Lots of stalls and tombollas helped raise money for good causes, with a couple of bands playing music and entertainment for the kids.
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| Looking Across the Canal |
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| 007 Boat Powers Ahead |
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| Arrgh We're Going Down Captain! |
Sunday, 14 August 2011
Cardboard Boat Race
Well another cracking day for the Cardboard Boat Race, apart from a couple of showers. It was a high turnout of contenders, with 18 up for the challenge, with all ages taking part.
Lots of stalls and tombollas helped raise money for good causes, with a couple of bands playing music and entertainment for the kids.
Lots of stalls and tombollas helped raise money for good causes, with a couple of bands playing music and entertainment for the kids.
Sunday, 31 July 2011
A Muggy Day in Edinburgh
A warm muggy day in the capital and starting to get busy in the run up to the festival. Royal Mile heavin with tourists, the castle esplanade stalls built and ready for the Tattoo.
Giant sized photos are positioned around the city of locals.
At the top of Leith Walk, the area has the Omni Centre. It's a lot better than what used to be there.
Went to the David Mach Exhibition which is about the bible. Brilliant! Recommend a visit. Over five floors it has some fantastic images and sculpture. Some quit gruesome too. Images cover the Fall of Jericho, Hell - Disneyland, Hell - Paris, Heaven (Spring, Autumn) Adam and Eve, Plague of Locusts and Noah's Ark (set at the foot of Arthur's Seat) and Jesus Walking on Water.
Sunday, 17 July 2011
Edinburgh Memories 01
As a young boy of five to six, living in Gorgie in 1968/69 was adventurous, exciting and incredibly unrestricted compared to the lives that young children are allowed to have in recent times.
I lived with my dad and step mum, followed by my sister in 1969, in the top floor of a tenement, at 61 Gorgie Road, which was located where the Gorgie Farm now resides.
Pushing the huge, heavy front door at the entrance of the tenement, I would enter into a darkened corridor, leading to the foot of the stone stairway. As I neared the stairway, with its thick, wooden banister and iron railings that spiralled up to the top floor, I would look up to the distant skylight at the roof of the building and the distant light that shone through and faded into the dark air or the stairwell.
On each landing there were four doors, each paired and facing one another. You would only have known this by stepping into the pitch black where they hid, because otherwise you would not have been able to see into where they stood. There were no stair lights. The only light was from that skylight.
As I climbed the long, winding stairway to the top floor and the reassurance of the light, I would sometimes peer into those secretive corners, making sure there was no person or creature lurking and waiting to leap out. The return journey was always easier, as it was all downhill.
Once at the top, I would look down between the railings into the void from which I had come. On the odd occasion, I would release spit from my mouth and watch as it disappeared, only to hear the distant splat as it hit the ground.
There were a few other boys who lived in the tenement that I would often play with in outside or in their flats. Frank was slightly older, but I recall playing with toy soldiers on his living room floor, as was popular at that time. We would intently concentrate on where we positioned our men, behind the legs of chairs, cups, table tops and the upturned corners of worn rugs or protected behind other toy cars, buses and tanks while sneakily peaking over to see where your opponent was placing their armies.
Once positioning was complete, we would take turns to flick elastic bands and try to knock down the opposing military with shouts of delight as more soldiers fell or worried looks and sizing up what was left of the adversaries and your own men fell in battle.
We all wished we could buy the giant boxes of soldiers, tanks and artillery that were always advertised on the back of the comics we read, or the American Civil War soldiers, but the prices were in dollars so we felt jealous that we couldn't play with them.
If we couldn't play with toy soldiers, we could always re-enact a multitude of wars and battles from Roman times to WWII. Our imaginations were fervent with swashbuckling, adventures, fighting and exploration with the outside environment our stage for such exhausting epics.
Gorgie/Dalry was a busy thoroughfare that stretched from Haymarket Station eastwards past Tynecastle Football Stadium. By today's standards the roads may not have been as busy with traffic as we are used to seeing, but there was enough traffic to be wary when crossing the road.
Directly across from our tenement stood the Tivoli Picture House. It stood on the corner of Murieston Lane and Gorgie Road and it was often a popular place to go for excitement. It wasn't uncommon to see a long queue wind round from the doorway of the cinema and around into the lane. Double bills were common, but one of my all time favourites was Zulu, starring Michael Caine and Stanley Baker. When the film ended, I headed over to the back garden, which was a communal area. There were a few wrought iron, four pronged poles for connecting the washing line from one to another, but for us it was the hub of adventure.
To get to the back garden, you could walk through the entrance passageway of the block of flats, pass the stairway to your left and follow some steps down to a wooden door which led outside to a lower path, flanked on one side by the rear of the building and an old stone wall on the other. The top of the wall was level with the garden area. The path ran along the side of the building wall and stone steps led up into the garden area.
Invariably the rear door was locked, so the alternative was to head along the street pavement and take a left turn into a cobbled lane. Walking up the lane, you could turn left, through a walled archway, and into the garden. Stepping through the archway, the stepped path from the rear of the building stood to the left, a rectangular garden ahead an a raised wall and platform to the right, which in turn was separated from the old industrial ground by another higher stone wall.
This enclave zone was one of our many playgrounds. Here, we could escape into our worlds that normally involved fighting Nazis, Indians, Gladiators and Zulus. It didn't matter who the 'baddies' were, it was all about
action and adventure, climbing and jumping walls, finding rejected objects and exploration.
The walled archway which led into the garden, joined the block of buildings adjacent to the tenement, which you could climb up and walk across onto the flat roof of a ground level building which extended from the back of the building. Once on the roof, we could walk over to the window of a flat which stood waist high above the roof.
We often peered in through the brown, weather beaten net curtain, to see inside the flat, where an old woman lived. We didn't know her by name. We never spoke to her and we never saw her in the street. In fact we were always apprehensive of getting to close to her. In our minds she was thought to be a witch. The lady appeared extremely poor, dressed in tattered, discoloured clothes that were bereft of colour. The livingroom of her flat reflected her appearance; dingy, colourless with an overpowering stench of dankness and antiquity.
What furniture there was, was sparse, the wallpaper peeled and not a place any of us would wanted to have lived in. On reflection, it was sad to think of people living in such conditions. We would consider this sub poverty these days.
As mentioned earlier, further afield from the back garden and land which led to it, there was a disused industrial/railway area, scattered with rubble and the shells of old warehouses and tenement buildings. Often we would use this as an extension of our playground. I recall climbing in amongst the ruined buildings, pelting scurrying rats with anything we could lay our hands on. We would gingerly walk along the upper rafters and floorboards, shouting out from the empty windows to our friends. It was the perfect place for Hide-and-Seek.
One day a bunch of us were playing in the giant mounds of industrial sand, running up the dunes and kicking the sand in the air. I ran along the side of the mound to friends when suddenly sand rained down on top of me, covering my hair and getting into my mouth. I yelled in astonishment, my eyes burning, trying to shake it off me, while running back to my parents. My dad was raging at what had happened and asked who had done it. The perpetrator was a boy known as "Speedy" and it became apparent how he had obtained this title. At this time my dad was about 30, so he was still in decent shape. He tanked out of the flat and down the stairs to get the boy. Supposedly, he chased him through Gorgie, but couldn't catch him. Speedy in name, speedy in nature. For days after, I endured the scraping of a nit comb, grinding through my hair, as my parents attempted to cleanse me of the beasties that were running rampant on my head.
I lived with my dad and step mum, followed by my sister in 1969, in the top floor of a tenement, at 61 Gorgie Road, which was located where the Gorgie Farm now resides.
Pushing the huge, heavy front door at the entrance of the tenement, I would enter into a darkened corridor, leading to the foot of the stone stairway. As I neared the stairway, with its thick, wooden banister and iron railings that spiralled up to the top floor, I would look up to the distant skylight at the roof of the building and the distant light that shone through and faded into the dark air or the stairwell.
On each landing there were four doors, each paired and facing one another. You would only have known this by stepping into the pitch black where they hid, because otherwise you would not have been able to see into where they stood. There were no stair lights. The only light was from that skylight.
As I climbed the long, winding stairway to the top floor and the reassurance of the light, I would sometimes peer into those secretive corners, making sure there was no person or creature lurking and waiting to leap out. The return journey was always easier, as it was all downhill.
Once at the top, I would look down between the railings into the void from which I had come. On the odd occasion, I would release spit from my mouth and watch as it disappeared, only to hear the distant splat as it hit the ground.
There were a few other boys who lived in the tenement that I would often play with in outside or in their flats. Frank was slightly older, but I recall playing with toy soldiers on his living room floor, as was popular at that time. We would intently concentrate on where we positioned our men, behind the legs of chairs, cups, table tops and the upturned corners of worn rugs or protected behind other toy cars, buses and tanks while sneakily peaking over to see where your opponent was placing their armies.
Once positioning was complete, we would take turns to flick elastic bands and try to knock down the opposing military with shouts of delight as more soldiers fell or worried looks and sizing up what was left of the adversaries and your own men fell in battle.
We all wished we could buy the giant boxes of soldiers, tanks and artillery that were always advertised on the back of the comics we read, or the American Civil War soldiers, but the prices were in dollars so we felt jealous that we couldn't play with them.
If we couldn't play with toy soldiers, we could always re-enact a multitude of wars and battles from Roman times to WWII. Our imaginations were fervent with swashbuckling, adventures, fighting and exploration with the outside environment our stage for such exhausting epics.
Gorgie/Dalry was a busy thoroughfare that stretched from Haymarket Station eastwards past Tynecastle Football Stadium. By today's standards the roads may not have been as busy with traffic as we are used to seeing, but there was enough traffic to be wary when crossing the road.
Directly across from our tenement stood the Tivoli Picture House. It stood on the corner of Murieston Lane and Gorgie Road and it was often a popular place to go for excitement. It wasn't uncommon to see a long queue wind round from the doorway of the cinema and around into the lane. Double bills were common, but one of my all time favourites was Zulu, starring Michael Caine and Stanley Baker. When the film ended, I headed over to the back garden, which was a communal area. There were a few wrought iron, four pronged poles for connecting the washing line from one to another, but for us it was the hub of adventure.
To get to the back garden, you could walk through the entrance passageway of the block of flats, pass the stairway to your left and follow some steps down to a wooden door which led outside to a lower path, flanked on one side by the rear of the building and an old stone wall on the other. The top of the wall was level with the garden area. The path ran along the side of the building wall and stone steps led up into the garden area.
Invariably the rear door was locked, so the alternative was to head along the street pavement and take a left turn into a cobbled lane. Walking up the lane, you could turn left, through a walled archway, and into the garden. Stepping through the archway, the stepped path from the rear of the building stood to the left, a rectangular garden ahead an a raised wall and platform to the right, which in turn was separated from the old industrial ground by another higher stone wall.
This enclave zone was one of our many playgrounds. Here, we could escape into our worlds that normally involved fighting Nazis, Indians, Gladiators and Zulus. It didn't matter who the 'baddies' were, it was all about
action and adventure, climbing and jumping walls, finding rejected objects and exploration.
The walled archway which led into the garden, joined the block of buildings adjacent to the tenement, which you could climb up and walk across onto the flat roof of a ground level building which extended from the back of the building. Once on the roof, we could walk over to the window of a flat which stood waist high above the roof.
We often peered in through the brown, weather beaten net curtain, to see inside the flat, where an old woman lived. We didn't know her by name. We never spoke to her and we never saw her in the street. In fact we were always apprehensive of getting to close to her. In our minds she was thought to be a witch. The lady appeared extremely poor, dressed in tattered, discoloured clothes that were bereft of colour. The livingroom of her flat reflected her appearance; dingy, colourless with an overpowering stench of dankness and antiquity.
What furniture there was, was sparse, the wallpaper peeled and not a place any of us would wanted to have lived in. On reflection, it was sad to think of people living in such conditions. We would consider this sub poverty these days.
As mentioned earlier, further afield from the back garden and land which led to it, there was a disused industrial/railway area, scattered with rubble and the shells of old warehouses and tenement buildings. Often we would use this as an extension of our playground. I recall climbing in amongst the ruined buildings, pelting scurrying rats with anything we could lay our hands on. We would gingerly walk along the upper rafters and floorboards, shouting out from the empty windows to our friends. It was the perfect place for Hide-and-Seek.
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| Our playground |
One day a bunch of us were playing in the giant mounds of industrial sand, running up the dunes and kicking the sand in the air. I ran along the side of the mound to friends when suddenly sand rained down on top of me, covering my hair and getting into my mouth. I yelled in astonishment, my eyes burning, trying to shake it off me, while running back to my parents. My dad was raging at what had happened and asked who had done it. The perpetrator was a boy known as "Speedy" and it became apparent how he had obtained this title. At this time my dad was about 30, so he was still in decent shape. He tanked out of the flat and down the stairs to get the boy. Supposedly, he chased him through Gorgie, but couldn't catch him. Speedy in name, speedy in nature. For days after, I endured the scraping of a nit comb, grinding through my hair, as my parents attempted to cleanse me of the beasties that were running rampant on my head.
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| To the left is the lane that led to the back garden |
Edinburgh Memories 02
Street life was fun for a five/six year old in 1968/69. As well as the surrounding wastelands where we often played, we would run through the streets and alleys, shouting and scuffling, kicking empty cans along the pavements. A favourite was snatching an apple from the crates that were piled up outside the fruit shops and scarpering before the shopkeeper had a chance to even get out of the shop.
About 500 yards or so from where I stayed, stood Tynecastle Stadium where Heart of Midlothian football club played. It's probably inconceivable to think these days, but as a five/six year old, it wasn't unusual to head along on a Saturday and stand amongst the adults and watch the game. Normally we would stand down at the front of the concrete, stepped stadium, against the stone, waist high wall, engulfed in a sea of cheering and jeering, depending on how well the home team were doing. Huge crowds of young men and adults packed in to watch their team. The air swirled with burning cigarettes and the banter as they anticipated a good game. The streets were packed as they made their way to and from the stadium, the main road taken over by the swelling crowd, bringing the traffic to a standstill. We would queue to enter the stadium and shuffle through the metal turnstiles into the stadium, darting in and out between the grown-ups, to get a good position behind the goalmouth area. My hero was Donald Ford, who reminded me of Captain Spock from Star Trek. A brilliant forward and prolific goalscorer. My other favourite was Jim Cruickshank, Heart's goalkeeper and one of the tallest, lankiest characters I had seen. To me he was like a big, skinny giant.
At no time amongst the crowds, did I ever feel in danger. I don't recall witnessing fights among the fans as we so often hear about these days.
I do remember an occasion when I was involved in a fight. Across from our landing there lived two brothers, who must have been about my age, who I didn't get on too well with. My dad told me that they used to gang up on me and eventually I ended up in a scrap with one of them in the communal back garden. As two five year old grappled and punched each other in the lawn, our fathers hung out their respective windows, shouting down and supporting each of us until the fight ended. Being able to hold your own, even at such a young age, was encouraged by our fathers.
The same probably applied in the school playground. I attended Dalry School, which was a few hundred yards along, westwards, from where I stayed. The playground, both front and back, was split into areas for boys and girls. No mixing was allowed in the playground. The playground at the rear of the school, had a tall. stone wall seperating the boys from the girls, with a metal gate the only means to enter between the yards.
In the boys section (and probably the girls) a long shelter was based at the farthest end of the yard, from the school building. This was often used by the boys to kick tennis balls against the wall when it wasn't raining.
In Springwell Place, across from the school entrance, was our favourite sweet shop, which we nearly always stopped at before entering the school grounds. I always remember studying the large glass jars crammed full of multi-coloured sweets. Gobstoppers were a favourite, which were rock solid spherical sweets, all in different colours, which you sucked on for an eternity. Needles to say, too many sweets resulted in a visit to the dentist, up Henderson Terrace.
I have vivid memories of being taken by my dad to the dentist to have a tooth removed. Gas was the method for anaesthetising before removal. At the end of the surgery, I remember re-awakening and feeling groggy and sick, with blood dribbling from my mouth. I was unsteady on my feet and needed my dad to help me take the long walk back down to our flat.
The flat where we live, was on the top floor. as mentioned earlier. You entered into a hallway that ran from left to right (which was from the front of the building to the rear). To the right, led to the living room. Walking into the living room, a doorway ahead led to the kitchen area, a glass sliding door separating the rooms, with a window over the sink, that looked out to the back garden and the derelict land where the railway site once existed. In the living room, to the right, was an alcove containing a table fixed to the wall, with seating, also fixed to the wall, on either side.
At the opposite side of the room stood the fireplace with a mantelpiece. In one corner was the black and white television, where I remember watching the first man on the moon. Surrounding the tv and fireplace, cushioned chairs faced inwards. The room was always filled with the light coming from the kitchen and through the glass that acted as part of the partition between the rooms.
In the other end of the corridor there was my parents' bedroom which looked out on to the main street. Unlike the living room, this was a much darker place. The windows were small and the room was west facing, so it got little light throughout the day. At the end of the double bed, the moses basket was placed where my baby sister would sleep. My room got even less light, as it was a box room, just to the left of the entrance to the flat and adjacent to the main landing. A small, square window near the top of the wall was the only source of light, but it was a perfectly adequate space.
There was no bathroom in the flat, but there was an indoor toilet across from the front door. A bath for me entailed sitting on the draining area next to the kitchen sink with my feet in the sink, where I could look out the window while being washed down with a big cloth then being wrapped in a towel to get driend in front of the fire. It may have been that sometimes we would have walked along to Glenogle Swimming Baths, close to Haymarket Station, to enjoy the luxury of the swimming pool.
About 500 yards or so from where I stayed, stood Tynecastle Stadium where Heart of Midlothian football club played. It's probably inconceivable to think these days, but as a five/six year old, it wasn't unusual to head along on a Saturday and stand amongst the adults and watch the game. Normally we would stand down at the front of the concrete, stepped stadium, against the stone, waist high wall, engulfed in a sea of cheering and jeering, depending on how well the home team were doing. Huge crowds of young men and adults packed in to watch their team. The air swirled with burning cigarettes and the banter as they anticipated a good game. The streets were packed as they made their way to and from the stadium, the main road taken over by the swelling crowd, bringing the traffic to a standstill. We would queue to enter the stadium and shuffle through the metal turnstiles into the stadium, darting in and out between the grown-ups, to get a good position behind the goalmouth area. My hero was Donald Ford, who reminded me of Captain Spock from Star Trek. A brilliant forward and prolific goalscorer. My other favourite was Jim Cruickshank, Heart's goalkeeper and one of the tallest, lankiest characters I had seen. To me he was like a big, skinny giant.
At no time amongst the crowds, did I ever feel in danger. I don't recall witnessing fights among the fans as we so often hear about these days.
I do remember an occasion when I was involved in a fight. Across from our landing there lived two brothers, who must have been about my age, who I didn't get on too well with. My dad told me that they used to gang up on me and eventually I ended up in a scrap with one of them in the communal back garden. As two five year old grappled and punched each other in the lawn, our fathers hung out their respective windows, shouting down and supporting each of us until the fight ended. Being able to hold your own, even at such a young age, was encouraged by our fathers.
The same probably applied in the school playground. I attended Dalry School, which was a few hundred yards along, westwards, from where I stayed. The playground, both front and back, was split into areas for boys and girls. No mixing was allowed in the playground. The playground at the rear of the school, had a tall. stone wall seperating the boys from the girls, with a metal gate the only means to enter between the yards.
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| Dalry Primary School |
In the boys section (and probably the girls) a long shelter was based at the farthest end of the yard, from the school building. This was often used by the boys to kick tennis balls against the wall when it wasn't raining.
In Springwell Place, across from the school entrance, was our favourite sweet shop, which we nearly always stopped at before entering the school grounds. I always remember studying the large glass jars crammed full of multi-coloured sweets. Gobstoppers were a favourite, which were rock solid spherical sweets, all in different colours, which you sucked on for an eternity. Needles to say, too many sweets resulted in a visit to the dentist, up Henderson Terrace.
 |
| Typical Gorgie Tenements |
I have vivid memories of being taken by my dad to the dentist to have a tooth removed. Gas was the method for anaesthetising before removal. At the end of the surgery, I remember re-awakening and feeling groggy and sick, with blood dribbling from my mouth. I was unsteady on my feet and needed my dad to help me take the long walk back down to our flat.
The flat where we live, was on the top floor. as mentioned earlier. You entered into a hallway that ran from left to right (which was from the front of the building to the rear). To the right, led to the living room. Walking into the living room, a doorway ahead led to the kitchen area, a glass sliding door separating the rooms, with a window over the sink, that looked out to the back garden and the derelict land where the railway site once existed. In the living room, to the right, was an alcove containing a table fixed to the wall, with seating, also fixed to the wall, on either side.
At the opposite side of the room stood the fireplace with a mantelpiece. In one corner was the black and white television, where I remember watching the first man on the moon. Surrounding the tv and fireplace, cushioned chairs faced inwards. The room was always filled with the light coming from the kitchen and through the glass that acted as part of the partition between the rooms.
In the other end of the corridor there was my parents' bedroom which looked out on to the main street. Unlike the living room, this was a much darker place. The windows were small and the room was west facing, so it got little light throughout the day. At the end of the double bed, the moses basket was placed where my baby sister would sleep. My room got even less light, as it was a box room, just to the left of the entrance to the flat and adjacent to the main landing. A small, square window near the top of the wall was the only source of light, but it was a perfectly adequate space.
There was no bathroom in the flat, but there was an indoor toilet across from the front door. A bath for me entailed sitting on the draining area next to the kitchen sink with my feet in the sink, where I could look out the window while being washed down with a big cloth then being wrapped in a towel to get driend in front of the fire. It may have been that sometimes we would have walked along to Glenogle Swimming Baths, close to Haymarket Station, to enjoy the luxury of the swimming pool.
Not all the flats were laid out the same. In that where my friend Philip resided, his mother slept in a bed which pulled down from the wall within an alcove, while her son had his own room. Only the flats on the top landing must have had boxrooms. There felt like a distinct lack of space and more cramped than where we lived. He had a double bed in his room, which seemed to take up most of the space in the room, which was great fun for jumping up and down on like a trampoline, while Philip fired ping pong balls from his toy gun.
It was no surprise, then, that with the lack of space in any of our homes, that most of the time was spent outside.
Saturday, 16 July 2011
Edinburgh Memories 03
Although most of my days were spent around the Gorgie area during 68/69, there seemed to be very little restrictions on where we, as very young children, could go.
Sometimes I would walk, with a friend from Gorgie across to the river that ran close to Murrayfield Stadium (where the rugby international team play) and Murrayfield ice rink. There we would fish for tadpoles, taking a net and jam jar for our specimens.
This was quite some journey for a five/six year old to take. Through Murieston Lane into Murieston Place and on to Murieston Crescent. Continuing on into Russell Road then Roseburn Street and Roseburn Place where we would arrive at Roseburn Park and the river that runs north of the park.
Our daily life was always very active and the council provided an additional source of fun with the play park full of swings, slides and roundabouts, where we would congregate, close to the church where I attended Sunday School (and where my baby sister was christened). Although the singing songs wasn't that popular, we would listen to stories and involve ourselves in activities. Each year the kids would be taken on a Sunday School outing to the park where we would play games and have a picnic.
I guess that, as children, there was still a philosophy where children should be seen but not heard, so the outside world, playing with our friends gave us the means to express ourselves as children would.
Life at home with my parents wasn't memorable, not because it was dull or regimented, but that life at home seemed to be about eating, sleeping or getting prepared for a day at school. We weren't accompanied to school or picked up at the end of the day and we weren't restricted as to who to play with or where we could go. Parents seemed to live in their world an us in ours.
Only later would a darkness begin to fall over my family and unknown events of the past begin to catch up.
For now, life would move on, as I was told that we would be moving to a new house, outside Edinburgh, in a place called Penicuik and I would be starting a new school. My fourth school in four years.
Sometimes I would walk, with a friend from Gorgie across to the river that ran close to Murrayfield Stadium (where the rugby international team play) and Murrayfield ice rink. There we would fish for tadpoles, taking a net and jam jar for our specimens.
This was quite some journey for a five/six year old to take. Through Murieston Lane into Murieston Place and on to Murieston Crescent. Continuing on into Russell Road then Roseburn Street and Roseburn Place where we would arrive at Roseburn Park and the river that runs north of the park.
Our daily life was always very active and the council provided an additional source of fun with the play park full of swings, slides and roundabouts, where we would congregate, close to the church where I attended Sunday School (and where my baby sister was christened). Although the singing songs wasn't that popular, we would listen to stories and involve ourselves in activities. Each year the kids would be taken on a Sunday School outing to the park where we would play games and have a picnic.
I guess that, as children, there was still a philosophy where children should be seen but not heard, so the outside world, playing with our friends gave us the means to express ourselves as children would.
Life at home with my parents wasn't memorable, not because it was dull or regimented, but that life at home seemed to be about eating, sleeping or getting prepared for a day at school. We weren't accompanied to school or picked up at the end of the day and we weren't restricted as to who to play with or where we could go. Parents seemed to live in their world an us in ours.
Only later would a darkness begin to fall over my family and unknown events of the past begin to catch up.
For now, life would move on, as I was told that we would be moving to a new house, outside Edinburgh, in a place called Penicuik and I would be starting a new school. My fourth school in four years.
Edinburgh Memories 04
I loved my mum and dad, like any young child does. I looked up to my dad as a god. He was who I wanted to be like, my protector and the main influence in my life. This, in itself, is not anything unusual and most children look up to their parents and see what what they want to be.
The influence of my dad was more relevant as he and my paternal mother had seperated when I was four. As a boy of six, I didn't know anything about how our situation became like this. It just seemed to have been this way because that was all I could remember, or so I thought.
My stepmother, Penny, I knew wasn't my real mother, because I had attended their wedding at the Registrar in West Maitland Street in 1968. The wedding day was full of excitement and anticipation as all the family would be attending at a hotel down near Gypsy Brae, on the coast and close to Muirhouse.
At the time, I lived with my dad at my gran and grandad McNeils flat in Ferry Road Drive. We shared the accommodation with my dad's two brothers (Jack and Murdo) and his sister (Jean). My gran, unknown to me at the time, was in her second marriage, and they had moved from Dummiedykes (close to the Royal Mile) out to Pilton. My dad's brothers and sisters were to her second marriage and my dad had retained his paternal father's surname, Hill.
From the local nursery, I started attending Craigmuir Primary School, to which my aunt Jean would walk me to the school.
Sunday was the day my dad would take me for a walk in the area. I had a red and white metal tricycle with petal shaped holes on the front wheel. He would attach a length of string to the handlebars and pull me along, but on one day the tricycle tipped over and I landed on my face, leaving a gash on my cheek and a permanent, though not obvious, scar. Not that events like these made you any less cautious. With my friends, we would play out in the streets and back gardens.
The influence of my dad was more relevant as he and my paternal mother had seperated when I was four. As a boy of six, I didn't know anything about how our situation became like this. It just seemed to have been this way because that was all I could remember, or so I thought.
My stepmother, Penny, I knew wasn't my real mother, because I had attended their wedding at the Registrar in West Maitland Street in 1968. The wedding day was full of excitement and anticipation as all the family would be attending at a hotel down near Gypsy Brae, on the coast and close to Muirhouse.
At the time, I lived with my dad at my gran and grandad McNeils flat in Ferry Road Drive. We shared the accommodation with my dad's two brothers (Jack and Murdo) and his sister (Jean). My gran, unknown to me at the time, was in her second marriage, and they had moved from Dummiedykes (close to the Royal Mile) out to Pilton. My dad's brothers and sisters were to her second marriage and my dad had retained his paternal father's surname, Hill.
From the local nursery, I started attending Craigmuir Primary School, to which my aunt Jean would walk me to the school.
As we walked to school, we would pass a series of tower blocks and I remember us talking about a dead body having been found there which had been decapitated. The rumour was that it had been done by "Bible John". It goes to show that although we were young children, there was an awareness of what was happening in the news or overhearing conversations among adults, because at that time there were a series of murders, in Glasgow, which had been associated with a man who had been tagged "Bible John" due to a witness stating he quoted from the bible. Our version was a mash-up of different stories, but the walk to school for a few days was one of apprehension.
 |
| Pilton flats in disrepair |
At this time, television was really starting to cater for kids. Popular programmes included Robin Hood and the Gerry Anderson programmes, such as Captain Scarlet, the Thunderbirds, Batman and the Green Hornet and the Lone Ranger. from the USA.
Our flat always seemed abuzz with noise and activity. My aunt, who was a teenager, was fond of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. The radio or tv seemed to be perpetually on. My uncles, who were both working, would come in talking about the day's events while my gran would prepare the evening meal, while I would play with my merchandise toys from the tv programmes I watched.
There was one occasion where I really cause a commotion by getting myself locked in the toilet. On the other side of the door I could hear voices instructing, cajoling and encouraging me to unlock the door, talking amongst themselves and a panic setting in, but it had got stuck. Eventually, one of my uncles climbed up the drainpipe and in through the window to get me out.
 |
| In the communal gardens with friends |
Bazooka Joe bubble gum was popular for chewing on, because it came with a small cartoon strip about the cartoon character. We would chomp and chomp, blowing the biggest bubbles we could make until it burst and splatted all over our faces.
Some of us had Rocket Bangers. These were plastic shaped space rockets, weighted at the end with a flat metal tip. Small gunpowder caps were placed in the toy and thrown up into the air. As they hurtled down, the weighted end would hit the ground, exploding the cap and making a loud bang!
Catapults were also very popular with the boys so we could fire small stones at anything that looked worth hitting, while another popular game was getting a piece of metal and attaching it to a long length of string. We would then drop the metal into the gutter drains, that ran along the road at the side of the pavements, and listening out for the splash as it hit (what we though was just water) the sewage that ran underground. We would haul up the metal cylinders and drop them again.
The day the Rag and Bone man came along the street was one to cherish. He would call out for any old rags and on hearing his voice I would annoy my gran until I got something to take down and get a balloon. He stood there in an old suit and flat cap, his immense horse standing behind, ready to continue pulling the cart along the road.
It was during this time that my dad had announced that he would be remarrying. I had already started to meet some of our new family, including new cousins. One cousin who I built a strong relationship was Darren, who was a year older than me. Because of this closeness in ages, we would become as close as brothers right through into adulthood.
Visits from my new mum increased in frequency and outings to the park became more common as well as trips to other family members' homes.
And so it was that in early 1968 the wedding was arranged.
On the day of the wedding everyone was rushing about, getting prepared and making sure nothing had been forgotten. The fevered excitement was infectious and I was looking forward to playing with my cousins and getting cake, juice and anything sugar based that was available.
It was a beautiful sunny day and after the formalities at the Registrar Office, everyone headed to The Commodore Hotel for the reception. Kids ran around the feet of chattering adults, tugging at suit tails, asking for juice, shouting and laughing. Adults lighting up cigarettes, buying in the rounds of drinks, shaking hands with friends they hadn't seen for ages. The happy couple centre stage, both grinning from ear to ear.
The Hotel stood amongst large grounds overlooking the shore and the Firth of Forth, so it was ideal for the kids to go outside and run around like demented beings, rolling down the hill in our new clothes, chasing each other amongst the laughter and hilarity.
The afternoon seemed to last an eternity as we exhausted ourselves then refilled on sugar drinks, but eventually it was time for the bride and groom to depart on their honeymoon and I would return to my grandparents.
Back in Pilton, I was refreshed and told to change my clothes. I still had energy to burn and wanted to go out and play with a friend, an Asian boy, who stayed across the road. My grandparents were probably exhausted, so it was easier to give in to my demands.
I ran out the front door and down the concrete stairway towards the light shining through the stairwell door. I was in such a happy frame of mind. It had been a great day. I had got to see my cousins. I felt like part of a family. In motion, my eyes were fixed on the entrance door to the flats across the road. I was looking forward to playing for a while longer. I wanted to tell him about the day I had and what me and my cousins had got up to.
I passed the mesh fencing running parallel to the path that led to the street pavement. It was still mild. My friend's home was closing in.
Then suddenly darkness. Memory erased. Unconscious. No senses operating. Nothingness.
I don't have any recollection of the moment, but my parents were quickly informed that I had been hit by a car and they should get back immediately.
There is no memory of the subsequent events. No memory of being in hospital. No documentation seen on what injuries were inflicted. No information by anyone. But I do know that my parents cancelled their honeymoon.
Years later, when I was in my early thirties, a friend was studying Psychology and part of her course was hypnotherapy.
She offered to do some regression sessions, so one night I lay back and went under hypnosis. My friend started at zero and counted up until she said "five". All of a sudden a fantastic white light exploded in front of my eyes, like a nuclear bomb going off and a shuddering sensation. It transpired that I had suddenly gone into a convulsion (and she felt quite out of her depth at that moment).
After the session I explained what had happened and we agreed to do another session, focusing on the moment. This time I would be involved in an out of body experience, where, my adult self stood behind the five year old boy, facing the oncoming car (a white Hillman in my vision) with my arms around him, reassuring him that it was ok. Like a movie film caught in a loop, the moment replayed and replayed.
And then I woke.
Friday, 15 July 2011
Edinburgh Memories 05
It wasn't long after the wedding that I moved with my grandparents to Easter Drylaw Drive, in what was a council built semi-detached with an upstairs and downstairs, and was enrolled at Drylaw Primary School (which is now Drylaw Neighbourhood Centre.
My uncles and aunt still stayed at home, but my dad was living elsewhere with my stepmum. There were only three bedrooms upstairs so I was probably sharing a room with my grandparents as I was only five and wouldn't have taken up much space.
With our own private front and back gardens, I would kick my football about without disturbing anyone, although my grandad wasn't a keen gardener and often the grass at the back was waist high. Across from our house there stood a block of flats, four storeys high (now gone) where I would play with a new friend I had made. Every week I would go over to watch The Lone Ranger at his place and we would re-enact the episode we had watched.
At home, there was the novelty of sliding down the bannister, which was a new experience, or sliding down the stairs on anything that would act as a sledge. It was all good fun and contributed to the hub of noise that was ever present.
Drylaw, like Pilton, was a large sprawl of council houses that had began in the post war era. The council started moving the population out of the centre of the city into peripheral areas as part of a re-housing programme. As part of the development, there were lots of parkland areas provided, but there was very little in the way of swing parks or activities for children. But my uncle Jack would often take me along to one of the parks to play football.
Jack was a live wire, always cracking jokes through his handlebar moustache and, with his brother, winding me up and playing tricks. I was mesmerised by his trick where he placed some cigarette ash on the palm of his hand which he blew off, only to appear on the back of his hand. Both Jack and Murdo, unfortunately, had their father's hair and they were already showing signs of receding hairlines in their twenties. As was common at the time, the swept over look was popular with big, thick plates of side burns. They both smoked like chimneys, as did gran and grandad. In fact Jean was the only one who didn't smoke, but that didn't stop the house making you feel like you were in a constant state of smog.
Grandad was a small, bald-headed figure, with a distinctive hooked nose that both his sons had inherited, who seemed to remain permanently fixed to the armchair passing the hours away participating in his favourite past-time of watching the horse racing on the black and white coin powered television. He would sit with his tin of roll-up tobacco on the arm of the chair, his nicotine stained fingers rolling another, and a cup of tea, studying the lists of horses in the coming events, contemplating and calculating who to put his money on. Any work he did was manual and though he may have been considered working class, there was no strong ethic of work running through his veins.
"Hey, heid th' ba" he would bark at me, right up to my teens, followed by any range of demands or remarks from making him a cup of tea to being quiet so he could watch his programme in peace. His favourite drinking den was the Doo' cot, a local pub nearby, on Ferry Road, which was conveniently close to the bookies round the corner on Groathill Road North. If I ever had to find him, I knew there would only be either of these two places to look (or the newsagent for tobacco and newspaper supplies). As a teenager, and on regular visits to see them, I would often be required to venture down and pass on a message or get him to return home. The pub was nearly always full, a layer of smoke hanging in the air, working class men sitting round playing dominoes, pints of ale or nips of whiskey circling the tables. Others stood by the bar, talking about anything that passed the time. Laughter mingled with the babbling noise. I would poke my head through the door and see if I could spot him and enter sheepishly and give him the message.
At home, he would snap open a tin of McEwans Export or Pale Ale and have either his roll-ups or Player's, unfiltered, at the ready and settle into his chair for the rest of the evening. It was hard to see that this was the man who was once a bit of a brawler in the Royal Mile. Lucky if he was five foot five, but age and a hard living had already stated to take its toll. Supposedly he played for Hibs in the 20s, so he must have been in good shape at one time. He was also a doorman at the King's Theatre and had met, however briefly, Laurel and Hardy, and had managed to get an autographed photo of them. It stood proudly on the mantelpiece for all to see but he would make fair of the occasion.
My gran, was made of the same stuff as my grandad. A hard drinker and heavy smoker, she was the voice of authority. She wasn't the most domesticated mother. The house always appeared cluttered and in good need of a clean. The meals were fried, out of a tin (Fray Bentos steak and kidney pie out of a tin was popular) or obtained from the chip shop. The kitchen work tops were ingrained in small particles of grease remnants, stains on the cooker and sticky linoleum flooring. It was no surprise we were always on the look out for mice in the kitchen area. It seemed easier to get a cat than keep the place in some sort of order. Like her husband, she wasn't educated and had spent her life working in unskilled jobs. She had originally lived in Aberdeen, where my father was born, but moved down to Edinburgh later. Life, like most working class at that time, seemed to be more about survival.
Murdo, by all accounts, was an extremely clever man. Well read, on books about politics and history which was a favourite of his, he worked in engineering and was highly regarded by his employers. A tall, wiry figure, his Achilles heel was alcohol, which resulted in late starts at his work or sometimes not bothering to go in. He was supposedly so good at his job that his employers put up with it to ensure he stayed. But he seemed to lack the ambition to enrich his life with new experiences. He would remain living with his parents his whole, and short-lived, life. He would never experience going abroad, even if it was only some package holiday. His life would revolve around the pub, the home and the workplace.
Often I would waken him on a Saturday morning, not too early to annoy him, and bring him a cup of tea. In the dusky bedroom, he would sit up against headboard and get me to put his dartboard at the foot of his bed, so we could have a game, while he lit another cigarette. Even after me wakening him up and playing, he still wouldn't rise from his room till late in the day, and when he did, it was in preparation for going to the pub later in the day.
As a young kid, there were limited options in having some money in my pocket. One means was a Pouroot. It was common, at the end of a wedding ceremony when the newly weds were leaving the church, that the couple would through coins across the pavement for the kids to grab. As soon as anyone got wind of an upcoming wedding they would hang around like cash vultures waiting in trepidation for the ceremony to end. At that moment when the coins were dispersed, we would scramble on the ground trying to gather as many as we could, in competition with the other kids. Screams of joy would erupt as the money flew into the air, arms entwined and reaching out for anything close at hand as the children gathered in the cash, cheers and laughter from the adults as they watched events unfold.
Although my dad and new mum had been living elsewhere during this time, by 1968, whatever the arrangements were between my parents and grandparents, it was time to move on. Gorgie, on the east side of Edinburgh, awaited.
My uncles and aunt still stayed at home, but my dad was living elsewhere with my stepmum. There were only three bedrooms upstairs so I was probably sharing a room with my grandparents as I was only five and wouldn't have taken up much space.
With our own private front and back gardens, I would kick my football about without disturbing anyone, although my grandad wasn't a keen gardener and often the grass at the back was waist high. Across from our house there stood a block of flats, four storeys high (now gone) where I would play with a new friend I had made. Every week I would go over to watch The Lone Ranger at his place and we would re-enact the episode we had watched.
At home, there was the novelty of sliding down the bannister, which was a new experience, or sliding down the stairs on anything that would act as a sledge. It was all good fun and contributed to the hub of noise that was ever present.
Drylaw, like Pilton, was a large sprawl of council houses that had began in the post war era. The council started moving the population out of the centre of the city into peripheral areas as part of a re-housing programme. As part of the development, there were lots of parkland areas provided, but there was very little in the way of swing parks or activities for children. But my uncle Jack would often take me along to one of the parks to play football.
Jack was a live wire, always cracking jokes through his handlebar moustache and, with his brother, winding me up and playing tricks. I was mesmerised by his trick where he placed some cigarette ash on the palm of his hand which he blew off, only to appear on the back of his hand. Both Jack and Murdo, unfortunately, had their father's hair and they were already showing signs of receding hairlines in their twenties. As was common at the time, the swept over look was popular with big, thick plates of side burns. They both smoked like chimneys, as did gran and grandad. In fact Jean was the only one who didn't smoke, but that didn't stop the house making you feel like you were in a constant state of smog.
Grandad was a small, bald-headed figure, with a distinctive hooked nose that both his sons had inherited, who seemed to remain permanently fixed to the armchair passing the hours away participating in his favourite past-time of watching the horse racing on the black and white coin powered television. He would sit with his tin of roll-up tobacco on the arm of the chair, his nicotine stained fingers rolling another, and a cup of tea, studying the lists of horses in the coming events, contemplating and calculating who to put his money on. Any work he did was manual and though he may have been considered working class, there was no strong ethic of work running through his veins.
 |
| Drylaw in the 60s |
"Hey, heid th' ba" he would bark at me, right up to my teens, followed by any range of demands or remarks from making him a cup of tea to being quiet so he could watch his programme in peace. His favourite drinking den was the Doo' cot, a local pub nearby, on Ferry Road, which was conveniently close to the bookies round the corner on Groathill Road North. If I ever had to find him, I knew there would only be either of these two places to look (or the newsagent for tobacco and newspaper supplies). As a teenager, and on regular visits to see them, I would often be required to venture down and pass on a message or get him to return home. The pub was nearly always full, a layer of smoke hanging in the air, working class men sitting round playing dominoes, pints of ale or nips of whiskey circling the tables. Others stood by the bar, talking about anything that passed the time. Laughter mingled with the babbling noise. I would poke my head through the door and see if I could spot him and enter sheepishly and give him the message.
 |
| The Doo'cot |
At home, he would snap open a tin of McEwans Export or Pale Ale and have either his roll-ups or Player's, unfiltered, at the ready and settle into his chair for the rest of the evening. It was hard to see that this was the man who was once a bit of a brawler in the Royal Mile. Lucky if he was five foot five, but age and a hard living had already stated to take its toll. Supposedly he played for Hibs in the 20s, so he must have been in good shape at one time. He was also a doorman at the King's Theatre and had met, however briefly, Laurel and Hardy, and had managed to get an autographed photo of them. It stood proudly on the mantelpiece for all to see but he would make fair of the occasion.
My gran, was made of the same stuff as my grandad. A hard drinker and heavy smoker, she was the voice of authority. She wasn't the most domesticated mother. The house always appeared cluttered and in good need of a clean. The meals were fried, out of a tin (Fray Bentos steak and kidney pie out of a tin was popular) or obtained from the chip shop. The kitchen work tops were ingrained in small particles of grease remnants, stains on the cooker and sticky linoleum flooring. It was no surprise we were always on the look out for mice in the kitchen area. It seemed easier to get a cat than keep the place in some sort of order. Like her husband, she wasn't educated and had spent her life working in unskilled jobs. She had originally lived in Aberdeen, where my father was born, but moved down to Edinburgh later. Life, like most working class at that time, seemed to be more about survival.
Murdo, by all accounts, was an extremely clever man. Well read, on books about politics and history which was a favourite of his, he worked in engineering and was highly regarded by his employers. A tall, wiry figure, his Achilles heel was alcohol, which resulted in late starts at his work or sometimes not bothering to go in. He was supposedly so good at his job that his employers put up with it to ensure he stayed. But he seemed to lack the ambition to enrich his life with new experiences. He would remain living with his parents his whole, and short-lived, life. He would never experience going abroad, even if it was only some package holiday. His life would revolve around the pub, the home and the workplace.
Often I would waken him on a Saturday morning, not too early to annoy him, and bring him a cup of tea. In the dusky bedroom, he would sit up against headboard and get me to put his dartboard at the foot of his bed, so we could have a game, while he lit another cigarette. Even after me wakening him up and playing, he still wouldn't rise from his room till late in the day, and when he did, it was in preparation for going to the pub later in the day.
As a young kid, there were limited options in having some money in my pocket. One means was a Pouroot. It was common, at the end of a wedding ceremony when the newly weds were leaving the church, that the couple would through coins across the pavement for the kids to grab. As soon as anyone got wind of an upcoming wedding they would hang around like cash vultures waiting in trepidation for the ceremony to end. At that moment when the coins were dispersed, we would scramble on the ground trying to gather as many as we could, in competition with the other kids. Screams of joy would erupt as the money flew into the air, arms entwined and reaching out for anything close at hand as the children gathered in the cash, cheers and laughter from the adults as they watched events unfold.
Although my dad and new mum had been living elsewhere during this time, by 1968, whatever the arrangements were between my parents and grandparents, it was time to move on. Gorgie, on the east side of Edinburgh, awaited.
Rebekah Brooks Resigns
It took a long time coming, but Rebekah Brooks eventually resigned today.
Why it took so long to come to this decision is anyone's guess, but she really should have known from the outset that it was inevitable. If she had resigned earlier, there may have been the possibility that the NotW may not have closed, which looked like a knee-jerk reaction.
It also looks like the FBI may be investigation allegations that 9/11 victims phones were hacked.
Rupert Murdoch defended the company's handling of the crisis. Hmm. Can't say they've been convincing.
Meanwhile, Americans can get an idea of how partisan tv companies are to informing the public about news stories related to the affected tv stations.
Saturday's Fox News (owned by News Corp) ignored the story about the closure of the News Of the World. How convenient.
During a commercial break, the news panel discuss, amongst other things, the subject they wont be talking about.
Click here and fast forward to about 1:55.
Same applies to the New York Times, where as News Corp had withdrawn their bid for the remaining shares of BSkyB, there was no mention of the scandal.
It would appear that American News media are pretty selective about what their readers should read about.
Why it took so long to come to this decision is anyone's guess, but she really should have known from the outset that it was inevitable. If she had resigned earlier, there may have been the possibility that the NotW may not have closed, which looked like a knee-jerk reaction.
It also looks like the FBI may be investigation allegations that 9/11 victims phones were hacked.
Rupert Murdoch defended the company's handling of the crisis. Hmm. Can't say they've been convincing.
Meanwhile, Americans can get an idea of how partisan tv companies are to informing the public about news stories related to the affected tv stations.
Saturday's Fox News (owned by News Corp) ignored the story about the closure of the News Of the World. How convenient.
During a commercial break, the news panel discuss, amongst other things, the subject they wont be talking about.
Click here and fast forward to about 1:55.
Same applies to the New York Times, where as News Corp had withdrawn their bid for the remaining shares of BSkyB, there was no mention of the scandal.
It would appear that American News media are pretty selective about what their readers should read about.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
News International, Phone Hacking and Parliament
Rupert Murdoch and News Corp received a resounding rebuttal to their objective of achieving complete control of BSkyB today as the debate at Parliament lay bare the unpopularity of the take over attempt.
Ex-PM, Gordon Brown, made further allegations about the activities of News International newspapers, in addition to his recent remarks about blagging, tapping and handling stolen records. How much will become substantiated, but parliamentary privileges means you can say just about anything and not be subject to court actions.
The overriding fact is that full judicial enquiries will take place relating to the relationship between the media/policiticans and police, while an enquiry will take place on the original police investigation.
I think both will enforce witnesses to attend and they will be under oath, so that should prove a bit more robust.
The police didn't come out too smart in the select committee yesterday. Not much, so far, seems to have been made about the police in all of this, as the focus has been on NI, but hopefully their utter incompetence and questionable decision making will be suitably corrected and penalties inflicted on those responsible. Not too many of them seem prepared to step down but a lot of blame is pointed to factors outwith their control (staffing levels and the focus on terrorism) which seems pretty convenient.
Tonight on the BBC, I noticed that senator Frank Lautenberg has requested that an investigation is initiated into News Corp, while lawsuits have been raised (Delaware was the first, I think).
Although News Corp have withdrawn their offer for complete control, they can actually re-apply after 6 months, although they may wait until all investigations and enquiries are complete.
An MP said that yesterday the head of counter terrorism for the police was 99% sure his phone was hacked into. Incredible. Also he indicated that the police misinformed.
This isn't over by a long shot.
Ex-PM, Gordon Brown, made further allegations about the activities of News International newspapers, in addition to his recent remarks about blagging, tapping and handling stolen records. How much will become substantiated, but parliamentary privileges means you can say just about anything and not be subject to court actions.
The overriding fact is that full judicial enquiries will take place relating to the relationship between the media/policiticans and police, while an enquiry will take place on the original police investigation.
I think both will enforce witnesses to attend and they will be under oath, so that should prove a bit more robust.
The police didn't come out too smart in the select committee yesterday. Not much, so far, seems to have been made about the police in all of this, as the focus has been on NI, but hopefully their utter incompetence and questionable decision making will be suitably corrected and penalties inflicted on those responsible. Not too many of them seem prepared to step down but a lot of blame is pointed to factors outwith their control (staffing levels and the focus on terrorism) which seems pretty convenient.
Tonight on the BBC, I noticed that senator Frank Lautenberg has requested that an investigation is initiated into News Corp, while lawsuits have been raised (Delaware was the first, I think).
Although News Corp have withdrawn their offer for complete control, they can actually re-apply after 6 months, although they may wait until all investigations and enquiries are complete.
An MP said that yesterday the head of counter terrorism for the police was 99% sure his phone was hacked into. Incredible. Also he indicated that the police misinformed.
This isn't over by a long shot.
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Forres Highland Games
So I became a bit of a tourist in my own country on Saturday by visiting Forres Highland Games, with lots of Highland dancing, Throwing the Hammer and pipe bands on display.
Thankfully the weather stayed dry, as there had been a torrential downpour the night before accompanied by thunder and lightning (so much so that the Scottish Open was stopped due to landslides).
As a kid, I always thought pipe bands were a bit naff along with tartan tammies, shortbread tins and tracing your clan ancestry, but it gives a lot of people enjoyment. The tourists love it and it does project a bit of a feelgood factor. Certainly, they know how to charge. At £2.50 for a wee cup of diluted coffee and £1.50 for a stick of shortbread, someone is making a mint.
Thankfully the weather stayed dry, as there had been a torrential downpour the night before accompanied by thunder and lightning (so much so that the Scottish Open was stopped due to landslides).
As a kid, I always thought pipe bands were a bit naff along with tartan tammies, shortbread tins and tracing your clan ancestry, but it gives a lot of people enjoyment. The tourists love it and it does project a bit of a feelgood factor. Certainly, they know how to charge. At £2.50 for a wee cup of diluted coffee and £1.50 for a stick of shortbread, someone is making a mint.
It was my first time going to a "Highland Games" but definitely good fun to watch. There were a variety of athletic clubs taking part in various races, cycling races, throwing the hammer and tossing the caber as well as highland dancing competitions, plus the usual stalls selling anything remotely "Scottish".
eat yer heart oot, T in the Park!
Phone Hacking Scandal Infects US Interests
It appears that US hedge funds are getting jittery over what is happening with News International/News Corp amid the phone hacking scandal, and quite right too.
In the UK, the most quoted phrase is "fit and proper" regarding NI to control BSkyB, and whether such luminaries as the execs of News International should be in control of the television company, while in the US there is speculation that, under the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, executives could be prosecuted.
This could related to payments paid to police officers in the UK. Even though the offences may have taken place in the UK, the Act specifies:
So there is the potential for "prosecution creep" taking hold and from reading the broadsheets, it certainly looks as if some US authorities are watching developments.
As is that wasn't bad enough, Renault, car manufacturers, has supposedly indicated that it is withdrawing all advertising from all News International publications, while the Church of England is threatening to sell its £4million shares in News International. It speaks volumes that the CoE actually invested in this company in the first place and questions where their investment morals stand, but that is probably a question for another day.
Suffice to say, talk of toxicity could be bearing fruit.
As each day passes, it is incredible to see just how incestuous the corridors of power can be. Take the case of Lord (Ken) MacDonald who was the Director of Public Prosecutions and who headed the CPS during the first inquiries in 2005/6. That they appear to have failed abysmally in their investigations, along with the police, is astonishing enough, but then MacDonald crosses the divide and now advises News International on how it handles legal claims brought by victims of this phone hacking scandal.
In some places they'd call you a turn-coat. Others might say the morals of a hyena at a food fest.
Other cosying up seems to include the pseudo Rat Pack setup with NI senior staff and politicians. David Cameron and his wife, along with Rebekah and Charlie Brooks, Mathew Freud (son of the late Clement Freud) and Elisabeth (Murchoch) along with Andy Coulson, Rupert and James Murdoch all enjoyed each others company at times, wining and dining, maybe horse riding or going for walks in the Gloucester countryside, while both Cameron and Ed Miliband attended a recent Murdoch party. Not to forget ex-PM Gordon Brown's wife organising Rebekah Brook's 40th, while it is suggested Blair had a close relationship with Rupert Murdoch.
And we, the public, expect these politicians to make decisions and judgements based on what is good for the country, free and fair?
They are quick to tell us what behaviour is constituted as acceptable. They are pretty vociferous at pointing the finger at the wrongdoers, who don't fit in with their vision of socially acceptable behaviour, yet they find it perfectly acceptable to socially meet with people who have a vested interest in increasing their own personal wealth and power. Where's the 'fair society' and 'we're all in it together' ethos now David?
Fridays press conference showed that the PM was morally and professionally bankrupt in his dealings and judgments relating to News International. When politicians cosy up to any company for favours, they should keep in mind that he who pays the piper calls the tunes.
On a final note, it was interesting to read about what James Murdoch supposedly said at the Edinburgh TV Festival a few years back in a speech entitle "The Absence of Trust" :
"The only reliable, durable and perpetual guarantor of independence is profit."
Yeah, and the only guarantor of profit is honesty and trust, one might add.
In the UK, the most quoted phrase is "fit and proper" regarding NI to control BSkyB, and whether such luminaries as the execs of News International should be in control of the television company, while in the US there is speculation that, under the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, executives could be prosecuted.
This could related to payments paid to police officers in the UK. Even though the offences may have taken place in the UK, the Act specifies:
"The anti-bribery provisions of the FCPA make it unlawful for a U.S. person, and certain foreign issuers of securities, to make a payment to a foreign official for the purpose of obtaining or retaining business for or with, or directing business to, any person. Since 1998, they also apply to foreign firms and persons who take any act in furtherance of such a corrupt payment while in the United States. " (Wikipedia)
So there is the potential for "prosecution creep" taking hold and from reading the broadsheets, it certainly looks as if some US authorities are watching developments.
As is that wasn't bad enough, Renault, car manufacturers, has supposedly indicated that it is withdrawing all advertising from all News International publications, while the Church of England is threatening to sell its £4million shares in News International. It speaks volumes that the CoE actually invested in this company in the first place and questions where their investment morals stand, but that is probably a question for another day.
Suffice to say, talk of toxicity could be bearing fruit.
As each day passes, it is incredible to see just how incestuous the corridors of power can be. Take the case of Lord (Ken) MacDonald who was the Director of Public Prosecutions and who headed the CPS during the first inquiries in 2005/6. That they appear to have failed abysmally in their investigations, along with the police, is astonishing enough, but then MacDonald crosses the divide and now advises News International on how it handles legal claims brought by victims of this phone hacking scandal.
In some places they'd call you a turn-coat. Others might say the morals of a hyena at a food fest.
Other cosying up seems to include the pseudo Rat Pack setup with NI senior staff and politicians. David Cameron and his wife, along with Rebekah and Charlie Brooks, Mathew Freud (son of the late Clement Freud) and Elisabeth (Murchoch) along with Andy Coulson, Rupert and James Murdoch all enjoyed each others company at times, wining and dining, maybe horse riding or going for walks in the Gloucester countryside, while both Cameron and Ed Miliband attended a recent Murdoch party. Not to forget ex-PM Gordon Brown's wife organising Rebekah Brook's 40th, while it is suggested Blair had a close relationship with Rupert Murdoch.
And we, the public, expect these politicians to make decisions and judgements based on what is good for the country, free and fair?
They are quick to tell us what behaviour is constituted as acceptable. They are pretty vociferous at pointing the finger at the wrongdoers, who don't fit in with their vision of socially acceptable behaviour, yet they find it perfectly acceptable to socially meet with people who have a vested interest in increasing their own personal wealth and power. Where's the 'fair society' and 'we're all in it together' ethos now David?
Fridays press conference showed that the PM was morally and professionally bankrupt in his dealings and judgments relating to News International. When politicians cosy up to any company for favours, they should keep in mind that he who pays the piper calls the tunes.
On a final note, it was interesting to read about what James Murdoch supposedly said at the Edinburgh TV Festival a few years back in a speech entitle "The Absence of Trust" :
"The only reliable, durable and perpetual guarantor of independence is profit."
Yeah, and the only guarantor of profit is honesty and trust, one might add.
Friday, 8 July 2011
Data Integrity with News International
There was a brief mention over recent days, during the News of the World Scandal, that data was destroyed at offices in Mumbai, India.
This leads to the question as to whether, as part of the investigations, the Government and police are confident that all information relating to these alleged practices are available.
Only the Guardian seems capable of properly investigating and making new information available to the public. The BBC continually seem to be catching up with what has been and is currently going on. Sure, they can provide live reactions as incidents develop, but they are pretty ineffective at investigative journalism. Why haven't they covered such stories as the destroying or loss of data?
So far it has all been about the News of the World and News International. There are indications that another tabloid, not in the NI stable, could be investigated.
I'm surprised that the NOTW sister paper, The Sun, hasn't been investigated. You would assume that the same ethos ran through these publications. You would assume that freelancers and private investigators etc would probably have been hired by both.
I guess time will tell.
This leads to the question as to whether, as part of the investigations, the Government and police are confident that all information relating to these alleged practices are available.
Only the Guardian seems capable of properly investigating and making new information available to the public. The BBC continually seem to be catching up with what has been and is currently going on. Sure, they can provide live reactions as incidents develop, but they are pretty ineffective at investigative journalism. Why haven't they covered such stories as the destroying or loss of data?
So far it has all been about the News of the World and News International. There are indications that another tabloid, not in the NI stable, could be investigated.
I'm surprised that the NOTW sister paper, The Sun, hasn't been investigated. You would assume that the same ethos ran through these publications. You would assume that freelancers and private investigators etc would probably have been hired by both.
I guess time will tell.
Power to the People
So they're closing down News of the World. So what! The Sunday Sun or the Sun on Sunday or whatever it will be called will be NOTW Mark II.
It doesn't detract from the main issues:
Corrupt police officers
Criminal employees paying bungs/bribes
Illegal hacking of private material
Additionally, we have politicians cosying up with self-interested media parties, indicating that people such as the Prime Minister (and previous PMs) listen more to the media power brokers (who don't even pay UK taxes never mind the fact they aren't even UK citizens) than to the public and constituents.
As usual, they're all in each others' pockets, sniffing around the trough of power, seeing what they can all get for themselves with little regard for equality and fairness.
David Cameron is a prime example. Friendships abound with the likes of Rebekah Brooks and Andy Couseland. How can people trust a PM who doesn't have the capabilities to ascertain who he should associate with and who he shouldn't? If he can't even be a good judge of character, what are his other shortcomings?
Does the PM actually think that NI should hold a major percentage of the media in the UK? Can NI be trusted to inform the people of the UK on national and world events, business information and everything else that falls under the auspice of news and information? Can they be entrusted to deliver news and information in an un-biased manner? I wouldn't rely on any information that comes from NI?
I have never been seduced into subscibing to BSkyB and never felt the need to buy any of the newspapers that come from the NI stable. I never, ever wanted to provide NI with my money, I never wanted to contribute to the Murdoch gameplan. Others should do the same. People have choices. So you don't watch as much Premier League football as you once did. You rent out a dvd instead of downloading it from your satellite service. So what? Is that really a hardship to suffer?
Around the world there are millions suffering. Starvation, homelessness, drugs, human trafficking, dictatorships and more.
Suffering the loss of your satellite channels is hardly a cross to bear.
Let News International feel it where it hurts. In their pockets. That is the only thing that the people that run these types of companies understand. It is about wealth, money and power. The chances are they don't give a damn about the average worker, except what percentage of their income is spent on what NI offers.
If people protest with their pockets, News International will soon understand that the power does not lie with them, but with the majority.
It doesn't detract from the main issues:
Corrupt police officers
Criminal employees paying bungs/bribes
Illegal hacking of private material
Additionally, we have politicians cosying up with self-interested media parties, indicating that people such as the Prime Minister (and previous PMs) listen more to the media power brokers (who don't even pay UK taxes never mind the fact they aren't even UK citizens) than to the public and constituents.
As usual, they're all in each others' pockets, sniffing around the trough of power, seeing what they can all get for themselves with little regard for equality and fairness.
David Cameron is a prime example. Friendships abound with the likes of Rebekah Brooks and Andy Couseland. How can people trust a PM who doesn't have the capabilities to ascertain who he should associate with and who he shouldn't? If he can't even be a good judge of character, what are his other shortcomings?
Does the PM actually think that NI should hold a major percentage of the media in the UK? Can NI be trusted to inform the people of the UK on national and world events, business information and everything else that falls under the auspice of news and information? Can they be entrusted to deliver news and information in an un-biased manner? I wouldn't rely on any information that comes from NI?
I have never been seduced into subscibing to BSkyB and never felt the need to buy any of the newspapers that come from the NI stable. I never, ever wanted to provide NI with my money, I never wanted to contribute to the Murdoch gameplan. Others should do the same. People have choices. So you don't watch as much Premier League football as you once did. You rent out a dvd instead of downloading it from your satellite service. So what? Is that really a hardship to suffer?
Around the world there are millions suffering. Starvation, homelessness, drugs, human trafficking, dictatorships and more.
Suffering the loss of your satellite channels is hardly a cross to bear.
Let News International feel it where it hurts. In their pockets. That is the only thing that the people that run these types of companies understand. It is about wealth, money and power. The chances are they don't give a damn about the average worker, except what percentage of their income is spent on what NI offers.
If people protest with their pockets, News International will soon understand that the power does not lie with them, but with the majority.
Tried to be a Twitcher
Went to Findhorn with the binoculars and my wee camera and sat in a field by the beach. The tide was out and lots of birds were on the sands.
It was a lovely warm afternoon and was happy having a cigarette and enjoying the peace and quiet when a huge flock of birds started darting and weaving close by.
I tried to edge up as close as possible and get a few shots on the camera. Not entirely successful, but it wasn't a bad attempt.
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It was a lovely warm afternoon and was happy having a cigarette and enjoying the peace and quiet when a huge flock of birds started darting and weaving close by.
I tried to edge up as close as possible and get a few shots on the camera. Not entirely successful, but it wasn't a bad attempt.
Culbin Forest
Yesterday, went to Culbin Forest, which is close to Forres. It is Forestry Commission land with lots of areas for walks. Took us over 2 and a half hours to walk a fraction of the area.
One part we walked to was called "The Gut" which is on the coastline. The trees have been killed by the salt coming in from the sea and you can sea just how far out the land once covered. A huge area is covered by the remnants of tree trunks jutting out from the waters. Bit bizarre to see.
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One part we walked to was called "The Gut" which is on the coastline. The trees have been killed by the salt coming in from the sea and you can sea just how far out the land once covered. A huge area is covered by the remnants of tree trunks jutting out from the waters. Bit bizarre to see.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Burghead Pictish Site
Although the weather is a bit bleak today, this was a fascinating place but wow it was windy!!
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The Bullstones show carvings of bulls, known as the Burghead Bulls.
"Six striking carved slabs known as the Burghead Bulls were discovered during excavations. Four of the originals are held locally in Burghead Visitor Centre and Elgin Museum and one each in the Royal Museum, Edinburgh, and in the British Museum, London."
The Bullstones show carvings of bulls, known as the Burghead Bulls.
"Six striking carved slabs known as the Burghead Bulls were discovered during excavations. Four of the originals are held locally in Burghead Visitor Centre and Elgin Museum and one each in the Royal Museum, Edinburgh, and in the British Museum, London."
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| Pictish site |
News International, Phone Hacking and Police Corruption
Today was the day that the dam burst on the allegations that journalists affiliated to News International hacked into the phones of victims of crimes and their families and paid money to Metropolitan police officers for information.
The house of Commons confirmed a full public enquiry would take place after the police investigation was completed.
Watching BBC News 24, I am amazed at the attitude taken by journalists on vincicating themselves that the whole principle of hacking is acceptable, though the line was crossed when hacking into the phones of murder victims.
It would appear that senior staff at News Int would claim that ignorance is an excuse and excludes themselves of responsibility. That Rebekah Brooks would send an internal email to staff, defending herself while purporting to lead from the front smacks of self importance.
Large companies pull out of advertising in the paper, hitting them where it hurts, while a campaign to boycott buying the papers of News Int suggests the company could have a long haul ahead to improve their reputation.
The whole affair has exposed the immoral, corrupt and scandalous attitudes of the media and the police while organisations put in place to oversee how the whole environment is operated have been shown to be empty vessels.
News International weren't the only ones who succumbed to such practices.It was intimated on the BBS that The Mirror, Daily Express and Daily Mail were all involved in similar practices. Maybe it's time people woke up and looked for a different news information source.
The scale is unprecedented and sure to end in custodial sentences for those involved. How long this will go on is anyone's guess.
Do you have an opinion?
The house of Commons confirmed a full public enquiry would take place after the police investigation was completed.
Watching BBC News 24, I am amazed at the attitude taken by journalists on vincicating themselves that the whole principle of hacking is acceptable, though the line was crossed when hacking into the phones of murder victims.
It would appear that senior staff at News Int would claim that ignorance is an excuse and excludes themselves of responsibility. That Rebekah Brooks would send an internal email to staff, defending herself while purporting to lead from the front smacks of self importance.
Large companies pull out of advertising in the paper, hitting them where it hurts, while a campaign to boycott buying the papers of News Int suggests the company could have a long haul ahead to improve their reputation.
The whole affair has exposed the immoral, corrupt and scandalous attitudes of the media and the police while organisations put in place to oversee how the whole environment is operated have been shown to be empty vessels.
News International weren't the only ones who succumbed to such practices.It was intimated on the BBS that The Mirror, Daily Express and Daily Mail were all involved in similar practices. Maybe it's time people woke up and looked for a different news information source.
The scale is unprecedented and sure to end in custodial sentences for those involved. How long this will go on is anyone's guess.
Do you have an opinion?
Kinloss Abbey
Visited Kinloss Abbey, which was lovely. Sad to see so many young RAF graves from WWII. 18-22 seemed to be a common age.
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The abbey was founded in 1150 by King David I and was first colonised by monks from Melrose Abbey. It received its Papal Bull from Pope Alexander III in 1174, and later came under the protection of the Bishop of Moray in 1187. The abbey went on to become one of the largest and wealthiest religious houses in Scotland, receiving the valuable salmon fishing rights on the River Findhorn from Robert the Bruce in 1312, subsequently renewed by James I and James IV.
During its history the abbey has received many royal visitors, including Edward I in 1303, Edward III in 1336 and Mary, Queen of Scots, in 1562. The most renowned of the 24 abbots the monastery had was Robert Reid. Reid introduced organised education, erecting a new library and other buildings at the abbey. He became Bishop of Orkney in 1541 and, following his death, became the founder and benefactor of Edinburgh University with funds from his estate.
more from wikipedia
After that, we visited Sueno's Stone which is pretty impressive.
Sueno's Stone is a Pictish Class III standing stone on the north-easterly edge of Forres, Scotland. Standing at over 6.5 m (approx. 21 feet) tall, it is the largest such stone in the British Isles.
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The abbey was founded in 1150 by King David I and was first colonised by monks from Melrose Abbey. It received its Papal Bull from Pope Alexander III in 1174, and later came under the protection of the Bishop of Moray in 1187. The abbey went on to become one of the largest and wealthiest religious houses in Scotland, receiving the valuable salmon fishing rights on the River Findhorn from Robert the Bruce in 1312, subsequently renewed by James I and James IV.
During its history the abbey has received many royal visitors, including Edward I in 1303, Edward III in 1336 and Mary, Queen of Scots, in 1562. The most renowned of the 24 abbots the monastery had was Robert Reid. Reid introduced organised education, erecting a new library and other buildings at the abbey. He became Bishop of Orkney in 1541 and, following his death, became the founder and benefactor of Edinburgh University with funds from his estate.
more from wikipedia
After that, we visited Sueno's Stone which is pretty impressive.
Sueno's Stone is a Pictish Class III standing stone on the north-easterly edge of Forres, Scotland. Standing at over 6.5 m (approx. 21 feet) tall, it is the largest such stone in the British Isles.
Sunday, 3 July 2011
Forres Holiday
Arrived in Forres, east of Inverness, for our holidays. Beautuful and warm so we headed to Findhorn to get some sea air.
The waves were fairly crashing in. Reminded me of that Guiness advert with the horses coming through the waves.
We rented a farmhouse which is really comfortable. A giant flatscreen cheered everyone up....and it has wireless. Yeeha!
The nights are long with the sun setting well after 10:30pm so it's nice to sit out in the garden and listen to the silence.
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| Crashing Waves |
The waves were fairly crashing in. Reminded me of that Guiness advert with the horses coming through the waves.
We rented a farmhouse which is really comfortable. A giant flatscreen cheered everyone up....and it has wireless. Yeeha!
 |
| Farmhouse |
The nights are long with the sun setting well after 10:30pm so it's nice to sit out in the garden and listen to the silence.
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| Sun sets through the garden gate |
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
Linlithgow Marches 2011
After the morning parade, it all restarts at 5pm.
The weather has been kind and the crowds have turned out.
....and then they're of to the pubs again!
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
Linlithgow Marches 2011
The Linlithgow Marches is the tradition of checking the boundaries and celebrating the town and its inhabitants.
Crackin weather helped make it a great day with bands (pipe, brass and drums), floats and local groups parading through the High Street.
Starting early in the morning, the town is closed off from traffic for the duration of the day, allowing people to populate the High Street.
It's a great family day, followed by the Gala Day on the Saturday, so a lot of people take the day off work.
At the end of the parade, there are speeches at the Brig Inn.
Happy Marches!
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