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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 9th Dec 2018, 06:40pm
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The tales of Hector and ‘The Bruce’

Walking back

Queens park is the home of fabulous Hill Sixty, where generation after generation of fine courting couples, cuddled and coddled inside grass nests of all ages. For Hector, a distant past reminder of halcyon days for a succession of boys, devoted to acting as cowboys and Indians, around its top boulders. Most boys then also played football and for them to hear the famous ‘Hamden Roar’, gratis, was a cherish moment never forgotten

Hector very first Best Mate, ‘The Bruce’, who lived in Pollokshaws Road right across from the park. Both of them met up with 10 to 12 teenagers in the Brookland café, at the corner of Minard Rd and Frankford St. Two regular girls waited tables, Helen and Betty, Helen with a fine hour glass figure particularly sticking out for attention of adolescents. Above all else, they were good to our unofficial group, allowing them to sit, many a night, with just a few coke bottles on show for far longer that the proprietor Tony, would have wished.

The boy members felt liberated, free to conquer all before them, truly imagined all girls would melt in their acquaintance of worldly ways. The blokes thought they were in tiptop prime, discovering the glories of sex complete with all its hidden wonders, nevertheless they were novices at best. Knowing the basics through tell tales, or someone’s interpretation of the dictionary or to what they had been told by their enlightened parents or even better by slightly older teenagers.

Hector was lucky, his much older brother, had been liberal explaining facts as they stood. Everything from the proper names, diagrams and information could be used to educate the scholar of any degree. The trouble was that, although he had all the theory behind him in great abundance, but possessed just as much ignorance, as all the rest, to actually how to go about it. Akin to ‘Morecombe and Wise’…” the facts are all …but perhaps not in the right order?”

‘The Bruce’ and Hector were not really ordinary blokes when it came to the looks department, and according to early photo’s (pictures don’t lie) well below par. They realized quickly, there were guys better looking than themselves, such as a fella called Graham Love, who could have stood in for Cliff Richard when he had gone to Shawlands Cross Church for Christmas service, wearing pink socks, Cliff not Graham.

The fault in the looks department, didn’t really deter them from the Cooper’s Institute, a local Saturday rave, tying with the opposite sex, although ‘The Bruce’s’ immediate chat up line was strange, asking the creed they followed. It’s no secret, the faith of his would-be partner, was paramount to the success of the evening…which seldom happened. Looking back, both were shy, Hector managed quickly to re balance while ‘The Bruce’ stayed insecure and deliberate almost to an insulting point.

One night at the Cooper’s institute. Hector and ‘The Bruce’ managed to grab the attention of two girls. One girl Hector knew stayed local, the other he asked if he could walk her home. When the dance ended the other girl, and ‘The Bruce’ sauntered to the trolleybus stop. Hector’s date motioned to cross the road for her transport which was unfortunately a bus to Eaglesham. On arriving at her house, they were just getting comfortable when the father came out, in a grumpy manner.

The girl sharply informed Hector, they had caught the last bus, and he would have to walk. Hector had no choice but to react as a proper gentleman… started to walk back the 10 miles or so, when the rain burst open it’s almighty wants.

Arriving home drenched to the skin, while undressing, switched on his wee tranny, playing; Helen Shapiro, belting out…” Walkin’ back to happiness’…that certainly made his day?
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peter.howden
post 17th Dec 2018, 05:20pm
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Up for a wee smoke(2)

Call it inexperienced bravado of cub lions, or simply a little over the top with liquor, when the two adolescent rascals began the assault on the rigging gear, an imaginary mountain. Almost immediately, the ice-cold straps of iron bars seeped through Shug’s courage, and hands, compelling him to stop short of his own height up the man-made shaft. “The games a boggy” he sputtered, then disappeared into the close. Bob, although he was no ‘Nepalese Sherpa’…dauntingly decided to go on


Having no clue how long, Bob achieved the top, looked round to breathe crisp air into his lungs filling up and bellowing freedom, thinking his must be how Sir Edmund Hillary felt. Instead of entering his shared bedroom, Bob climber across the slates onto the top of the roof, savouring the view and lighting a cigarette.

Alcohol logic induced Bob to believe, the back of the building was a good place to be, in the middle of the night, as the police after leaving Cragie St station, would patrol, Victoria Rd. At that height he could hide from this panther force. The naked truth was merely a naked glow was very easy to see, in the dead of a dark night… such is fate. Hardly any time had passed when Bob could hear gruff shouting, seemingly coming from down below. Slipping down the slates, onto the rear of the rigging, there was no black void because a mass of powerful beaming torches was cantered on him

Now the crotchety voice became audible, booming out instructions to return downward through the backs top close window via the scaffolding. This would be the stair’s heed window just below Bob’s landing. Even due to the amount consumption of distilled ‘Water of Life’ earlier, he knew right away he was in some sort of trouble. Then, and only then, he wondered where Shug was. Instantly, his mind sharply focused how this was the police and he should really do what they were demanding him to.


Bob made his shaky slow-motion way down, literary sliding into the many dark blue arms of the law, hauled into the top open window, straight into the landing. Interrogations started there and then with why he was trying to rob the off-licence and where was his accomplice. He could not think straight, or how he could break into the off-licence that was at least five closes away and on the ground. He challenged his accusers with confidence, stating his digs, top flat left-hand door.


While they hung over Bob’s small frame, another member of the force brought up this dirty old coat, saying, “This is your mate’s…where the f--- is he?”. The garment had obviously been rescued from the midden down stairs, and even in his blurry state, answered sharp as a razor; “I wouldn’t be seen dead with a guy who wore coat as mankie and mingin… it could walk by its self… if you don’t believe me, ask my landlord for that is his door up the stairs!”

He carried on explaining how he had only gone out of the close’s window, to enter his bedroom window, so saving disturbing his landlord, who was a baker with ‘Mothers Pride’ having an early rise in the morning, and this and only this was the reason for his somewhat peculiar behaviour.

At this a policeman did knock at the McCall’s house rather loudly for the hour of midnight had well and truly passed…. he reached for a second round of chaps. Eddie the landlord, weary head peeped through a half ajar door. After the major question had been put to him… he answered in his usual understanding Highland way, ‘Yes’ the ‘Pratt’ stays here as a lodger, and if Bob was being arrested, he had no monies bail him out…and then he was gone.

The police looked around lost, bewailed and undecided as what to do, following each other to the banister, then down the stairs without another word or even glance in Bob’s direction. To his regret, he let loose words coming out defiantly… even mockingly “Well what about me then?”. These few desperate words were to cost Bob the prickly sum of £5, known notorious throughout Scotland’s badlands, as ‘Causing a public nuisance’…. but no criminal record,

Shug never owned up to his part in this dark affair and both Sybil and Eddy as land lady and lord never held it against Ben…Bless then.

The only way to personal salvation, as far as I can see, is to have cerebral toleration, within Thee.
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peter.howden
post 20th Dec 2018, 12:59am
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Hard to come by


Very early one crispy morning during the dead of winter, certain pivots shook the hinges on a door belonging to an isolated wee cottage, as a scrawny stranger constantly knocking kept abusing the pealing tainted wood of the old-fashioned entrance. Eventually, the creaking door opened ajar, freeing a welcoming light, complete with a waft of warm air flowing around the furtive visitor’s face. Just before the owner’s appearance came into view, a sort of forced smile, perhaps more an unnatural smirk expression formed between two lean lips of the caller.

Without allowing another breath to take place, the stranger rushed forward, then spoke spookily in a shrilled voice, “Your such a lovely couple, you must remember me, although it was nigh 50 years ago, while visiting with your Nephew Kenneth, you proved to be kindness embodied beyond measure, freely allowing us the run of your home” The old man looked dumbfounded, bewilderedly replied, "Sorry, I don’t recall…who are you?”

His sneer dropped slightly but added… “We stayed for more than a month, as you hosted with no expense spared…we skated on the frozen ice over behind the house, just as I noticed, it has iced up now.” “Before I left you insisted, nay actually pleaded… for us come back, if ever passing this way…it’s been a long time, but I thought it would be nice to see you again?”

“This is the very place I found my lucky charm”, producing from his pocket, a small flawlessly black piece of coal, which he held in an abnormal atretic hand; “I have it with me at all times…hard to find bits of coal these days!” “If I memory remembers right, you owned a friendly Labrador retriever, which came with us on the frozen waste, we would throw bits of wood, which it fetched…don’t recall seeing it later on!”

There was a negligible change in the house owner’s expression, which the caller failed to notice being invited by the host, to come into the warmth of a roaring fire. The elderly wife served the stranger a huge breakfast, washed down with fine beer, then for medicinal reasons, a large brandy to keep out the cold. The old couple produced a pair of skates, suggesting he could skate around outside, to bring back the memories of so long ago. The outsider willingly obliged, harbouring a wanting to take up free residence for about a month once again

Outside, in the middle of the ice, skating while looking forward to his fortunate luxury, he failed to notice the old man walking into a shed, returning with a sledge hammer, which he used again and again to break up the ice surrounding the unwanted guest. With one final blow, the now terrified caller realized the ice cracking all around him…there was no escape

The old man shouted out, “ I’ve detested the thought of both you bastards, throwing bits of wood for our innocent dog to chase…then for some debauched pleasure, you and that warped bully Kenneth, trapped my dog in the middle, using this very sledge hammer, cracked the ice open to watch the poor beast struggle for life, in vain…Kenneth came the following year…we had to wait quite a while for you?” The ancient hammer struck again…as the undesirable company gave a hellish chilling yell… disappearing under the frozen waters, without another sound disturbing the morning.

Back in his cosy wee cottage, smoking his favourite pipe, taking sips of lovely hot tea…he called through to the scullery… “Ma…he seems to have forgotten his lucky jet-black piece of coal, it’s there on our sideboard…do you know…it’s hard to find such bits of coal these days
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peter.howden
post 21st Dec 2018, 12:26pm
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A Christmas miracle

Glasgow was indeed famous, or infamous, no doubt about that, for having a name of being an alcoholic’s dreamland destination as a city refreshment centre. At one time, the second city in the Empire, had a pub at every street corner of working-class areas, sometimes two or even three in the same walkway, though not in the posh districts, for their indulgence and depravity was behind well-kept close doors.

It was true, working. Glaswegians were renowned for being ‘Wee hard drinkers’, having no difficulty in a ‘Swally’, just a few steps away wherever they happened to be. Harry enjoyed a slight refreshment even more in ‘Yuletide’ , but…had a tad of a problem to know when, or even how, to call a halt to such merriment.

After this particular hard Christmas eve, occupied as a spooky in a gents shop,, he scurried around the famous Trongate, visiting taverns such as Crystal-Bells, Candleriggs, or renowned Blackfriars, meeting such men of the same calibre, swapping stories. This being thee Christmas Eve, millions of individual star-shaped snowflakes dropping to the earth creating an instant festival picture card scene outside. This encourages Harry to stay, in the last hostelry, ‘The Hangman’s Rest’, longer than first intended, with joyfully glee company.

Leaving the warmth of inside, but only after one step taken into the cold air, it started to play havoc with his water-works. The fact this hostelry lay in the complete opposite direction from Harry’s original journey home was pure chance, so he returned to ‘powder his nose’ in the little boy’s room.

‘The Hangman’s Rest ‘was an old man’s brown décor pub, (Known by Glaswegians as a ‘sawdust pub’, owning to sawdust spread over the floor to hide dirt or blood stains). Harry bought a couple of raffle tickets as he sat down once again with a wee Goldie. Minutes later raffle ticket numbers were called, and one number matched his…. the reward was one gigantic plucked…nude duck.

The next moment Harry was outside, askew with the extra weight, while the crowd inside were still clapping. Struggling through the snow, though severely handicapped with carting this enormous bird, he managed to find the bus stop. The journey home was uneventful other than nearly falling asleep and chatting to the odd passenger who sat next to him

Harry was the last passenger left, as he enlightened off the brightly lit bus, trudging home along the street, Harry felt like the little boy from “Christmas Carol” when Scrooge ask him to carry the turkey to “Bob Cratchit’s” humble home.

Puzzled to discover he held another plastic bag, containing a fancy shoebox, within, a pair of deep red Italian leather stylish shoes. Where it came from, or how he manages to be in possession, was an enigma … a miracle all the same, in the mould of Harry Belafonte’s festival song ‘Scarlet Ribbons’ …..

There is such a thing as magic in Christmas…

so… “God bless us, everyone!"
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peter.howden
post 24th Dec 2018, 11:28am
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Late Walk

Very early in the morning, the old man woke from his weary slumber to hear the dog barking, which meant his pooch needed his private privy, and a general sniff around for the latest local bulletins. The elderly man’s eyes were weary, and most of his senses were not what they used to be. He shuffled, fumbling around for something warm to wear as it was indeed, the dead of wintertime Also taking ages to find front door keys and a poop bag.

The sudden sharpness of the really chilly misty air caught his lungs unexpectedly, manufacture an aggravated cough, unusually exaggerated, which noisily reverberating along the empty eerie surroundings. The scène reminded him of the old black and white British movies of the late 40’s, which inescapably had fog swarming around the main characters. Turning up his collar while fixing his scarf tightly, then holding his favourite trusty walking stick in his gloved hand, since it was icy afoot, he strode forward, and beyond into the gloom.

The distant full moon shone as a galactic white torch, attempting in all its glory, to break through the ice-covered greyish clinging mist, but failed and uncanny acting as a beacon of uncertainty. Carefully rambling along, he noticed stunning silver iced tiny dome goblets, hanging underneath the steel rim of the handrail, as if natures musical notes.

Along at the corner of each support hanging down, as if just crochet, eye-catching spider webs, having been spun the day previously…before Jack Frost coating the winter-world scene.…possibly then far to ridged for the spiders to reel them back …in time. ’Where do spiders hide in the deadly cold?’ he thought, amusing himself.

What had been alien meteorological conditions to start with, where now opening up a near silent wonderland of amazing simple things, normally ignored due to the lack of time taken to actually observe his surroundings. It was then, it dawned on the old man, he had not heard his dog bark. Standing still with poop bag at the ready…the ageing man suddenly remembered…his faithful hound died some years ago.

Turning around, he walked back with a certain spring in his step…for he knew only too well…it was not a wasted experience…even though his memory was playing tricks…along with most of his sanities…. or was it his sannies?
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peter.howden
post 27th Dec 2018, 08:31am
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My Chronicles 23/12/2018

There is something about the coming of the season called ‘Xmas’, within my state of mind and physical manner, brings out hope, no matter how awful the year seems to have been, or the loss of friends within the recent past which can loom dangerously inside awareness. The forewarning of this apparently religious festival was almost upon us, long before the allotted pious dates, now it’s near common place to have decorations and commercial planning as early as November, almost clashing with Guy Fawkes. Each passing year becomes more extravagant than the one before, yet miss the very simple message, religious or not, just caring for people, starting with your own family and then further afield.

For me, to recapture old memories of Yule tide, does not have a ghost of a chance until the first renditions of Christmas carols, past, or present, to give me the childhood Dicken’s of a time, or ancient church hymns kept for such a season. Over the last few years, I have missed attending, for one night only, the Barlanark church midnight service, obtaining my fix for carols and timely hymns, though mainly because of a liking for the minister…Rev David Locke.

This year, scrounging up two old fashion tapes, from Readers Digest ‘Christmas through the years’, with an assortment of different artists, singing a selection of those seasonal themes. It’s not the same but will be adequate as I am playing it at the moment

A phone call from the Dementia home, informed us how Aunt Beck had taken badly, being ambulanced to the accident & Emergency, Queen Elizabeth Infirmary. On arriving later, I was told she was suffering from severe Pneumonia. Sitting grimly silent at her bedside, as the poor wee soul struggled for breath, her weak body constantly trembling inwardly.

My feeble response was helplessness, having almost no experience in such medical conditions. Fortunately, the following day, a significant regaining, allowed Becky to talk, although bewildered where she was or who I was. The following two days gave her a fabulous recovery, then just before leaving, Aunt Becky asked me for a kiss goodnight…first time ever in her lifetime.

While visiting the home the following day, it was obvious, although still rather weak from the experience, she is back in semi-familiar surroundings, safe… and being well cared for. Leaving in a state of relief, I delivered a Christmas card to one of her long-time neighbour’s in Haywood Street, giving her the good news.

On the way home, the sun was shining along roads, practically warming up the Christmas scene. Rolling along with the Rolling Stones playing inside the old jalopy, as I passed Kilpatrick hills again, so braw that the ‘Broons’ may well be, in their ‘Butt and Ben’… just over the hill

If this is not magic…………….then I don’t ken what is;

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peter.howden
post 29th Dec 2018, 07:51am
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28/12/2018

Perhaps there is a certain lingering danger by more polite friends, who may label ‘Eccentric’ attached to me…’maybe a crack pot’, by realists… ‘slightly touched’ by idealists…‘ No footprints in the sand’ by optimists; or plainly, ‘aye! a‘nutter, aff his heed’, by any true Glaswegian. The latter would be taken as a compliment. It is true I’m a tad unconventional, but having faith not being weird, even in the nicest sense of the word.

Looking around the room’s surroundings, where the ‘Scribbles’ are achieved, there is all sorts of L.Ps. records by the score, treasured books, pictures of the kids, my mother-in-law known as the ‘Voice’, and toys… lots and lots of weans toys, collected, because they were given to me by special people. Each time I look, or handle a dinky car, or the hula0hula doll, sings in a high-pitched annoying voice, and complete in a grass skirt, they instantly remind me of so many things gone by. My picture of a Dunbar girl called Helen, who pressed the breeks of my companions, and mine, so we could go to the dancing at the swimming pool, way back in the sixties.

Christmas may be over, with presents opened and hidden somewhere in personal cupboards, especially individual boons from ‘She who must be obeyed’, however, possessing one more gift from my lady, I tore open the flimsy wrappings. This revealed the extent, and trouble, Rebecca put herself through…as this special gift, turns out to be an apron, received gratuitously via the post, after saving cover top tokens from purchases of ‘Lurpak’ butter. Rebecca certainly has the quote down to pat… ‘It’s not the gift but the thought that counts?’. In the near future, while displaying this kitchen garment when visitors arrive, I will say…. I’m not hen pecked…I picked the colour myself.

I was planning to take Aunt Becky on a wee hurl today, around the main roads via Milngavie/Torrance, unfortunately she was fast asleep, so I left the gifts and rearranged for Monday…fingers crossed.

On the way home, the Rolling Stones were rightfully blaring away through the miles. This particular C.D placed on my IPod was the B.B.C.s own recording of the ‘Hamden Event’ from their tour of 2006. That very night, we joined in the jubilant crowd singing every word, every song, while standing, waving, and hooting and crooking through the whole spectacular. The famous ‘Hamden Roar’ was just a whimper against this musical soiree Bloody Shear magic?

As my wee motor ran along through all the puddles in the country side, the volume of the speakers in the car almost full pitch, I could swear on an oath, I could hear, over all the massive swaying fans, Toni singing as if her lungs would burst. It was a dreamlike moment where I felt cosiness remembering her so vividly…a delightful enchantment I savoured for some time.
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peter.howden
post 2nd Jan 2019, 05:14pm
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Desperate

Imitation of life

One time the reputed Contessa, now living in a small apartment, was the talk of the steamie, with her hot-blooded Mediterranean exquisiteness just oozed out utter enchantment, for her appearances came from the unique mixture of Scottish/ Spanish blood. Her ancestors were survivors of the tragic Spanish Armada, through terrible storms, forced several ships to be breached on Scottish islands and were accepted into the Gaelic community. This tragedy played a major factor in Spain’s defeat against the English.

The young ‘Bonita sparkler, with the tempting smile, was very popular with the male of the species, but unfortunately, turned her head to bask in frivolous adulation, making a her vain and constantly craving hollow adoration for her extreme beauty, and elegant appearance. The golden era faded so fast, leaving a shell of femininity, fashioning a ridged unshakable cold vain element, sadly overlooking the necessity to culture a benevolent, and pleasant personality

The once chic ‘Senora’ is now a Mujer, with a mind which fails to accept reality. Her parents came to Glasgow in the 30s, but time has been cruel, leaving her all alone in the flat, with just the dated over-used ‘Peoples friends’, plus loads of well-thumbed penny farthing love novelettes for comfort, and her over-fed cat. Overindulging and pampered with the wrong kind of food, this more than slightly fat creature, she sees as her loving pussy, hugging, almost mothering affection, but the cat struggles wanting nothing to do with such mushy sentiment, darting away at the first opportunity.

The elderly lady reflects her feline as a loving creature whilst all the time the moggy is in the same class as ‘Sam the skull cat’ in the folk song. A large seat, tattered, pawed and scratched beyond repair, which is the mouser’s throne, is plain evidence to this…but blind to the mistress mind’s eye. The Spanish lady is old now, but her furniture and trappings are older still, left by her great grannie, and had certainly past best display. Her cat is her last tangible thing in her life

Clutching the hand mirror carefully, from different angles she squints and peeks to see through her now clouded illusion, the same ‘bell of the ball’, gliding by at a fancy ‘Do’, or dance, or special occasion, but in truth reflects a crinkly grey crouched old lady, with no trace of former attractiveness left behind. Her memory has blocked out this simple painful fact, even though no gentleman callers have called, for an indefinite period of time.

Over ripe with pride, there are glimpses spring intermittently, where she fears losing her wits, which would allow the unknown faces of authority, to lock her up in a home… or worse, in an institution where her privacy, and her situation, would become public knowledge, opened to ridicule. Combined with this dread… are very short spasms of genuine fright, when she jumps nervously at each knock on the door, or ring on the phone

Sadly most of the time is spent in yesterday, or the day before that, hiding in a make-believe world, darting always back to the past… actually staring into emptiness, not realizing…her quandary, had long before began.
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peter.howden
post 3rd Jan 2019, 10:35am
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Desperate 39;

At last our fortunes are changing Ester; I feel it in my bones… we are on our way to safety. For is it not worthy fortune, to be on this ship, with the added good omen, under Captain James Cook. For the first time in so many years, I woke up this morning without dread or fear.

We have just left a terrible place where people go missing, as if they never existed, while others have no respect for man, woman, child or anything. That very evil night, where no one was safe, and I’ll tell you this Ester, If God lived on earth, people would break his windows. How can human beings behave and torment so?

The dangers were there all the time, but the Rabbi told us to be calm, all will be well. He was such a good man…but authenticity naive… the infection is contagious… and spreading. Neighbours and reputed friends made all kinds of reasons, with deceitful eyes, but I tell you this Ester …If you sleep with dogs, you get up with fleas. In the refuge house the night before last Ester, a sincere man quoted a Scottish saying, ‘If you sup with the devil, you need a long spoon’. Now… just after the dawn this morning, I realize what he meant…

But we are safe now Ester, off to a new life, with clean adventures to tell our grandchildren, but how many will survive this doomed era. I cry for our people Ester. Now come and lay down, sleep for a little while, I hope your nightmares will gradually leave. We have a chance of a new life in Canada… big enough to swallow us up…where they will not be able to reach us…or find us.

It was Shabbat yesterday, I prayed to Hashem, this will never happen to other peoples, anywhere in the world, no matter the festering woven manmade hatred … as an justification…sometimes I think, they will always be an excuse?

Ester; Thank you for my life, Is it not a twist of fate, but faith, to be helped fleeing the horrors, on such a good ship called ‘S.S Athenia’… after what we, and our people, have been through?

The S.S. Athenia set sail from Glasgow to Montreal; 1 September 1939, via Liverpool and Belfast, carrying 1,103 passengers, was the very first ship to be sunk in the Second World War. Ester, and her unknown husband died along with 119 who perished after being torpedoed.
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peter.howden
post 6th Jan 2019, 11:19am
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The Message

The purpose of this emergency communication will become plain and obvious, to verify how our families can possibly deal with this wholly unwarranted mortification, bringing everlasting shame implanted at our doorstep. The reason is unclear as to why, and indeed how our naive kith and kin, could have been converted into, running away somewhere secretive, with a close member of your clan. I’m just wondering if the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?

During our residency within this neighbourhood, as upstanding pillars of the community, I have to tell you, it came as a blow, as to how low Bert would stoop, acting in such a manner. He had just become a member of the dancing club, run in the youth centre, which held events such as, Country dancing, the Gay Gordens, and, as the French may say, ‘Piece of Resistance, ‘Line Dancing’, with a outside chance of competing in, ‘Ballroom’, now isn’t that something. With all this wholesome inspired activity, laid on for free…how he was persuaded, to enter into dark depravity, associating with someone outside his class.

We are not saying our Bert is completely innocent, though being rather shy, he is after all just a man…with male needs, but our concerns are, laying the table with cutlery, is undoubtedly not what your Angelina, projects into the world. She is no angel, no doubt about that!... laying wherever, known locally as ‘slack Alice! It’s not the first lad she has set her cap on, with her provocative attire and her boudoir fragrance as erotic bait, to lure unexpected males into her carnal trap …
.
I am not a primsie lady by nature, however, the shame of this situation, which we can’t gasp, or phantom, how it manifested itself. We must be brave taking the true responsibility together, but believe me…with no insult intended, I’m certain… your…Hackit Bauchie, skerry-handit…spurtle-leggit… erse like a bag o' washin’, besom’s behaviour, must take the brunt of guilt, since she is a good few years older than inexpert Bert.

I will close to ask for some information as to the birthdate of your Alice…it will be for their record, when we visit the Police station. For your information…Bert was born on 01/04/1942

Yours…a well-wisher
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peter.howden
post 7th Jan 2019, 08:49am
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A PEEWEE’ Adventure

PeeWee is no run of the mill pigeon, being a magnificent specimen, owning an astonishing physique. No stool pigeon, though he does gives invaluable advice. No relationship to the once silver screen Walter Pigeon, but possesses a fresh supernatural silvery plumage. He can talk any bird language you care to mention, and above all, he can talk to humans and Lord Provosts, though I believe, he only converses with me while on holiday… after a few ‘Water of life’ refreshments,

Dating back to the dark ages, where all magic was possible and plausible for Pee wee to exist, stretching way back to times where hours did not pass without counting the grains of sand, or the gaze at the stars and the moon. The yellow dwarf sun was indeed the main heavenly star, all blessed it as a god, hoping in prayer, it would deem to return the next dawn. The tree was the guide, and guider, between the Earth and the otherworld, known and witnessed. Mystery and magic were in infancy, were and when anything could happen, and often did, to the utter amazement to the young populous.

The nub of the problem for Glasgow, some past pompous ‘Lord Provosts’, having reached the ultimate powerful position, was simply they did not listen to his wise council…even some of them denied themselves of his existence. Also, Peewee had many other dynamic duties, care of the citizens’ being prominent, national and foreign affairs of state…and of course, his feathered friends.

The mere suggestion, the present lord provost would take advice from a mysterious bird, would raise many eyebrows, however… this pigeon can grasp not only political dealings, but with a higher intellect solve any dilemma, always been since memories remembered… ‘Thee’ number one guardian of all protocol, within the boundaries of Glasgow now Greater than before...

Pee Wee life span knows no bounds, his memory of the past was razor sharp while down through history nearly all Lord Provosts, would not only rely on him, but, depended on him utterly. From the very honourable John Stewart, through the reformation, and its aftermath, so named Lord Provosts, to this very day. Where he came from, is hidden in the unwritten scrolls of legends. The only hint was the very first Lord Provost was a nodding acquaintance at first, nevertheless, because of “the Incident” … became a total admirer

He has, and always had, at his disposal, the means to keep all other birds in check, regardless of their rank, or size. From swifts to the bully magpies, PeeWee’s call is law, obeyed even by his mischief cousins, the street pigeon, for under their feathers they respected PeeWee, in more than one occasion needed his protection.

In 1967 onward, Peewee tried hard to convince, Lord Provost John Johnston, unsuccessfully, not to use ‘Cameron Commandoes’, to unsavoury kill off sparrows. Their population had reached over 2 million mark, within Glasgow’s boundaries. PeeWee was unable to stop the harrowing process, however…. nature’s will to survive, along with PeeWee’s guidance, influenced these persecuted birds, to roost around Paisley, Eaglesham, and surrounding districts.

Also invited was the famous ‘Goon’, Spike Milligan, (a special feathered friend), to be involved by pulling at a reputed camouflaged Bedford van. This made the national newspapers print their views on the futility of the exercise

In short, Pee Wee’s patrol of George Square is recent, as the Grand ‘City Chambers’ was only built in 1888. His loyalty to Glasgow is timelessly, undying… and true. [size="4"][/size]
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peter.howden
post 10th Jan 2019, 10:55am
Post #597

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My Chronicles 10/01/2019

Ne’erday has turned its page forward, as I noticed, how many ways I’m slowing down…fast. Short time recall of actions, immediate memory, loosing everyday items, dependability, being sure of my facts and knowledge, spelling simple English language … but worse of all, repeating information around the Saturday family kitchen table. Most likely, all these, and perhaps more concealed faults have been sinking without my knowledge for many a year, however since dropping out, or retiring from almost everything, it increasingly becomes obvious…even to me. The good news is, having lost some overweight, returning to some old comfortable clothing.

Irregular uncontrolled wind unfortunately burst forward, the aroma is not to be sniffed at. So, I sneak to the loo, well after midnight, but this is the rub…because I fall asleep waiting for, ‘She who must be obeyed’ in slumber, I need the alarm of my trust phone, but either I forget to set it…or I put in the wrong instructions, so… ‘all laid plans of mice and men’ go haywire.

I do force myself to do daily walks, which vary in time and distance because of my leg rather annoying pain…but the benefits are not only better personal constitution, there is always something different to witness, with some of those early morning views... just ‘Fan-dabi-dozi’
The weather may have been rather chilly, or even cold at times, however, the welcoming sunshine over the past few days has been an excellent bonus, interwound around my already plans.

Visiting Aunt Becky on Monday proved, she had recovered well enough from her recent bout of pneumonia, to take her for a hurl. She is fragile, for even walking to the car, we must be careful. Our usual trip is around the glorious Kilpatrick Hills, while Kenneth McKellar, and others, belt their wee Scottish lungs out, as the light of the winter’s sun penetrated every nook and cranny of this natural wonder…is just out of this world.

Aunt Becky was certainly on top form, sing and stamping time with her foot to the gay music, yet sometimes, I wonder who benefits most from these outings, as it’s a sort of mental drug which always gives me a buzz. One little note is Aunt Becky being delicate, two outside steps at the front door cause her real concern while leaving the premises, then returning, even with caring support, we take them very slowly, one at a time, as her dread of tumbling… becomes instantaneous.

This must be instant knowing era, the once humble telephone as become an indispensable piece of equipment, not only a communication tool, but with so called apps, needed for every day mundane passengers. I occasionally travel on buses, or trains, it is a pity stimulating scenery wizzes by, unobserved by the obsessed gadget players… On Tuesday, first thing, the sun was braw when I took the train journey down to Ayr, to meet up with my China…Jim Hendry. I was in my element by being the only passenger looking out the window, to see the sunshine magnifying the splendour of the landscape, plus the lunar pull of the incoming rolling white horses’ tides of the sea…pure dead brilliant

Our meeting in Weatherspoon’s (Sandgate) is a tonic simply for shooting the breeze with old men’s wind. Although we have common reference points, it has mentioned before, the sharp political minded of Jim, is a far cry from the kangaroo brain of mine. We laugh at the drop of a hat, talk a lot of drifted nonsense, proving being daft…is the best of times. Jim often reminds me, we were both young and foolish at one time…I reckon we still are ?

Right at this moment, I just looked up to the shelves above my computer, spotting a small model of ‘Dougal’, the yellow dog from ‘Magic Roundabout’, I watched with my grandkids. The memory of ‘Florence’, and of course the laid-back ‘Dylan’, spring happily to mind without ‘Zebedee’ …small things amuse a small mind.
-=-=-=-=
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peter.howden
post 13th Jan 2019, 08:41pm
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An alluring allusion (in two small parts)

In the true sense of the word, it wasn’t a real haunted house, as displayed on the silver screen, or indeed on television. Mist did not mysteriously appear, then vanish, no rumours of quirkiness, or tales of bewitchment goings on, no one recalled dark secrets, no local kids had dares, or double dared, marked against staying the night… just a pokey, empty wee abode… within a vast potential plush development site. An astronomic bounty was asked, by a unknown titleholder, so an emergency compulsory purchase order was put in place by the local council, requested by a dubious businessman, who held an inner secret, once being an urchin of this one-time underprivileged area.

Possessing an irritable Scrooge compulsion for money, the snide entrepreneur unrelentingly demanded swift acquisition of the property, in the guise it was holding up regenerating the neighbourhood for the community. Unknown by the authorities, his dicey company…along with other dubious investors, building for pure greed, ignoring the district’s heritage with alternative unscrupulous tactics. Their plans were not materializing fast enough, so in his twisted mind, compelled him into taking underhand action.

His strategy, immoral to say the least, to sneak unobserved into the premises, toss petrol here and there, use a little Semtex(stolen from the manufactured in Czechoslovakia, by associates), light a match, and hey presto…fire brigade will believe the gas mains exploded, ring the area ‘off-bounds’, as now the building is classified unsafe, and demolish it. Nothing could be simpler.


In one dead moonless night, dressed appropriately in all black, he pointed a juvenile Wembley airgun, shattered the three remaining streetlights left illuminating the stand-alone structure. Unlocking the safety door, slyly slipping into the deserted house, closed the steel barrier, stood still surveying the bare damp lobby.

For some erratic reason, a feeling of foreboding, overtook the twisted tycoon’s mind, the instant darkness seemed to take possession of any rational thinking, his muscles involuntary all at once, ached, as he stood ridged. Forming within his confused mind, a dread of unwelcome of ‘Déjà vu’, being in this very spot…somewhere in his murky past.
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peter.howden
post Y'day, 01:08pm
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An alluring allusion (2)

For an unidentified reason, standing unconditionally motionless, in this dangerous isolation, with a confused attention, unable to see through the endless pitch blackness, or defend himself against the unknown, perhaps hiding in its own obscure ebony cloak. Deprived of movement, a chill factor encircled the cretin, as raw fear displays its horrors, with a trickle of cold sweat clinging, then creeping down his worried brow.

What must have seemed eternity, but barely seconds, movement mysteriously returned to the now cagey charlatan. Thoughts uncontrollably whizzed around the emptiness, remembering how he started, as the new upcoming, ‘Cock o' the North’ … then speedily propelled, through the ranks, into heavy despicable deeds, onward to the real McCall, the top of his chosen illicit profession, and the main bonus…outwardly clean. This involuntary guilt trip, triggered horrendous flashbacks, forcing his anxious recalls.

Though now grappling with his inner anxiety, the intruder reached cautiously into his jerkin pocket, brought out a nifty wee torch, switched on the illumines blue beam, moving vigilantly into the scullery. Here, he slowly poured out measured amounts of petrol, and bottles of alcohol, all around the pantry, especially around the filthy old cooker, particularly around gas pipes at the back. Lingering was an eerie sensation of someone watching his every move, which he could not shake.

The villain knelt down, made the necessary preparations for the vital Semtex, as he was instructed by a bent expert. Without warning, out of the darkness… was a clatter, or something moving, coming from the bathroom. He froze for a second, not immune to fear again…then bucked up the spunk for drastic action.

Smuggled from the States, a Colt M1911 .45 ACP in his right hand, torch in the other, like a cautious panther, slivers into the bathroom, but sticking closely to the wall, and the door…just in case. His cold steel eyes scurried around, until, on the opposite wall, they visionally transfixed on a cracked bathroom round shaving mirror, warping unfocused reflexions.

Not seen at the correct angle, the magnified mirror distorted images, but…he saw, also distinctly heard, someone he forgotten a long time ago. Shaking overpoweringly, the thug’s mire memory, flooded back to 53 years ago, his school mate Stan, in this very house, the blaggard ‘Cock o’ the north’, plundered the last 10/- note, from Stan’s mother’s purse… blaming Stan. Stan was branded a bastard of a thief, stealing from his own impoverished kin, shunted and ignored by family, but especially by his mother, who unrelentingly refused to forgive her son.

The poor woman died, and Stan swore on her bible, with the pain of blood, vengeance and retribution, on the true culprit. Stan was left the house.

Unable to move his head, transfixed on the distorted mirror, now seeing a shadow coming out of the wall, implanted terror, overloading the racketeer twisted brain, now turning into an instant imbecile, erratically talking gibberish, crying like a bairn…pathetic…even soiled himself


What happened next, no one will ever know, except somehow the premises caught fire, then exploded, with no tangible evidence for the truth of the matter. The experts agreed, perhaps, some wine-mopper down and out, or, or just an old Weegie bampot, broke into the premises, for shelter, and somehow blew the rusty gas mains, while pissed out of their mind.

The syndicate dropped their doubtful bid, somewhat due to the disappearance of the main bidder. One last thing…the owner of the abode died many years back
-=-=-=-
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peter.howden
post Today, 11:13am
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Someone is Knocking at the Door.

There is a knock on the door, wonder who it can be. It sounds rather soft, even personal, though it can’t be a friend, for they would know just how to press the doorbell a special way. For some time, I’ve been meaning to fix that rusty bell. The manager at the rent office, promised to send a man round. It can’t be him, he’s an electrician, he’d know how to touch the bell to make it work. Right enough, tradesmen are not what they used to be.

Certainly not the postman banging about, far too late for him. If it was the special delivery mob, they would put through one of the cards, “Tried to alert you… you were not at home?”. I think they write them out before starting the rounds, to save time. One bloke gave me a hint once, of him having a second job, this is why he never wastes a second.

Maybe its kids playing “Ring bang Skoosh”, though I doubt it, never heard them run away. Lots of Weans are fat, but undernourished, it would be a surprise if they could muster to run. Isolated alone in cells, with many supercomputer games at their fingertips, but on their own, like little hermits unable to see the sun, with fake tans… and non-existent pen friends. They say you hear no clapping in cyber space, whatever the hell that is? I was told, cyber-space is a void up there, storing all information from every computer in the world, but it doesn’t exist…. sounds like my football winnings.

Ever cultivating processer telephones, are rightly the miracle of the age, everyday bit of equipment, yet…I feel sorry for today’s toe-rags, mainly unaware of open freedom, to explore beyond reach, discovering hands-on, through joy and error, their individual abilities. Sadly, in the main being chaperoned by over apprehensive parents, then at home, railroad into isolation under radar companionship

As long as it’s not these wee brats from the next close. Their maw is letting them grow up to be fully pledged bastards. She had the audacity, yelling she was reporting me to the police, how I verbally assaulted her little cherubs. If she was from India…she would be sacred…

Who the hell is now rattling the bloody letterbox, probably that pesky fancy tart, the one in No 56, always wears her Sunday best, chatters on persistently about ‘love thy neighbour’, it’s God’s way? I don’t think the almighty meant her to rattle my letterbox so bloody noisy. God’s work must have more magic for him in 33, in the wee small hours. God works ‘In mysteries ways’, but there’s bugger all mystery about what goes on in 33, while his missus is away. Jammy bandit!

Maybe ‘Meals on wheels’, Nae chance, since I told them “bugger off”, yes…Tweedle Dee, and Tweedle Dum, well! That’s their nickname! The food delivered was absolute crap, pig swirl. I told them, their better off shining their own grave stones. I think the matron said she would never darken my door again.

As for my kith or kin. My son, my only son, if he can be arsed, props up a bar, or too drunk being a numptie heid-banger. Anyway, only asks for a hand full, if he happens to come around. And as for ‘Madam’…after all I have done for her, she just ran off, without ‘by your leave’, or warning she was living with her fancy fella. I had a cousin in Durham, Pink panther country, but this was donkeys ago, anyway… moved since she knew me.


There they go again, knocking the hinges of the bloody door, they want locked away, banging like that. The trouble with people today…selfish nosy parkers, with no patience, no compassion, or consideration for other people’s feelings. Everything it’s all… go…go…go…my napper hurts, sounds as if they are walking away…. wonder who the F--- it was???
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