival (1) The Brian Clough Evening

The inaugural event of the Lowdham Book Festival, 2007 then and it very nearly didn’t happen at all. As for much of this soggy summer, Lowdham and it’s surrounding villages had been the victim of a huge deluge late afternoon and early evening before Brian’s event was due to kick off at 7.30. An apt time one may have imagined due to the subject matter under discussion this evening, and one that almost became a ‘match abandoned’. Finding that the stream in the field where the marquee for the night sat had been all but two inches from overflowing it’s banks and therefore sabotaging the evening was the first information imparted. Apparently the good people that labour to run the village event had to search around furiously in the locality for sand bags to keep tonight’s entertainment running. This was again exacerbated by the large rivers of water cutting Lowdham and other nearby villages off.

Lowdham at high tide!

 

Tales from the Ark

What a ‘summer’ this has been. Incredibly the rain goes on and on, day after day and people continue to suffer. Many poor souls have had their homes flooded more than once with the filthy water infiltrating their home. Even worse, as one might surmise there have unfortunately been fatalities.

Evacuations continue as main streets are transformed into rivers of muddy water with people wading through chest-deep levels. Some rivers are said to be up to 26 feet above their regular height.

Main Street, Woodborough, Notts. July 2007

As usual someone is sought to blame – even for a natural disaster falling from the sky, there has to be a better way than this though. More knowledgeable people in the land buying profession tell me that short shrift is given to pre-empting what in fairness is an exceptional situation. The building of local ‘sump’ areas is said to be neglected in the search for extra profit. I have no notion whether this is true but wouldn’t find it difficult to believe.

Flooding appears as though it will be a more permanent fixture of life in the UK in the future and it’s apparent that measures will have to be considered to assist in what is nothing but a national calamity repeating itself. One can only feel sympathy for the poor people affected.

Lowdham Book Festival (2) Blog-talk with Mike Atkinson

Although a now rather overdue admission for the Lowdham Book Festival, I thought this event was well worth recording. The event itself had been moved from the Women’s Institute Hall down the road, having fallen prey to the inevitable floods the village and surrounding area had been experiencing. On a damp and soggy day then, my partner and I skipped into the talk just a minute or two into proceedings

 

Mike Atkinson of the ‘Troubled-Diva’ blog gave an extremely informative, lively and humourous account of the world of blogging. Blessed with the light-hearted style his blog is written with, he recounted tales of this relatively new phenomenon. Notable was his tale of a serious blog stalker who was actually prosecuted for her misdemeanours towards a fellow female blogger. This talk however covered the subject most comprehensively and would have appealed to people who had an interest in beginning a blog, and expert ‘first wave’ blogger alike. Mike covered the thorny subject of book deals for bloggers and the jealousy that can arise between fellow bloggers due to this. He maintained that there was no easy way to achieve acclaim in this idiom as blogging is strictly a meritocracy.

Love in the Asylum

Something a little different today then, a poem.

Not just any piece of verse but quite possibly my favourite one, Dylan’s Thomas’s ‘Love in the Asylum’. I first read this poem in senior school and was immediately attracted to it. There was always something about the bohemian ways of Dylan that appealed to me but the darkness in this piece of work reaches particularly deep into the soul. For me it’s a cry of helplessness, frustration and longing. A longing for the love and companionship that any human being should be allowed, in spite of any disability or other imposed prohibition.

Love in the Asylum
(Dylan Thomas)

A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars