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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 2nd Aug 2017, 08:32am
Post #406

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 446
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Shades;


Throughout the dead of night, the wind mystically maliciously disturbed and misdirected the chilly elements habituating within the darkness, meandering in and out the deserted streets and alleyways…then collectively resting, for unscheduled moments, in secretive foreboding places, unknown to the sleeping human race…then truly lost endlessly when daylight makes yawning moves.

Within the house in question, up some grubby unstable stairs to the top room facing the street, lay restlessly a tired old man attempting to sleep, anxious about the bare fact he was now all-alone in the world. His mate, his long and caring comrade had lost the struggle for life, the only living breathing soul who unreservedly cared for him, showing love and affection without favour. They had been together for some 12 years before his dog, Sammy demised without warning…. just the day before. The old man clutched tightly the photograph of him, with a mixture of pride and anxiety, while uncontrollably shedding tears of longing.

The dishevelled room escaped total darkness, leaving hints of eluded capture, because of the remarkably bright streetlight beaming brightly straight across the street, directly into the room, through the window covered with tread bearing curtains. The old man lay resting on the bed opposite the unadorned wall, heaped in uncertainness and dread what the future would now bring, Unruly drafts of harsh squalls, caused by ill- lifted sash decomposing timbered windows, flapped those drapes back and forth… instigating shades, shadows and structures… real as real could be.

Outside, adjacent to the window…. the old crippled tree, once struck by lightning, has haywire branches swaying against the unforeseen gust, adds to some sort of malevolent carnival of black magical shadowy pictures … momentary on the manky wall. Rattling crumbling window frames echoes the drama. The forlorn moments slowly past by as the man’s nerves come near a shattering breakdown.

The wall now held an existence of its own as he timorously keeked from underneath a damp cover, moistness due to uncontrollably perspiration from his aching body underneath, caused by vagueness trepidation of impending doom and decay. The old man held onto the image of his faithful hound, struggling keeping his sanity, but no matter how hard he tried to keep this single thought… it was a losing battle.

Without warning, an unknown flurry erupted just outside a cracked pane, almost shook the window out of its exhausted frame, causing such a hullaballoo with everything it came into contact…the man froze with utter terror. At the very same moment, an uninvited noise bellowed around the room, while outside the dwelling it seemed the worn-out hoary tree lifted clear from the rotten roots. The deceased feeble tree toing and froing, while the maukit wall of the room unexpectedly presented a frightening shadow image ,looking of a dog’s gigantic jaw …filled with massive sharp teeth as if it was ready to jump out of the wall and attack.

No one went near the old man’s abode until a worried community helper called for assistance from the police, who burst in the flimsy painted front door. Up on the landing, the odorous front room was in a muddle, while on the empty bed, other than one manky cover, and a crumpled photo of a dog…reputed to be the old man’s pet.

It was said a few neighbours heard a cry of agenizing pain coming from the room, during the terrible night of the storm… but where was the old man who once lived there…no one knew…and the truth…no one cared

It is always possible to live another day…well almost;
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peter.howden
post 7th Aug 2017, 09:30am
Post #407

Super Lord Provost
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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485

My Chronicles 07/08/2017;


She who must be obeyed’ and I have the family over almost every Saturday afternoon, exchanging news, gossip and wandering crazy conversations about almost anything. I would say, it has been a boon for all concerned, throughout the years. This Saturday was slightly different, not the usual carefree around the old wooden kitchen table as normal simple because it was the anniversary of our Toni’s (Daughter/Partner/Sister) losing her fight with cancer on Saturday 6th of august 2011.

We all have our ways of coping with family tragedy whenever it strikes, regardless of dates or conversations, followed by awful lingering aftermaths catching discrete thoughts. Most memories and observingly pleasant with moist eyes, but sometimes in nigh impossible to hold back the flood. Rebecca and I are grateful for our usual crew of Fergus (Toni’s main man), Nikki, Simon, Chris Kirsty, Lauren, Andrew and not forgetting Emma.

As this afternoon began, we managed through several woeful moments on the edge, to control by just stopping taking easy breaths, then talking about happy notorious times we all remembered, recalled with a different pitch, how each responded on a specific circumstance, but chiefly Toni’s unique way of attitude and behaviour…but most of all…her magic affectious laughter.

Personally, I can be innocently washing dishes when I emotionally zoom back To Leiden where Toni and Fergus made we two so welcome. Over many years when they travelled on holiday, Rebecca and I stayed in their homes in Leiden, Amsterdam, and Paris. What true Scot could turn down such an offer.

As usual, we tucked into Rebecca’s homemade scones, listened to some gossip and celebrated Chris and Kirsty’s new house they had managed to finalize the mortgage on the Friday. They move in on the 8th September., and although tons of renovating must be done, for their own personal taste and comfort, both are over the moon… they deserve it, so to speak. Hope they don’t tug my coat.
Last week, Rebecca’s sister Jennie, made a rare visit to Aunt Becky.

Jennie has always been impetuous. At the side of Becky’s door, there is a combination locked steel box, with a front door key, allowing the carers, back and forth access. Arriving at Becky’s home, she knocks the door quite a few times. Owing to the unusualness of anyone chapping the door, Aunt Becky comes to the door in her acute dementia more than flustered unable to remember where her own keys (two sets; one supposed to be hanging up, and one in her wee bag to go to her carers club)

Luckily, I arrive because I forgot to pick up the washing as thee washing machine was down the day before, and the arranged engineer was not due until the end of the week. Becky is all confused but pleased to have any company. She has a knack to pretend she remembers someone but the reality of her condition she forgets from moment to moment.

One of Becky’s neighbours, also her career, Sandra (a nice lady and very good helper) arrived and I left everything in her capable trustful hands as the washing needed done and returned. I was back over that evening; the wee soul Becky could not remember anything about the visit. I promised to take her a hurl the next day and listen, and sing along with her, her precious Tartan Top Twenty.

‘She who must be obeyed’ and I, think but mainly hope we are back to normal…whatever that phrase really means.
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peter.howden
post 12th Aug 2017, 08:00pm
Post #408

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From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
AUGUST 13TH; AFTER THE SHOOT

It would be interesting to know just how many people par a personal name to their car, for this is exactly what ‘She who must be obeyed ‘did with our first, just out of the factory, brand new jalopy. The name for this wonderful, bright red Ford Fiesta was christened “Wiggy”, a happy appearing tinny motor which purred as it hurdled along any road or destination.

I was certainly not ashamed of the vehicle, in fact chuffed as hell, however ‘Wiggy’ never answered when I called, even when I practised an extra whistle so it would know who I was. This echoes’ the kind of chap I had now become…a motorist. The new car gave Rebecca and I freedom we had not experienced before as a couple, for we only saw the real country side on holidays, buffered in-between work. I have memories when young of golden days of fun and astonishment but to a lad… all times were magic.

As a boy of 6 or somewhere along the line, I regularly received magazines, along with comics published and sent from Canada, from my sister Margaret and brother in law Easton, who both had emigrated in 1950. These very colourful journals and comics, fired my imagination with bright adverts celebrating huge cars of Hollywood statues, turning my innocent head way round. It was a different planet shown in publications from America and Canada, for in our Glasgow existed grey streets displaying grey buildings, surrounded us everywhere, except for la multitude of parks like Glasgow Green and Queens Park lending their touch of green.

In Canadian magazines, they had country till it was coming out their ears, lakes waters went on forever, with canoes styled by Indians, but most impressive was that everyone had a car as normal, if not two or three. With promises of ever day an adventure and paradise for a few dollars more, while Scotland it was, at best an existence for most, near total closing on a Sunday.

Rebecca and I received the car just the right time for going on a planned holiday to a North Berwick camp site the following week. We had just left the rugged and quiet village of Duns, heading for the centre via the eerie moors road. This superb country side can compete, if not surpass, what Dartmoor does for the eye. The date was the 13th of August, one day after the glorious 12th.

It turned into being a horrendous if not chilling trip, I hope I will never have to repeat. It all sounds brutish, how people with loads of money, spend the stuff by going out with beaters, dogs, and guns to shoot fleeing grouse, pigeon, or any fleeing bird…or beast. It does not sound right under any guise, but society have ignored its pitiful cruelty while accepting this barbaric practise as tradition for all, although it’s the hob knobs who cultivate the inhumane business We had no vision as to the senseless suffering of these targeted birds defiantly We could not contemplate it affected all the animals living throughout the vast area of the misty moors.

Driving our wee red car down the C road, through the middle of the moor, staring in disbelief as to our blocked path. The highway spread thickly with dead squashed animals. Every sort of fur and feather lay there making it obvious as to what had happened.

The din of noise deliberately created by the beaters for the shoot had caused a panic in the animal world. So much so they fled in terror away from its echoing deafness, straight across the busy road. Now the shooters, who bravely stood behind their gun line, must have started to blast anything that flew to the open sky, not flinching in the blood duty handed down through generations. They may even have been oblivious to the alarm they had caused the beasts and crawlers, who did not share in the ability of dating a calendar, avoiding that bark day…the dammed poor creatures.

The ones that were not done for by the shooting, air and foul means, were however mowed down on the roads leading through the fern landscape by the multitude’s cars attending such events as part of country etiquette or protocol. These wee sleekit cow’rin tim’rous beasties plunged out of the safety of the darkness of the fern just to be squashed by oncoming traffic.

Hares, rabbits, badgers, snakes, stoats’ weasels, foxes, rodents, all needlessly killed by machine, gun men or dog. For a’ that and a’ that, the brothers of gunpowder kept blindly pounding in a thin dark line.
I know the law of the countryside and human nature is cruel for survival is the name of the game… but I ask you, what name can you put to this so-called sport.

We could not turn back as traffic forbade doing so. Mile after mile there were bodies of assorted dead disfigured creatures spread in lawlessness view for all eyes. Even going slowly in a mark of futile respect seemed to make it worse as the wheels suspension took the strain and bumps caused by them

What a callous and shallow call the glorious 12th?


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peter.howden
post 13th Aug 2017, 01:19pm
Post #409

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-JUMPING JUMPERS

If our dear Scotland is to have a new identity of its own, any plans must be audaciously courageous to make the populace masters of their own destiny, grasping any and all opportunities to complete with world trading markets. Cautiousness is fine it is place, but the Scottish people and government must insist being brave by taking a leap of faith, in one area we can excel and not been placed in the same category as our whisky and oil. We should go all out to improve our Scottish lamb and wool industries.

In Australia, there are millions upon millions of sheep, many of them suffer the same problems ours do, tragically including animal version of T.B. They have Kangaroos who appear not to suffer from this drastic affliction. So, to be one jump ahead, there has been a bill past through the Scottish Executive, we are going to issue every single sheep in Scotland, a pogo stick… teaching them the art of pogo stick. It is not so thorny, or crazy as any of you, or ewe, may expect for is you teach one sheep, the rudiments of the pongo stick…the rest will follow…like sheep

With such decisiveness for the future steadfast, this will be beneficial in four main ways, and many additional outlets beside. Firstly, the principal benefit being once the sheep are proficient operating their individual pogo sticking, not one hoof will touch mother earth, at any given time, signifyingly reducing the risk of infestation of naughty T.B, from those nasty contaminated little Badgers who, if our scientists are correct, spread this terrible disease. Owing to the fact spitting is one main way in dispersion this calamity disaster amongst certain livestock, it can only be assumed, these naughty elfin Badgers are tramping through the undergrowth, wily nilly and not caring a spit where they dribble.

Most important second benefit will be in the sheer quality of the lamb and mutton, particularly the hind leg, also the rump and shoulder, muscles where ram mutton builds up from holding on the necessary equipment pogo stick, as the sheep roam up and down Brighs, Beinns and glens. Approximately side effects could be with stiff necks occurring as they look back and check who is behind. However, this is only visualized to be a soaring problem if the sheep holds racing.

Thirdly; it is more than possible we will boost the quality of our precious wool many fold, maybe, just maybe, we will be able to compete in world markets, status closely to cashmere or mohair. This would be because with all the leaping, the air constantly flowing, forcing mites, fleas, ticks, and lice, to flee from the fleeces, bewildered and terrified from not only the speed moving, but the ups and downs going with it. The continuous draft would soften the wool to a high degree,

As time and nature progressed, the fleeces would turn, in value, almost golden. It may all be Greek to the layman but it is inevitable the grade of the pelts would advance with leaps and bounds. Also as a sideline all this exercise and balancing signify muscles of a larger per potion would mean larger growth in the limbs area and so a leg of lamb would go further for the housewife.

The basic expense in teaching these animals the skill needed to operate these maneuvers would only have to be paid once. When the second generations watch their peers confidently pogo-ing, they are being sheep, will follow like sheep, but do not mistakenly believe that sheep have only sheep’s brains for other scientific test proved beyond any doubt, they have a far greater intelligence than first believed. It must be pointed out though those tests, three of the boffins were reported to be in love with their subjects. This may put a cloud over their findings or maybe the trio felt that a sacrifice was necessary for the sake of science but felt a bit of a goat when going public, however we should not delve into other unproven actions just count our luck sheep it was not us.

The major drawback is the actual sheepdog. The very fact thousands of flying sheep will be bounding all over the place, appearing unexpected, as far as the mutt’s eye view is concerned, this could cause havoc. These dogs are used to lying down, awaiting sheep to stroll by before leaping into action… but then again the mere fact the lambs are going to spring on them at such a rate, it can be envisaged whole batches of brave collies having mental breakdowns… this could prove costly. The vet bills alone would vault out of control, followed closely rest homes for these unfortunate mongrels where they could have forty winks without sight of a sheep with a spring in their step.

I can count on you, if not the sheep, to sleep on this new brave idea.
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peter.howden
post 15th Aug 2017, 05:38pm
Post #410

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 446
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Why don’t we take time to blink?
Or maybe time to think?
instead as robots…
one, two…what to do?
Three, four…lock the door,
Five, six…play some tricks
Seven, eight…be Irate,
Nine ten…do it all again
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peter.howden
post 16th Aug 2017, 08:59am
Post #411

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 446
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
[b]Jim stepped down from the train(24)
[/b]
Jim stepped down from the train, after the huge locomotive pulled into an enormous old-fashioned railway station which visibly was to serve passengers, also once functioning as a working heart of a multitude of industrial engineering commercial heart, serviced by every kind of shuttle train ever imagine. Tired after such a long journey, yet immediately being familiar with a worryingly stillness of eeriness, void of travellers or any sort of noise. He was mindful having been away for a long time, nevertheless he was now alone on the platform, somehow intimidated and insecure by being unaccompanied, where everything was covered either in dust or rust.

After lighting a cigarette, he started to walk down the platform, sheltered by a massive dome which produced an echo from each of his foot-steps, ricocheting off the stone and brickwork, returning as if minor thunderclaps. Coming to the entrance to the station, he observed a sign which read, ’first class passengers only’.

What was really puzzling, this portion of the station was immaculate with not one piece of dust to be seen, and if he was not mistaken the door was half a jar. Hoping to meet someone who would explain this tomb, Jim strolled slowly towards the door. Just a few steps away the door closed, not with a bang…but a whoosh…shut tight with no outside handle. Jim inexplicably jumped, and he was certain this was odd.

Bewildered, he then moved towards what appeared to be a busy thoroughfare, with people going about their various unknown business, seemingly unaware or not concerned when bairns, no older than 5 years old, started rough fighting over a piece of bread, manky as it lay on the cobblestones. They were battering the living hell out of each other, swinging arms and biting… drawing blood and using the boot. By the time there was a so-called victor. Only crumbs pathetically lay on the dirty street. He could hear a buzzing racket coming from somewhere, where or when it came, Jim just could not fathom.

He continued his saunter when it became visible this was the deprived end of the town, whatever town it was, as the dwelling places, both sides of the street were no better than hovels, while at the mouth of each close several people stood with a glaikit needy expression. Instinctively he knew he had witnessed the same scene in some counties abroad, shanty townships, packed to the brim with the underprivilege, existing hand in mouth…near to the living dead.

The smells were pungent to him, however no matter which way he turned, the identical whiffs went straight for his nostrils…reminding of something or somewhere he had been before… somewhere where darkness crept over ghostly images, making danger a constant companion.

Now on the jagged pavement, each person, with decent apparel, deliberately forced past him, either ignored him completely, or shooing his presence away indignantly. Others dressed as ragamuffins, pleaded with him for a penny or two, for their destitute families, mumbling sad terrible stories to follow. Jim argued with himself, how could this be, he could not focus exactly where he was but he had a feeling, how this was an affluent land…an empire in the making.

Gazing up the hill to easily see, mansions and manors, complete with fresh green hedges and trees each establishment separated with wide streets. A high wall surrounding the estate, complete with a toll barrier right across the only road leading in and out…Jim knew it was not to keep them in…but to keep the unwashed populous out. Jim was beginning to be confused, he thought his county was free, for all to walk anywhere…but he just could not pinpoint his past… something to make freedom important, or supposed too, not exactly sure…there was a lot of confusion, unknown clamours throbbing in his head.

Now marching up and down the main road, as if it was second nature, back and forth, trying to find some place to work…but the few dingy shop proprietors just unheeded his quest completely, as if he was speaking a foreign language, or chased him out of their premises, with a few swear words for comfort …he just could not make them understand. Jim sat down despairingly, how could this be, he was smartly dressed in pressed suit, clean hands and neck, well-spoken and shiny boots ready to be taken on…but they just did not want him.

He across an unusual shop for the area, as it had a glass displaying window. Jim briskly paraded up to it, to check he was spick and span and Bristol fashioned. The reflection from the glass window shocked him, showing in full uniform… a military first class, master sergeant.

How long he stood there is anyone’s guess but it was some time until he took another few steps to come across a massive election promotional poster …stating in huge letters…. to see a Liberal sworn statement, ‘We will make a land fit for heroes’
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peter.howden
post 17th Aug 2017, 01:16pm
Post #412

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Anecdotes from the auld Steamie

Heart-Breaking

Within the old steadfast Victorian structures, built specifically for the complete wash-house experience though favourably known locally as the ‘Auld Steamies, dotted around working-class areas in many industrial cities of Scotland. An assortment of employees was needed in the day to day running of such necessities for the needy community, who were living in very tight knitted accommodation, such as room and scullery, and the well kent ‘single end’. Modern amenities as washing machines, driers or even the basic bathrooms, where either way out of reach financially, or there was insufficient space to provide them. A old pram was the ideal means of transport to take a week’s washing to the Steamie.

Most councils had a union led systematizing workforces, vacillating from Boiler men, Lifeguards, money takers wash-house attendants and dogs’ bodies of no description. Callum took over the position of Shop Steward, however not as a well-meaning union man holding a theory of helping his fellow man…No, the reason was simply skiving. When there is a union lead by an individual, whose nickname was ‘Matt the rat’ then the picture may appear clearer.

While working for the mighty halls of power in the so-called Bath department, it became clear it was one route a devious creature could take to receive the equivalent of ‘get out of jail, free card’. For any excuse for a fictional meeting, or inspection, or consultation with a union member in trouble, then Callum was off like a bolt of lightning. Because of the nature of things and a certain cliental calibre of workers, this would be a secure reoccurrence almost of a daily basis.

Callum, enjoyed the company and kindness personified of the workers, for they were a grand bunch to work with, well almost to a man, or woman with a few exceptions. Nevertheless, when it came to Union matters they were a nave lot, instructed, by tradition, why and how the workers strength laying in union. In other words, at the drop of a hat they would believe almost anything if it complied with their wisdom or lifetime’s experience. this may sound pompous yet it was comparatively true. Superintendents and gaffers displayed their vulnerability in other ways.

On one of these occasions Callum was genuinely called out for a brother worker’s dilemma. The operative had been caught, in the act of consuming liquor while on duty in the Steamie, by management in the form of the infamous sacking gaffer. At this period of the cities Steamies impressive history, although low paid, a worker had to have committed near murder before being sacked.

This was gross misconduct of the severest order, for not only health and safety for the public but the fellow workers. In every line of industry, works or any employment, this is an immediate sacking offence, and quite rightly so. The consequences are endless though the culprit or victim believes it is personal.

Drinking in this organization was a tremendous problem, making the bosses concerned and afraid, of being prosecuted, or sued monetarily, so much so they would do anything to stamp it out. Meeting up with the man whose desperation was clear, Callum instinctively knew the fella was a hard and determined bevvy merchant. At first glance, he assumed this desperation was for his job but in the first few moments with him realized… it was for his struggle to survive life’s unfair hand he believed he had been dealt.

As far as the worker could remember he had been always a compulsive drinker. He wanted to take cold turkey, but just could not find the courage to give up the dreaded alcohol. Informing Callum of personal details, how he was now constantly bleeding from his rectum with black outs occurring at terrifying random. Callum advised him to see his doctor as soon as possible, to have immediate help as the consequences were too horrific to contemplate.

There was a safeguard for their employment, a get out clause, which most workers took, not for salvation but just to keep their jobs. Hold their hands up and say; quote ‘I have a drinking problem’. These simple words compelled the management to send them for therapy and keep the job open, without any blemishes on their record.

The interview ended with the harsh manager conceding to the rules and the relieved employee thanking everyone, especially the Union rep. Callum felt he did not deserve such praise as it was clear the man had insurmountable problems, so he repeated his advice, which was plain fell… on deaf ears. The last comment or compliment he gave Callum, as he left the works premises…you’re not like… ‘Matt the rat’.

Five short weeks later this man was dead. He died through alcohol abuse
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peter.howden
post Today, 10:07am
Post #413

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Foretastes of a 60s adolescent


Today parents and teachers are concerned about the adverse influence of the instant internet and the obsessional use of mobile phone by almost all the inhabitants of the world, perhaps except for over 70s club. You can tell the age of a person by how they use, or abuse the modern miracle, almost everyone twiddles with the knobs and buttons playing games or waiting for a disposable Email…. more sedate people just say ‘Hallo?’. However, in the golden generation, 40/50s, parentages and educators held the many cinemas and films as a curse of morality, waylaying of the youth away from decency and reality.

As a sprouting boy (though never sprouted much), the post-war generation held a different point of view, no matter how often Harold Macmillan, with jorries in his mouth, proclaiming; “You will see a state of prosperity such as we have never had in my lifetime ... "Indeed, let us be frank about it - most of our people have never had it so good”, nearly every city was dull and drab. The cinema, for all ages was an escape…even for just a few hours. . With the end of the hostilities just a decade before, rationing finally over, the people and the economy struggling to recover, watching every penny, also acute lack of accommodation existed, while in the cinema you could lose yourself in a crowd…in private

During the week, my brother John, allowed me to listen to Radio Luxembourg (208) on his fabulous crystal set, with Dan Dare, pilot of the future, Dick Barton, and Pete Murry’s top twenty…and an odd ball memory man. Nevertheless, the visit to the A.B.C. minors on a Saturday morning was the cake of the week. The cinema was always jumping with kids, and weans of all ages, gripping tightly their pokes of sweets and innocent faces glowing thru unbridled eagerness…. bursting to see the next instalment of the coming live serial on the huge bright screen. This was their reality.

Afterwards outside the building, and right along each street nearby, you could tell the main feature that morning, by the actions of the fledgling audience either riding horses in their minds, while skelping their bums ardently, shooting anything in sight with appropriate noises provided from the sides of their mouths, Shooting arrows with whooshes, or the all-time favourite…. dummy sword fighting with anything at hand.

As I grew older things changed slightly, believing I was mature, though in truth still wet behind the ears and a enthusiastic Spotty ‘Alfred Newman’ of ‘Mad’ magazine, reading the American issue ,from cover to cover on any dreary Sunday to survive with my marbles not bouncing off the walls. Sunday without tediousness was a novelty. In the north American continent, Sunday was Thee Sabbath, the Lords day, but life and leisure were catered for. In some states, they worshiped in full swing, bawling forth their message, telling all who cared to listen, not to fornicated or drink the devils brew. Carrying on how they once did so…but now they were saved… I often wondered if they were boosting, or complaining.

Roughly around that time, partaking some bike movies, including ‘Teenage Devil Dolls One-Way Ticket to Hell’, and the famous; ‘The Wild One’…which influenced me to be involved with the motor bike circle. For a bet I took, I experienced and a nerve-racking, back pillion ride on a Triumph TR5 Trophy , hitting 100 M.P.H streaking up Parliamentary Road.

The meeting place caf was at the corner of Calder St and Pollokshaws Road, the name escapes me now… but the sight of around forty leather jerkin clad blokes, yet only three or so bikes outside parked in the street, will never leave me. Later I owned an old banged up Triumph, we were not quite ‘Marlon Brando’ studs, or even his weak sidekicks… but boy… we wanted to be so much!
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