The Admirable Crichton

Today is the 450th anniversary of the birth of the good looking young feller above, who also happens to be one of the most remarkable Scots that few, if any of us have ever heard of.

James Crichton was born during the most volatile time in Scottish history, a period of religious suppression, conflict and civil disquiet, which still has reverberations in contemporary Scotland.

His birth on August 19th 1560, came on the very day that Mary Queen of Scots arrived at Leith, and a few days before the Parliament of Scotland, passed legislation abolishing Catholicism and replacing it with the Reformed church. 

John Knox and five of his tartan Taliban crew drew up a new confession of faith, which was presented to the Scottish Parliament, voted upon and ratified. On a roll, John Knox and his fellow fundamentalists had three acts passed in one day; they abolished the jurisdiction of the Papacy in Scotland, condemned all doctrine and practise contrary to the reformed faith and lastly forbade the celebration of Mass throughout Scotland, at pain of punishment by exceedingly gnarly public death.

Elizabeth the 1st of England rejoiced and Knox led a service of thanksgiving in the High Kirk, St Giles' in Edinburgh, denouncing the new young Queen Mary as a bit of a slapper, who wore inappropriate clothing, did a bit of risqué dancing and was known to be familiar with the more carnal sides of life. 

Crichton's father, Robert, was the Lord Advocate and had been loyal to Mary's late mother, Mary of Guise, his mother was connected to the Catholic Stewart family. So, not a good time to belong to the Catholic nobility in the early days of fundamentalist Scotland.


None of this, however, gives any clues as to why I regard James Crichton as a remarkable chappy. His father sent him off to Saint Andrews University at age ten, the following year all of his lands were forfeited and he was sent off to Edinburgh Castle to ruminate on the folly of supporting the rightful Queen. Young James cast this from his mind and  with a prodigious talent, in what was then truly a curriculum of excellence, flew through his studies. Already regarded as a bit of a child genius, aged 12 and under the tutelage of the highest regarded professor in Europe, Scotsman George Buchanan he passed his Bachelor of Arts degree. Two year later and shortly after his 14th birthday he received his degree as Master of Arts. Unlike today's students, he opted to avoid a gap year ripping off poor foreigners and continued his studies, soon he had mastered the sciences and philosophies and had added TEN languages to his masterful tongue.


As was the fashion of the day, his father (now out of the pokey) sent him off to Europe to further enhance his knowledge. According to Scottish historian Patrick Francis Tytler, he added mastery of riding and the martial art of its day, fencing. He became known as one of the most expert and fearless swordsman of his time. Add to this panoply of prodigious talent an ear for a tune, and the ability to carry a note and you had the all round renaissance teenager.


Fairly and excellently endowed he embarked upon his travels arriving in Paris at a time when the royal court enjoyed disputations in public where learned sorts could indulge in battles of wit on subjects modern and archaic. Crichton reared on a first class education and armed with that particularly Scottish tradition of a good flyte, leapt into cerebral warfare.
  
Sir Thomas Urquhart who had translated Rabelais into English, was Crichton's first biographer. He described how the young Crichton posted challenges to literary and philosophical warfare around the most prominent places of the city. He challenged those with questions to present themselves at the College of Navarre "in any science, liberal art, discipline or faculty, whether practical or theoretic; and in any one of twelve specified languages..."

A challenge of this complexity from so young a man couldn't fail to get the tongues wagging and soon it was the talk of French academia and the aristocracy. Come the day he slaughtered his opponents, he received the praise and congratulations of the most eminent professors at the University.What increased his triumph and embittered those he defeated was the nonchalance, the ease with which he batted away their questions and his utter disdain for preparation.


This was the making of him at the French court, soon he was conquering the ladies and winning jousting tournaments. His ability over many disciplines earned him the soubriquet, the Admirable Crichton. He finished his studies and left the University of Paris to join the French army, wherein he served for two years in the Civil War and became an experienced officer and rose to an honourable command. 


After two years in France, itchy feet overtook him and he travelled to Rome, where in front of the Pope he repeated his challenge, bettering the professors of Rome, Padua, Venice and Genoa.


Invited to Venice, where he began to publish poetry, an account from the archives of the Doges Palace contain the following tract by his friend the printer Aldus Manutius:


“A.D. 1580 (Register, Council of Ten and the Zonta or Junta of the Ten), 19 August.—A young Scotchman has arrived in this city, by name Giacomo Critonio (James Crichton), of very noble lineage (from what one hears about his quality); and from what has been clearly seen by divers proofs and trials made with very learned and scientific men, and especially by a Latin oration which he delivered this morning extempore in our college—of most rare and singular ability [virtù]. In such wise, that not being above twenty years of age, or but a little more, he astounds and surprises everybody. A thing which in like manner as it is altogether extraordinary, and beyond what nature usually produces, so ought it extraordinarily to induce this council to make some courteous demonstration towards so marvellous a personage; most especially as from accidents and foul fortune which have befallen him, he is in very straitened circumstances: Wherefore, it will be put to the ballot, that of the monies of the chest of this Council there be given to the said Crichton, a Scottish gentleman, one hundred golden crowns. Ayes, 22; noes, 2; neutrals, 4.”

Beset by money problems and according to various sources suffering from ill health, we next find Crichton in Mantua. Where he defeats a professional duellist/assassin, inspired by the newly created Comedia del Arte he writes a comedy and performs in it and is engaged as companion and preceptor to the Duke of Mantua's son Vincenzo Gonzaga. 

Italian sources describe Vincenzo as being insanely jealous of Crichton, not merely because of his prodigious talents but also the fact that the Admirable Crichton had replaced Vincenzo as the lover of the princes former mistress...

Accounts of the day record that Crichton was returning from a night of carnal shenanigans with his mistress, strumming his guitar, when he was set upon by a gang of masked villains. Besting them all at swordplay he unmasks their leader only to discover that he is Vincenzo, the Prince of Mantua. 

Affected by the deepest concern, Crichton drops to one knee and presents his sword to his master's son. Vincenzo, who was rumoured to be impotent, having sent an expedition to the new world to seek out a legendary aphrodisiac, took the Admirable Crichton's sword and plunged it through his heart, killing him instantly. Crichton was mere weeks away from his 23rd birthday.


The plaque below can be found inside St Bride's Parish Church in Sanquhar, near by his birthplace of Eliock.

All Points Bulletin. Should the Scottish Government invest to save games jobs in Dundee?

News has filtered through the ether that one of Scotland's leading game design companies Realtime Worlds has gone to the wall and called in the administrators. The business has been handed over to the frankly scary sounding 'Begbies Traynor Group', no doubt an amalgam of Irvine Welsh's favourite sociopath and a big mouthed football commentator. The sad news is that 170 staff in a lucrative, fresh faced, industry that brought a lot of kudos to Dundee, Abertay and Scotland have been given the usual ten minutes to clear their desk and get the chuff out of dodge, or rather Dundee.

The company recently launched APB, which was supposed to bring in exactly squiddly giddly gazillion dollars in revenue, after all some of the creatives behind Grand Theft Auto are behind this, Microsoft pumped it up as their must have game, it's had a global launch, massive investment and after some review issues and criticisms appears to have flopped.


My question is this, should the Scottish Government, mostly late middle aged men who couldn't tell Gay Tony and Mario the plumber apart, respond to the obvious pressure that will be put on them by the games industry and our national press to put Scottish taxpayers dosh into a games industry that glorifies violence, but hey has a potentially massive return? 
Is the imperative to save Realworld as valid as say trying to bail out the Dunfremline Building Society?

Personally, I'm thinking that David Jones who was behind GTA, Lemmings and Crackdown has a track record of his companies going tits up, seems to be a genius on the creative side but could perhaps do with a steadier hand on the management. Regardless of that, this is simply a horrible blow to a lightweight, hugely popular industry that yet again saw Scotland punching above her weight.


So what about it Tartan Overlord, what do your policy wonks say, sink or swim?

Too fat to give a f**k.

A begrudged venture into the Tescorpse in deepest Dumfropolis this afternoon brought me face to face with the gaping maws of an obese granny, daughter and grand-daughter who were taking up the entire central aisle as they debated the calorific contents of store brand low value Jaffa cakes versus the real deal flavoursome, but slightly more expensive are-they-a-cake-or-a-biscuit ones. As politely as I could muster, I uttered in a clear voice, "Excuse me" to the 20 plus stones of lycra clad tattoo that had successfully accomplished a breeding task and squeezed a mini me out between second breakfasts and her next appearance on the Jeremy Kyle show. Those that have met me know that I'm no midget, I'm a hefty lad too, but I felt compellingly anorexic squeezing past these benefit behemoths.

My appearance on their radar caused the grandmother to bring her hitherto well hidden Tourettes syndrome to the fore. In a movement that saw her face, neck and jowls turn and face me a good ten seconds before the rest of her wobbling mass arrived, "Fuck off yous" was the delightful refrain that belched from her engorged and pustulant lips. Perplexed I looked around to see if some other deluded shopper had tried to squeeze past, nope only me, perhaps she was seeing double or hadn't mastered the art of plurals...

I genuinely suppressed the urge to grab her by her gargantuine flappy necks and slam her head into her daughter and grand-daughters by now jabbering mouths. Thankfully, I thought of the long hours sitting in a police cell, the indignation of the tabloids and the inevitable jail sentence and recriminations from their extended family. Sighing I suggested they take their purchases to the Hippo aisle where their own kind wouldn't be subject to astonished looks or tuts of disapproval from the disillusioned or depressed. I was completely taken aback to hear a tweed clad elderly lady announce "Good for him!"

The whole encounter has left me weighed down with an unvented spleen, I feel the need to howl at the world and pound my fists against acres of soft malleable flesh to encourage through vigorous pummelling the notion that two packets of Jaffa cakes between meals is not a substitute for child care. I am so reduced to a state of nervous sensitivity that the sight of these disagreeable people has deeply impressed upon my mind. No doubt it will take several days to remove the imprint of their flesh, feeding and foulness from my mind. I fear that my life has been sheltered. This torment is too much for one man to endure. I have resolved to avoid the supermarket for eternity, unless I'm armed.

Precious Few Heroes: The case for Scottish independence

Well done to Jack Foster and Alan Hunter for this succinct, witty appraisal of the fucked-upness of Scotland.



Precious Few Heroes: The case for Scottish independence from Rough Justice Films on Vimeo.

Full fat cheese to return shortly.

Delighted and somewhat gobsmacked to have seen the numbers visiting the site whilst I've been otherwise entertained by the World Cup, moved home, no broadband, phone or mobile coverage (thanks BT and sundry mobile operators), endeavoured to cope with the return of a ravenous teenager from Uni and the lovestruck mewling of a younger version...ooh and the start of the Summer holidays and tabloid dribbling.

To all who visited new and old, fear not, I'll be back in the saddle in the next week or so with many a flustered quote and a plethora of half baked opinions to fling into the mire. As for you, you doctrinaire faux Utopians who shut your eyes to human nature and self determination, you ardent unionists who feed on hatred and delusion, you destroyers of pride and culture, you genealogists of the simian race, you whose name was once and insult in itself, be well content: you have been the prophets of doom and your disciples are the pontiffs of an aborrhent but shaky future.

In the meantime, I'm off somewhere sunny for some serious hammock time. Ta luego.

I ♥ Jorge Larrionda

English referee Graham Poll claimed before yesterday's England match that FIFA had appointed arguably their best referee in Jorge Larrionda of Uruguay to referee the World Cup match between Germany and England.


Known as the King of the Red cards, Larrionda has the highest red card per match ratio in international matches, 94 in 140 or two reds every three games. He excelled at Germany 2006 refereeing four games...including the Portugal v France semi-final.


Unfortunately his inability to see with all the accuracy of a goal line camera no doubt means he'll be in for a bit of abuse from the English media during the match and the next forty-four years of post match analysis...

The English media have been over this before, remember Urs Meier, the Swiss referee who had the temerity to disallow a Sol Campbell goal against Portugal at Euro 2006?

The Sun orchestrated a campaign against this 'Urse-hole' relishing as many puns as they could dream up for the 'Swiss banker', eventually having whipped their readership into an orgiastic fondue of dribbling mentalness they published Herr Meier's personal details. The resulting 16,000 abusive emails and death threats saw Meier agreeing to take on police protection for him and his family, particularly after the Sun rented the field across the road from the Meier family home and planted a massive St George's Cross flag in it.

Some MP's even tabled a motion in the House of Commons criticising the quality of refereeing in the tournament. The BBC noted for it's fair play joined in and published all the funnier photos of Swiss stereotypes and referees.

  
We can only presume the distance from London to Montevideo will deter Sun journalists from tracking Larrionda down after the tournament... although I suspect the combine wailing and gnashing from the Englandshire FA will mean the King of the Red cards has refereed his last World Cup match.

E-A-S-Y.

Ahem. Admiral Nelson, your boys took one hell of a tedious drubbing.

England Expects...too much.

That's Not All Folks.

Last night saw this years EIFF open with Sylvain Chomet's long anticipated feature length animation homage to Jacques Tati, 'The Illusionist'.



Coupled with Jana Prchalova's wonderful 'Mondo's Search for the Sun', having its official premier at the festival, animation in Scotland is starting to take on a rosy hue.



The fact that these two works of outstanding quality were made in Scotland got me thinking about how much animation has changed in this digital age. Not just the speed and relative 'ease' of production, but that the laborious work is being diminished, that there is no longer the need for a thousand Korean background artist, as spoofed in 'The Simpson's'. 

I'm delighted that a Frenchman and Czech woman choose to live in Scotland and can find inspiration and a means to create here. It's a positive tip for the future. We've come a long way since Norman McLaren headed off to open and head up the animation department of the Canadian National Film Board, and never returned. Hopefully these films will inspire a new generation of Scottish animators to stay and work here.

 

You never know maybe one day we'll produce something as awe inspiring as Yuriy Norshteyn's Tale of Tales, probably the best animated work of all time.




http://www.djangofilms.co.uk/

http://www.oncewerefarmers.com/

It's Coming Home....

So here we are on the eve of  yet another World Cup without Scotland...and I'm awakened from the torpor of my mid afternoon hammock-time with a thought....

When England, kick off their opening match on Saturday against the USA, what anthem will their supporters belt out and the team mumble along to?


Traditionally England have used 'God Save The Queen' for football and 'Jerusalem' for Cricket, Eggball chasing usually comes supplied with Low Slung Chariots. Yet, when Great Britain competes in the Olympics it's always 'God Save The Queen', which is recognised as the official anthem. 

So surely, at this time when English identity is undergoing a rediscovery and there is no longer any perceived 'shame' about flying the St George's Cross, it's time for England to have an anthem that is as distinct to them as 'Flower of Scotland' is to us, 'Land of My Fathers' to the Welsh and 'Londonderry Air to the less partisan folks in Norn Ireland?

The English Commonwealth team carried out a poll for what their team anthem should be in Delhi later this year. The result is quite surprising. Have the English FA followed suit and embraced the idea of English identity? 

World Cup 2010 Smack down in the Chicken Wing Battle

The above image snapped on the BBC Front Page website displays a simple comment promoting Radio 4's Today programme.  

'Is USA on track to beat UK again in the World Cup?'

Hmmm as far as I can recall the UK have never had a representative team play at the World Cup. Also the USA have never played either Northern Ireland, Scotland or Wales in the World Cup. I presume the reference is to England, I know that the USA played them in Brazil at the 1950 World Cup and defeated them 1-0. Scotland played its part in the Yank team with the manager Bill Jeffrey and captain Ed McIlvenny both being Scots.


Perhaps this is just another example of the BBC's interchangable use of 'England' and the 'UK'. Too often when Scots pick the BBC up on this wilful one-size-fits-all usage, we're accused of being chippy, much like the Labour MP's that shout 'who cares' across the floor at SNP MP's whenever an attempt is made to redress a Westminster imbalance, we're expected to just shut up and get on with it. Shout out and we're accused of Anglophobia...even racism! Our self loathing tabloids will soon be in full on dribbling mentalism, looking for real or imagined incidents when one drunken twat hits another, who happens to be wearing an England top...

Well come Saturday 12th of June at 7.30pm, there's only one team I'll be supporting...





and if that doesn't whet your appetite for the underdog...

"Vi er best i verden! Vi er best i verden! Vi har slått England 2-1 i fotball!! Det er aldeles utrolig! Vi har slått England! England, kjempers fødeland. Lord Nelson, Lord Beaverbrook, Sir Winston Churchill, Sir Anthony Eden, Clement Attlee, Henry Cooper, Lady Diana--vi har slått dem alle sammen. Vi har slått dem alle sammen. Maggie Thatcher can you hear me?

"Maggie Thatcher, jeg har et budskap til deg midt under valgkampen. Jeg har et budskap til deg: Vi har slått England ut av Verdensmesterskapet i fotball. Maggie Thatcher, som de sier på ditt språk i boksebarene rundt Madison Square Garden i New York: Your boys took a hell of a beating! Your boys took a hell of a beating!"

Une autre victoire pour le grande fromage, part deux.

The Daily Record, bereft of power in Holyrood and Westminster have at last made up their mind and finally printed their 'correction' on the Megrahi cropped photograph story on the bottom left hand corner of page 2 in their Saturday May 22nd edition


It would be fair to say that the verité and The Daily Record's excuse are a few miles distant from each other. Nevertheless I'm claiming it as a victory against those talented liars in charge of the Scottish press who pump the public with lurid, unchecked, staggering amounts of fiction posing as fact.


As the lovely people at the Press Complaints Commission have only just told me about this 'correction', I hastened to these internets in search of the aforementioned article, naturally none was there. 


I did however grab the link from http://www.pressdisplay.com so dear viewer, in order to see their fulsome apology for cropping an image of a cancer victim to make it appear that he was ready to take up cage fighting, please click the above link. If you can't be bothered, the weasel worded text of their 'correction' is below.


ON Nov 19, 2009, we published a report about the health of the “ Lockerbie Bomber ,” headlined “Megrahi’s doing fine.” It was accompanied by an image of al-Megrahi that was said to have been taken “yesterday”. We would like to make it clear to readers that the photograph was, in fact taken in August 2009.


When I manage to get myself a hard copy and photograph I shall post it here.


My thanks go to the fantastic Becky at the PCC who  has apologised for the length of time it took for the Daily Record to publish this correction..


One can only speculate that in normal countries this woeful disregard for the truth is frowned upon, here our betters appear to shrug their shoulders, Hien.

Looks Tory, smells Tory, what lies beneath?

Look at the passion in that feller's face...

Sooo according to this mornings Sunday Times, our newly friendly hugs and kisses Tory Party are considering a re-brand of their vile loathsome former selves, in order to appeal to those who think Scottish Tories are really quite fluffy and cuddlesome. Given the baggage of Thatcher, mass unemployment, poll tax, a pre-election convenient war..sorry that should read 'conflict', social deprivation etcetera I imagine most activists will be panting like a priest at a school pantomime. How do they get this supposed abandoning of the London Party over on the doorstep, without being seen as advocating Independence?

So where do you stand on the minimum booze price now Ms Goldie?


I suppose now that they've finally decided that after being humped at the ballot box for the third time, in which they've been represented by a porcine former furniture salesman and a chap apparently known to his intimates as Fluffy, that the end of the road has been well and truly met.

Holding his breath between elections...


All that remains is for them to find a name that fits in with small 'C' conservatism and a slavish devotion to all that emanates from London that they can slap a bit of tartan on. I'm thinking the Tartan Twunts. All other suggestions welcomed.

Tartan Twunts on a piss up.


However, one question remains. In the battle for supremacy in this axis of couthyness who will emerge victorious, Annabel Goldie, the ma Broon of her generation, David Mundell, the man who thinks the Holyrood Tories are clueless or the parties Scottish Chairman, the former Washington based spook Andrew Fulton who was forced to stand down after his MI6 connections were revealed when he was the deputy director of the Lockerbie Trial Briefing Unit?

In order to pull the wool over the Scottish electorates eyes successfully, might I suggest that the Scottish Conservatives do something more than changing your name and plopping on a 'see you Jimmy' ginger bunnet on one of your ugly young activists.

Perhaps dropping plans for the farcical Calman Commission and sensibly, like many of the more pleasant Tories of my acquaint (yes there are some) who quietly agree that full fiscal autonomy is the way to wean Scotland from the public purse teat, might be a more sensible approach to the new politics...




However, at the end of the cliché I would warrant this, if you want to know what kind of Scot your more rabid Tory is, simply have a keek under his kilt. You wont be surprised.

Are Labour too pished to comprehend?

News that supermarket behemoth Tesco, are minded to think minimum pricing for alcohol is a good idea, brings a problem. Where do the unionist booze loving supporters in the Scottish Parliament go now? Every attempt to debate this issue has led to Labour politicians weeping into their glasses at the loss of the right to get pure mad mental pished on buckie, 'it's a human right ya dobber', seems to be their rebuttal to any attempt at informed discourse.

The sublimely named, Lucy Neville-Rolfe, Tesco's director for corporate affairs, has an interesting tack on the booze and binge culture, she blames the UK government. She says in the absence of government action, poor old Tescocks have to compete on price.

"As a result there is lots of cheap alcohol, so we thought let's ask the government to look at should there be a minimum price for alcohol, or should there be a ban on low-cost selling.

"Could it be justified because it will deal with the problem at the lower end?"

Now colour me stupified, but does that not sound a million miles closer to what the SNP have been saying in Government? Especially when compared to the stupidity of my local Labour politicians Elaine 'tiny tears' Murray and the diminutive Russell Brown, who envisage booze buses on the Whitesands of Dumfries, all set to invade the pile-it-high-sell-it-cheap booze warehouses destined to be found over the border in Carlisle?

The British Medical Association, police throughout the UK, and the Westminster Health Committee back the idea of minimum alcohol pricing. Now that Tesco have jumped into bed with the same approach, where exactly does this leave Gray, Goldie and Scott?

What a difference a day makes.

Encouraging news from Dungavel that the children of immigrants are no longer to be held there.

Damian Green, above without the blurry face, was the chappy at the centre of the police raid at Westminster in November 2008 for 'aiding and abetting misconduct in public office'. He's now the new Tory-LibDem Immigration Minister. With a stroke of his mighty Ministerial pen he has managed to do what Jim Murphy failed to achieve despite giving his assurances in October 2008 that no child would be held in Dungavel in the future.

You have to ponder over why Mr Murphy never managed to fulfil his pledge, what hurdles did he encounter, that made the decision to stop weans with Glasgow accents being bundled into vans in the middle of the night and dumped in a former prison in the Scottish countryside? Was it an insurmountable problem of cost? How about a lack of alternative facilities? Maybe it was a cheap sound bite in fitting with his whole persona of telling people what they want to hear but never really finishing the task? Hey maybe I'm wrong and this pledge was sitting at the top his to-do list and only kiboshed by the small blip of a general election....Maybe.


The problem now is that these children will instead be taken to Yarl's Wood Detention Centre which is supposedly better equipped for the children of 'failed' immigrants. Although better on the surface, this is really a cosmetic change and does nothing to confront the basic problem that whereas south of the Border, the three main parties appear to revel in playing the anti-immigration-we're-full-up-go-elsewhere card. Yet in Scotland faced with another period of depopulation we're rather keen on welcoming new faces who want to work and contribute to life here.


So history will record that the last baby ever detained at Dungavel was 11 month old Wania Shebaz, here she is with her 25 year old mum Sehar.

What terrible crime did the evil immigrant commit, that caused the UK Border Police to frog march her in to the van and on to Dungavel?


Well, she was guilty of being a Pakistani girl forced into an arranged marriage to a man she barely knew, whom she claims, drank excessively, was violent and predictably sexually abusive. Shebaz has been living in the UK for 3 years. In December last year after hubby threatened to kill her, she escaped the family home in Blackburn and sought refuge in Glasgow. She was placed in homeless accommodation and helped to apply for asylum. Hubby followed her and again she had to be moved.

She and her baby daughter were removed from Dungavel at midnight and stuck in a van marked destination Yarls Wood. It's a nine hour drive, she should be arriving fairly soon. On Saturday morning she and Wania will be driven to the airport and put on a plane back to Pakistan and the problem will no longer be ours, hands wiped, another human tragedy bundled out of sight and sound. 

Wania will celebrate her first birthday in Pakistan, who knows what future her and her mum face. As is tradition in Pakistan, her husband's family will demand the baby, her own family have lost face and will not support her. What harm did she do?

Return of the Young Lochinvar

Like a latter day Young Lochinvar, the new prime minister was true to his word and rode North on a mission of  R-E-S-P-E-C-T accompanied by Harry Potter and his tame house elf Dobby Munnell. He didn't have the fair Ellen in mind for conquest, no he had his eyes on a somewhat heftier blushing bride...

How different this must have felt for the Tartan Overlord compared to Gordon Brown's infamous reticence to comment on the election of the SNP Government in 2007. The whole 'he doesn't write, he doesn't call' scenario came to a head when wee Glen Campbell nearly had to throw himself under the wheels of the Ministerial jag in order to get a pained comment from the MP for Kirkcaldy and Cowdenbeath. Teeth and pulling were brought to mind as the then PM squeezed out each reluctant vowel and consonant like a constipated poundstretcher robot. His imperial Eckness was well and truly rebuffed. It took our own particular brand of crap Men and Motorist terrorists to finally bring them together for a hot session in the COBRA room, even that ended with premature congratulations...


So did Dave's attempt to pitch wood in blushing Eck's direction succeed? He didn't bring chocolates, wine or even the £180 million fossil fuel levy. What he did bring was a declared resolve to treat Scotland's government in an entirely different manner to his predecessor. Proof and pudding spring to mind. 

I'll say this, it took balls to walk in there and face a renowned slippery operator par excellence. For that, signing up to roll back Labour's profound erosion of civil liberties and marginalising Iain Gray even further than was thought humanly possible,  I praise him, do I trust him? Not a chuffing chance.

O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.




He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; --
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide --
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, --
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a gailiard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Sir Walter Scott

A lingering smell.

News that former unelected Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, is set to continue as a backbench MP, is bound to cause some disquiet among the Labour opposition front bench.

It's all too easy to envisage that every time hackles are raised and emotions fraught, that when questions on the economy, Afghanistan, expenses etcetera are brought up in debate, the Tories and their new bestest friends the Lib Dems need only make out like Donald Sutherland and point at the honourable member for Kircaldy, in a fashion not too dissimilar to this:

No doubt, at first, his colleagues will galvanise themselves and rally to his defence, whoever the new leader of the Labour Party is, will reel off the highlights of 13 years of Labour control...but eventually this will get old. Over a period of time, those wishing to bask in the somewhat tarnished reflection of Brown will gradually slip lower down the food chain. Eventually, he will be lucky to have the company of the likes of Cathy Jamieson or Margaret Curran sitting within arms length. 

Then one day, political anoraks will tune in to watch Scottish Questions with Harry Potter, and there amongst those despairing camera shots along the sparsely populated opposition benches, the cameras will pick out the scattered MP's nonchalently picking out their lottery numbers or texting their bookies, and  in the dead mans row, third from the back in the centre will sit Gordon Brown, alone, thinking of what had once been.

Yet another Union Dividend

         Scotland

As if woeful Wednesday wasn't a bad enough day for Scotland, word has just filtered through that the Sunday Times Scotland has been more or less closed down. A skeletal staff comprising of a reporter, a sports reporter, a columnist and a parliamentary correspondent will remain. Roughly equivalent to the same amount of staff as the Dumfropolis Literary Gleaner and Educator. 

I suppose the writing was on the wall when News International shifted their commercial advertising sales to join production in Manchester... Honestly, Mancunian's selling advertising to Scottish businesses in a Scottish paper...that'll be a skoosh.

This is particularly bad news for those who see the need for a balanced impartial media in Scotland. The Sunday Times Scotland (STS) was the paper which did such great work on the Steven Purcell coke, gangsters,alleged corruption, and Labour placemen in arms length organisations saga, whilst other 'Scottish' dailies and Sundays thirled to the Labour establishment and afraid to question them, stuck their thumbs in their mouths and made wee wee. 

STS was blessed with some exceptional talent, Allan Brown and Gillian Bowditch among them. However, the one person that will be missed by legions of loyal readers is the estimable Joan McAlpine, Scotland's most learned, common sense columnist. The flip side, naturally, is that they have the utterly hat stand Jenny Hjul and her lovely lopsided smile...

Reporters like Mark MacAskill and Jason Allardyce, editorial staff Carlos Alba and Camillo Fracassini, did such a great job that at times you almost forgot the paper was the property of the great Satan, Rupert Murdoch.

With an average sale of 68,000 they outsold all their Scottish rivals, consistently selling more than 10,000 copies per Sunday than nearest rival the Liberal Democrat supporting Scotland on Sunday.

One thing is obvious now that if an organisation as august and well financed as the Sunday Times can't survive in this internet age, how long before the Sunday Herald and Scotland on Sunday cease to exist, particularly with their rabid anti-Scotland editorials?

Now that David Cameron is Prime Minister and he tells us he will take a softer approach to Scotland, now is the time for him to have a look at devolving broadcasting to Holyrood, so that Scotland can have that basic component of a civilised country, an independent media. 

The cradle of democracy in a cradle of filth.

It is a commonly accepted fact down here in Dumfropolis that when the traffic lights aren't working, traffic moves smoother and faster, drivers are more cautious and courteous. Most important of all pedestrians and cyclists are treated with respect, as opposed to the usual annoyance from drivers who perceive them as holding up traffic with their crazy road crossing antics.

It occurred to me this morning, whilst chatting to a couple of folk who both commented on how bemused they are with the current traffic jam of our Parliamentary system, that really life can flow along a lot easier without the restrictions of well rewarded politicians telling us when to stop, wait and go.

The giddy excitement of the media feeding frenzy on Messrs Brown, Cameron and Clegg involving talent show style debates entirely empty of content; where the political parties are simply vying for voters attention as personalities, the subsequent apotheosis of Nick Clegg and finally the helicopter TV shots, I've just viewed of politicians walking along a street from one meeting to another whilst the media complain about protesters daring to shout questions at them, or incredibly whine about those protesters with megaphones drowning out the broadcasters, suggests our system is well and utterly fucked. 

Obviously there would be incredible benefits to the public purse were we to remove our elected classes. I'd love to know just how much every year of our taxes goes into paying salaries; expenses, allowances, staffing, office rental, stationary, fact finding trips to exotic places, travel, mileage and training. How much does this form of 'democracy' cost us; what's the total for every councillor, MSP, MP, MEP and expenses bloated Lord that we fork out for? Then there's the cost of elections on top of all that...

During the election campaign, the Tartan Overlord spoke about abolishing the House of Lords and saving £100 million a year. Yes each year the upper chamber costs us one-hundred million pounds for the privilege of having The Seven Hundred and Thirty-Six Right Honourable Lords Spiritual and Temporal of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland in Parliament assembled. The reality is that Eck was wrong, our renowned economist didn't do his sums correctly, according to Open Europe the actual cost of the House of Lords is One Hundred and Fifty-Three Million Five Hundred Thousand Pounds per annum.

The House of Commons, which with all it's ancillary benefits is by anyone's stretch of the imagination the cushiest of numbers, comes in at an eye-watering Three Hundred and Sixty-Three Million, Nine Hundred Thousand pounds per annum.

Ahh but without elected Councillors, MSP's, MP's, MEP's and Lords our system of parliamentary democracy would come crashing around our ears, there would be anarchy, blood on the streets, financial instability, who would we turn to in times of national crises? I hear you mumble. 

Well, would it? Our civil servants despite having to possess the ability to twist and turn at the fickle behest of their political masters, tend to just get on with the job? The country hasn't collapsed, people are getting on with their lives, fewer and fewer of us can be arsed to follow the round the clock coverage in the hope of being the first to announce to the tweeteratti who will be the next Prime Minister.

I'm not suggesting we abandon politics and democracy entirely as we obviously need a check on abuses of the system. Therefore we could limit the scale of representation down to the barest of bones. Let's have elected representatives sit on relevant management and policy committees, where they can put forward the electorates views....

'To go beyond is as wrong as to fall short'.

Whilst perusing through these internets this morning, I read the following story on the BBC about an Australian mini-series adaptation of the life of World War One Chinese-Australian sniper and hero, Billy Sing. 

The article informs us that:

'the director, Geoff Davis, actually picked his son, Josh, to play the role, and defended the decision by saying that he could not find a 60-year-old Chinese actor to play Billy Sing's father.
He therefore decided that both men should be Caucasian.'

Quite naturally the Chinese-Australian community are indignant about this white-washing of a man whose father was Chinese and put his life on the line for King and Country.

The director, Geoff Davis, has cast an actor as Sing's father whose previous best known role, was the helicopter pilot in err Skippy... Davies claims not to have been able to find a 60 year old Chinese actor who would work on a deferred payment basis. No stereotype there, then...

On first reading the article I presumed Davies  would be delving in to the hideous world of putting a white actor in make-up to appear 'Oriental', they used to call it 'Yellow face' acting, there's an extensive history of actors doing just that. This tact has been used since the earliest days of cinema since Richard Barthelmess appeared as 'The Chink' in DW Griffiths Broken Blossoms aka The Yellow Man and the Girl in 1919. 

 

The practise continued with Hollywood casting a Swedish actor, Warner Oland, in the eponymous Charlie Chan detective series.

It reached ludicrous proportions with a host of white actors donning make-up, sello-taping their eyes back and adopting a subservient and toothy demeanour. A portrayal which sadly to this day still informs our own native racists.

There's been an excruciating panoply of well respected actors who've gone down this path, when directors supposedly couldn't find an Asian actor for the part. They include Edward G. Robinson in The Bitter Tea of General Yen,  Peter Sellers, Peter Ustinov, Christopher Lee and Boris Karloff have all had a go at the evil Fu Manchu, Keith Carradine as Kwang Chang Caine in Kung Fu (even his surname was Anglicised) and Canadian thespian, Robert Wiseman as Dr No. 

Yet what must rank as one of the most offensive racial stereotypes of Asian characters in cinema history, is generally overlooked and rarely spoken about. It can be found in a film that engenders the feel good factor and is chock full of  love, romance, beauty, comedy etcetera. Mickey Rooney, son of a Glaswegian comic, scraped the stereotype barrel to come up with Mr Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany's. I suspect his role is overlooked simply because of the cult status of Audrey Hepburn.

The intriguing thing for me as a silent cinema buff is that early cinema had genuine Asian film stars who were accepted in a wide array of film roles from villain to hero and saint to vamp. 

Sessue Hayakawa was a Chinese actor who rivalled Fairbanks, Chaplin and Pickford in the superstar and earning stakes. Modern audiences will remember him as Colonel Saito in perennial Bank holiday movie, Bridge on the River Kwai. 


Here he is in the 1915 Thomas Ince romantic film The Coward

Anna Mae Wong was actually an American born Chinese actress, she became a bit of a sultry pin up in the early 1920's

Unfortunately by the time of the Wall Street crash, Hayakawa was being cast as a down the bill villain and Anna Mae Wong was reduced to playing murderous vamps who often reaped the wages of their sin by being raped. Film making had reverted to Anti-Asian stereotypes probably due to the depression and that old standby, a rise in immigration from the East.

Yet, here we are nearly a century on, Jackie Chan, Jet Li and Lucy Liu, Michelle Yeoh, Yung-Fat Chow are superstars of global cinema. Ang Lee is an Oscar winning director working on subjects as diverse as Sense and Sensibility, Brokeback Mountain, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon and The Hulk. Meanwhile in Australia this dipstick director can't find a suitable 60 year old Chinese actor to play Billy Sings father, so decides to drop the truth, cast a true blue Ozzie and his own son as Billy Sing and hope nobody notices...fair dinkum.

This is the trailer for Billy Sing. Geoff Davis didn't opt for the lazy stereotype of make-up and comedy accents. He simply whitewashed ethnicity from the screen.




In an effort to save a bit of money, if his excuse is to be believed, Geoff Davies has merely tapped into a mindset that hasn't been seen since the heady days of Thatcher citing the 'Black and White Minstrel' show as being her favourite telly entertainment.

As for Billy Sing, well he married a Scottish girl when he was being nursed for his injuries in Edinburgh. He returned to Australia, and applied to have his wife join him. Despite being a national hero, miscegenation was still frowned upon by Australian society and she never joined him...he died alone and broke in a run down boarding house in the 1940's. That's a real story that needs telling.

The significance of Billy Sing's identity is too rare and too meaningful to be treated so poorly. 
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Good news for the peoples loyal republic of Anniesland and Drumchuckie.

Having been left without a councillor since Steven Purcell resigned due to ill health, stress, gak inhalation and up closes associations with the err associates of know gangsters, the poor folk of Anniesland and Drumchapel have been left to their own devices, with no councillor to help them out it must have been a fraught time. 

Fear not for last night Labour achieved a quite remarkable victory and the good voters of the ward went X happy and plunked their mark down beside the name of Christopher Hughes - Labour.

 Mr Hughes who sounds like an eminently sensible chap despite his premature baldness and the African sunset of his manly beard was most effusive in praising the legacy of Mr Purcell, stating, "He did a lot of work and was a very fine councillor for them for a number of years. It was not an issue at all."

The hardest part of coping with addiction is moving on, and I'm genuinely thrilled that the good voters of the Blairtardie ward have had the bravery to put questions of Mr Purcell's judgement, his association with some err shiftier characters in the Glasgow business underworld and of course the role of cronyism with regard to his various quangocrats, to one side...

One can only hope that this is the last of the criminally supplied gak infused political scandals to hit the country...