haters gonna hate – even the shit i be proud of, yeah?


September 2015

Ah want ti be – Sandie Craigie

I’m planning out a follow-up novel. When I wrote ‘1919’, it was all one story, it was just too fat so I split it in half before shoving it out. For July’s NaNoCamp, I wrote the draft of a novel set in Edinburgh in the 1990s and now I’m extending it, picking up some loose ends and, hopefully, developing them.
In some ways, I’m feeling a bit painted into a corner, I can’t just let my imagination run wild, as I could with the first part (working title: ‘Wifies’). This time, everybody’s already got their hair-colour, eyes, jobs and sexual preferences. Everything has to grow out of what came before, all those set-in-stone factoids I had so much fun dreaming up last time. So I’m approaching this one, baw-deep in limitations already.
That said, I’m genuinely fond of several of my characters. The ‘shite friend but a great fuck’ and the battered wife, for starters. Since about June, they’ve been talking to me, hanging around my house pished, bitching about each other – and they’re almost all smokers, the bastards. Much more of this and I’ll start casting the movie in my head, the way normal people do with ‘American tabloid’!
Before I started’ Wifies’, I created dossiers for my six main characters. So far, I’ve spotted four I’ll need to create for this one. Should take me about a week.


p.i.g.s.w.i.l.l – scraping foetus off the wheel

Puerile middle-aged adolescent that I am, I have thoroughly enjoyed #Piggate. Of course, without forgetting that it’s hardly the worst abuse Kermit Hameron and his chums have been party to.

I’ve been saying for months that there’s something fishy about the whole Westminster paedophile ring soap opera. Why on earth is there so many of them? I’ve met a lot of people in my time and can only think of one who’s done time for sexually abusing a kid. And the victim was one of their own kids – not a stranger. And, this individual was, at the time, suffering from Korsakov’s syndrome.

So how come there’s such a huge percentage of politicians and media figures intent on playing before there’s grass on the pitch? And snuffing them afterwards, if there’s nothing but repeats on TV? And only then, coming up with the symptoms of dementia?

If Lord Ashcroft is to be believed, Hameron experienced this sexual humiliation as part of an initiation into a club for future rulers of the good ship HMS Britain. And our beloved and trusted security services seem to be baw-deep in the Dolphin Square goings on.

Mibby – just mibby – piggate isn’t a revelation of Mmmm Davish’s desire to pork scratchings. Rather, these ritualised humiliations are a lot closer to a process of blackmail – controlling the lawmakers in order that the ‘right’ laws are enacted ‘n’ enforced.

People being plied with drugs, then encouraged to fuck kids on camera. In that position, I reckon I’d be more than happy to do as the guy holding the photos said – so long as there was a chance of him keeping them to himself. And I imagine our media and politicians are at least that smart.

road warrior – the dave howard singers

Last night I watched ‘Mad Max – Fury Road’, or at least, I put up with the first hour of it. Colour me old-fashioned if you will, but when someone says ‘film’ to me, I imagine a meshing together of things like plot, characters, emotional involvement and some kind of interest in events as they unfold. This had none of these, that I could see. The audio-visual equivalent of a stranger ramming a handful of cutlery into your face while they giggle hysterically.

What it did have was flames, revving engines and explosions. After sixty minutes of this sort of thing, it struck me that I cared little or not at all about any of the characters. I didn’t like even one of them enough to want them to succeed and/or live and I didn’t even hate anyone enough to hope they’d die, perish or be gang-fucked by rabid baboons. So I left the room, abandoning the people I was undergoing it with and washed some dishes. Exciting dishes. Brilliant dishes with beginnings, middles and ends. And when I’d eked them out as long as I could, I returned to watch someone having his face torn off and Tom Hardy giving Charlize Theron (looking even rougher than she did in ‘Monster’) a sad half-smile and pissing off, bringing some sort of God-accursed sequel that much more likely.

To be honest, I didn’t much care for the original ‘Mad Max’ trilogy. The first two I found boring and the final one was just plain brain-damaged. I failed to understand how anyone around me – and there were plenty of them, recommending this crap and smiling like Jehovah’s Witnesses – imagined these were in any way ‘good’. About all they did was unleash a then youthful Mel Gibson on the world. Giving them the cultural significance of the gravestone that whispered at Peter Sutcliffe, telling him it was time to start killing women.

That said, ‘Mad Max – Fury Road’, to its credit, does not feature either Tina Turner or Angry Anderson. But then, neither does ‘Emmanuelle in space’. Or the new Aldi that’s opened in Cowdenbeath. Which, unlike this millstone of the cinema, I could see me putting myself through again.

shockwork – test dept

I realise I haven’t written anything about writing for a while. Last November, my health collapsed – right in the middle of NaNoWriMo – and I ended up taking five weeks off work, as well as really struggling to finish the book I was working on.

Since then, my health has been intermittent, to say the least. Any exertion and I’m flat on my back for anything from a couple of hours to a couple of days.

Still, I finished the bastard. And in April, I managed to drag myself though another (my take on the steampunk novel) and in July, I completed the first draft of a fairly ambitious project – in Scots.

Steampunk seemed like an interesting genre to subvert, given my hatred of what that nice Mr Major used to call ‘Victorian values’ and recent events coming to light through Exaro News and other public services. Anyway, it’s lying fallow just now, until I find the time to sit down with it and give it a good polish.

I haven’t written anything in the Scots tongue since I left Edinburgh for Liverpool, almost ten years ago. Surrounded by Merseyside – and Manchester – accents, there seemed little point in trying to recapture the speech patterns I only ever heard on my holidays.

I returned to Scotland, settling in Fife in 2010 and the following year, I discovered NaNoWriMo.

At present, I’m revising July’s novel, which *should* see the light of day sometime next year. And, writing the skeleton of November’s NaNoWriMo novel. And, when I can, polishing an earlier work, the follow-up to ‘Ladies and Gentleman’.

things can only get better – d:ream

I’m writing this on Friday – that’s last week to you. The Labour leadership results will have been announced over twenty-four hours ago. At present, nobody (apart from Burnham, Cooper, Kendal, Cameron, Osborne and the like) are predicting anything other than a Corbyn landslide.

Of course, for the great unhosed – and particularly in Scotland – the idea of a Labour man running the ‘Labour’ party is up there with Santa, elves, goblins and “I swear I won’t come in your mouth again this time.”

Unless the security services have managed to smear Corbyn with sex and/or drug allegations, the token lefty might just be now sitting in the seat last warmed by the human Miliband.

Corby’s said that, although violently opposed to Scottish independence, he’s prepared to work with the SNP to oppose the neoliberals and their narrative. And he believes Tony Blair should be tried (if not tarred and feathered) as a war criminal.

I haven’t always voted, but when I have, I’ve voted labour, right up until to May this year. With Corbyn at the helm of the Labour party, I’m going to have to think about voting SNP in future.

Which brings me to the single best thing about a Corbyn-led labour party. If he’s prepared to work with the SNP, then that’ll keep the SNP on the left and narrow. Win-win. Except for Burnham, Cooper, Kendal, Cameron and Osborne, obviously.

In the mid-nineties, a friend and I were talking about the shipwreck that was the last days of the Major government. A never-ending parade of increasingly ludicrous sex scandals, with public confidence dropping through the negative numbers like a fucked lift.

“The tories,” my mate said. “Are collapsing in on themselves. They’ve been in power so long, they’re rotten to the core.”

And that’s where the neoliberal agenda is now. Even its victim,s who bought into it up to this point, are starting to question the validity of a system that devours everything in its path, leaving nothing but billionaires.

Fingers crossed.

born in a prison – the mob


The big problem nobody’s addressing with regard to the twelve hundred free-range paedophiles is, where are we going to put them?According to exaro news, as of last month, police had identified fourteen hundred sexual predators. Two hundred are dead and a further two hundred or so are ‘prominent’ people – respected politicians and much-loved light entertainers. Arresting them is now possible, but the prison system does not have sufficient space for twelve hundred more inmates. And the VP wings in Britain’s prisons definitely don’t. When you factor in that many of these men will be elderly and have medical issues associated with age, this is the worst logistical nightmare since the health and safety executive had to organise queueing for those wishing to pish on Thatcher’s grave. I don’t know what the answer is. Tagging – for life – might be the most humane way of containing them. Fuck their human right to attend splendid galas or vote on legislation. They’ve only stopped their careers in sexual abuse when either ill-health or public opinion caught up with them. Let them be stuck indoors doing jigsaws all day until death sets them free.

very friendly – throbbing gristle

Things have gone awfully quiet of late on the Yewtree/Fernbridge front. Which is, I suppose, part and parcel of a media traditionally protecting the corrupt establishment they’re part of. Even the hacks who aren’t themselves fucking kids know which side their bread’s buttered.
Forty years ago was a whole nother country. The word ‘rape’ was a polite-ish euphemism a gentleman would use instead of the f-word. There was no Childline and Esther Rantzen was famous only for publicising semi-humorous news stories along with Cyril Fletcher.
The word ‘paedophile’ was a clinical term. Ordinary people said “child molester” or possibly “beast”.
If Jimmy Saville’s crimes had been discovered in 1975, he wouldn’t have seen the inside of any cell. The tabloids would have put a light-hearted spin on things. And, most of the country would have been impressed with his expertise in getting his hands on fresh ones.
In October of 1976, Nicholas Fairbairn MP called noisy avant pranks group Throbbing Gristle “the wreckers of civilisation”. The same month, the Sex Pistols were seen as a cross between a peasants’ uprising and a leering antichrist. So how come none of the members of either of these groups have been named and shamed as chicken-hawks? Both bands have, by now, got one dead member who could be sacrificed to save the others. It’s almost as if…

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