It began with a cryptic note to my ‘contact.’ It read: Call this number at precisely 07.03am. Thereafter the number will cease to exist. As might I. At the appointed time, the call came. “Scotch on the Rocks?” I whispered.
AS an act of masochism, BBC Scotland’s axing of Jazz Nights comes straight from the Marquis de Sade handbook.
“COMFY?” William McIlvanney would ask me. “Glasgow!” I’d respond. Our running joke. The Scots language as ritualistic greeting.
ONCE upon a time there were two pals. Both committed to a cause, their souls seared by the vision splendid. When they spoke, you felt the air electrify: Jimmy Reid from the Clyde shipyards and Neil Kinnock from the mining valleys of South Wales. Platform speakers who elevated the weaving of dreams, through words, to high art. Art not artifice.
THEY Shoot Horses, Don’t They?
LONG before Lulu learned to Shout, another Dennistoun lass set Broadway ablaze. Best known as the lead in the musical, Finian’s Rainbow, Ella Logan was a proud Scot. It showed in her love of a fight. Logan conquered the bloody coliseum of American showbiz, but remains unknown in her native heath.
ANYONE who plays golf for fun would go to hell for a pastime.
“SPEED demons of Bearsden!” I’d shout. With partial humour and full exasperation.
COVID brought send-offs to Zoom video calls, with on-screen memorials mushrooming. Practical yes, when numbers were restricted. But it’s spawned a trend toward fusing funerals with showbusiness. And we know how tasteful that business can be.
BEWARE of foodies. As a menace they rank alongside lawyers and estate agents, with the added offence of attacking our digestive system as well as our moral fibre.
