Friends Remembered

I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship. In my last post (scroll down – you know how this works!) I spoke about the inestimable love of parents. This ought to be a “given” – although sometimes it isn’t – but the love of friends is a far harder challenge in many ways. I have lost friends over the years for all sorts of reasons; people grow up, move away, have kids or simply slip into different circles.

 

Sometimes a friend can actively end a relationship, but that sort of behaviour highlights deeper truths about that friendship. I lost one of my closest friends because the person I married was deeply envious of our friendship. When my marriage ended, that friendship was resumed, and it is one of the closest friendships of my life – not least because the friend understood and accepted what had happened.

 

Betrayal of friendship is a chilling thing. A recent “friend” once said that if anyone ever tried to have a go at me, she would ‘viciously defend’ me. It was a pleasing, if over-reactive, show of solidarity that turned out to be part of a massive deceit. Being fucked over by friends really hurts, and Shakespeare’s biting satire on false friendship is a poem I have quoted several times in my own poetry.

 

Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind

 

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind  

  As man's ingratitude;  

Thy tooth is not so keen,              

Because thou art not seen,

  Although thy breath be rude.   

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:  

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:          

        Then heigh ho, the holly!     

        This life is most jolly.             

 

      Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,            

      That dost not bite so nigh      

        As benefits forgot:   

      Though thou the waters warp,             

      Thy sting is not so sharp

        As friend remember'd not.  

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:  

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:          

        Then heigh ho, the holly!     

        This life is most jolly.

 

These days, with technology and social media, it’s easier to keep in touch with friends. We know that Facebook friendship is hardly a true mark, and the fickle followings on twitter can be virtually meaningless (or meaningful only “virtually.”) Recently, I have been finding out who my true friends are as I have struggled with an unpleasant series of events attempting to make my life miserable.

 

I have found that true friends are those who will stand by you through thick and thin. For many, parents and family do this too; and a similar notion is contained in the traditional marriage vow: for better or worse. Yet although families and marriages can fall apart just as friendships can, there is an important distinction. We choose our friends. Some may say we “choose” our marriage partner, but there is a whole load more complex psychology going on with that kind of love.

 

Just after Christmas last year I had a moan on twitter, saying that, after spending many weeks hand-making poetry gifts for my family, they spent barely seconds looking at them. A friend texted me to say they would treasure any poem I gave them; another friend tweeted to say they’d be honoured to read one of my poems. (I sent the one at the bottom of this page: http://inkyfingers.org.uk/2013/04/23/virtual-open-mic-episode-2/) This friend also pointed out that ‘you don’t get to pick your family, just your friends.’

 

In many ways, our friends evolve through circumstance; our work, study, and leisure associations bring us into contact, and from there, deeper relationships form. To say we ‘pick’ these is slightly disingenuous, but true to an extent. We choose who we spend time with, and yet we rarely actively profess our feelings about friendships; less so, express this vital concept in terms of love.

 

I have posted several songs on my Facebook/Twitter feeds recently, including Carole King’s ‘You’ve got a friend,’ and Joe Cocker singing, ‘With a little help from my friends.’ But one song that never fails to move me is Peter Gabriel, with Kate Bush, singing ‘Don’t Give Up.’

 

This is a profound song and, like all good art, is open to wide interpretation. According to Gabriel, essentially, it is about handling failure, which is ‘the hardest thing to do.’ Despite my failings, I’ve not changed my face, or my name, and have learned that those who no longer want you ‘when you lose’ are not worth having anyway. Friends accept us for who we are, even if – or sometimes, especially if – there are things about us that are uncomfortable, disagreeable, or difficult.

 

After all, who are we to criticise? In another famous poem about hypocritical piety, the line ‘To see ourselves as others see us’ does not mean that we should let others’ criticisms, prejudices and judgements eat away at who we really are. It is about empathy and equality, not judging. Having empathy with those around us means we are less likely to judge others. And treating others as we would wish to be treated is a Golden Rule; a call against hypocrisy that the Gospel writers make clear.

 

The story of the “penitent prostitute” shows Christ saying to all the men (there were no women at the stoning, despite what Monty Python suggests) about to stone an adulterous woman to death: ‘Let the one without sin cast the first stone.’ Once every man has dropped his stone, Christ asks the woman if anyone has condemned her. After she says, no, Christ says: ‘Nor do I.’ This concept forms the basis of civilised society, and is one central tenet of Christianity that I wholly believe in.

 

We have systems in this country for upholding law through judgement, and while they are a better system of justice than in many other countries, they are not without flaw. We have institutions such as Amnesty International to challenge those who think it acceptable to flog, stone, or kill people in the name of “justice” – which is why I have been a lifelong supporter of Amnesty. Sadly, we also have journalists who are a long way from religion’s Golden Rule, let alone from dropping their stone.

 

So I’ll say it again, before we move onto the next of my cautionary tales: true friends (and maybe family too; and possibly lovers) accept – and love – you as you are. If they don’t, they are not worth having… in which case they may be seen as enemies. In which case, you must love them even more. Whether you believe in God or not, this commandment is the basis of all the prophets and the law.

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

Have-a-go Harry

 

Once upon a time, as all good cautionary tales should begin, there was a man called Harry. While nothing especially bothered him, he was quick to have a go.

            ‘You’re always having a go at me, Harry,’ his girlfriend said: ‘You’re not my mother, you know.’

            ‘That’s true,’ he concurred, but he knew the reason why he saw fit to pick on other people.

            ‘Eat up, Harry,’ his mother would say to him as he struggled with his food, toying with every mouthful, complaining if it was too hot. ‘Too hot?’ she said, doubtful of his plight. Tasting his porridge, she’d assure him: ‘It’s just right: here, have a go, Harry.’ But the boy would tarry until his breakfast was cold.

            At the swimming pool, Harry was just the same. ‘It’s too steamy,’ he complained. His mother thought the water was tepid, and considered her son’s attempts wet and insipid; his reticence quite pathetic – particularly when compared to her daughter’s assertive nature.

            This was how Harry approached the things he did or ate: he’d put things off until it was too late. After all, if you leave a task to the final minute, there are only sixty seconds in it. But of his views, Harry took little time to choose what he believed in. Where others might have procrastinated, Harry was highly opinionated.

            ‘You can’t do that,’ he’d say to his sister. She was seen as the golden girl of the family (oh, how he wished she was perfect) because she was cheeky and bold. In truth, she was naughty, and got away with… well, not murder – unless you’ve heard a different version of this tale.

            At meal-times she was always first at the table, and took as much food as she was able; at bed-times, the last to switch off the light, she listened to music late into the night. She’d play kippy from school; broke more rules than the average exception, and at card-games, Harry’s sister was a mistress of deception.

            While she cheated and skived, Harry derived from her behaviour the piety of a born-again saviour. While she somehow kept off the hook, Harry lived his reticent life by the book.

            He stored up his self-righteous views and, as he grew from boy to man, meted out his opinions on anyone who fell short of his upstanding standards. Including his girlfriend who, much as she loved him, resented the way he presented his high-flown thoughts on Society.

            Although she didn’t demur, she felt he was nonetheless having a go at her. The thing is, Harry wanted everything to be perfect but, despite his presumption, lacked the gumption to tell the people who needed to know.

            There’s little real point to this tale, and certainly no happy-ever-after. Harry’s marriage was hardly made in heaven, but it wasn’t a disaster. His wife would say, ‘Harry, don’t have a go at me – and leave your poor sister alone.’

            Accepting he wasn’t so perfect himself, Harry would drop his stone.

POST SCRIPT:

The link to Inky Fingers is currently unavailable, but the same poem can be found here

Birthdays

I’m one of those people who like to celebrate their birthday. It’s one day of the year when one can feel ‘special.’ I’m less inclined to celebrate Mother’s/Father’s Days. Because they fall on Sundays, it’s impossible to send a card timed to hit their door-mat on the right day anyway.

This might seem a poor excuse, or selfish; I owe my parents for my very existence, after all. But since my birthday is on the eve of Mother’s Day this year, I thought it more appropriate to send a ‘happy my birthday’ card to my mum.

Over the past years, since my life went through colossal turbulence, I’ve been in touch with my parents far more than previously. Frequent texts, regular phone calls; letters by email, and even sent through the post are so important for them (especially a worrying mum) to know I’m okay.

There was a time when I was far from okay. I neglected my parents and their inestimable love, and chose to dwell on hatred of myself and the ‘shitty’ world I perceived. It was a cognitive dissonance that led me into a dark, dark place, and the coping mechanisms I employed went badly wrong.

I’m not going to spell out what I did, or why, or what happened as a result, but I will say this. Because I thought my life was broken, I found a way to ruin it. And I might have succeeded on my mission of total self-destruction, had it not been for my family and friends.

What prevented me was straight forward, pure and simple: Love. Not that love is pure and simple; it’s bloody hard. Knowing that my parents (and my friends) love me in spite of what I did has given me strength to re-build my life, earned me a great deal of respect, and made many proud of me.

This isn’t about forgiveness, which is a far more complicated issue, involving judgement and understanding. Sadly, society is far quicker to judge than to love. For anyone who is, or about to become, a parent, whether of their own or someone else’s child, the only way to protect children from all the ‘shittiness’ of the world – perceived or otherwise – is to LOVE them; totally, unconditionally.

We cannot LOVE while venting hatred on those we find abhorrent; nor while whipping up hysteria and paranoia about non-existent threats; nor by channelling energy into judging those who fall short of what we see as our own self-righteous paradigm. Chances are we are all deluded by a cognitive dissonance that leads us to do harm more easily than to seek for good. We can only LOVE with love.

Last year, Stephen Fry was a guest on Radio 3’s Classical Collection programme, and was speaking about Oscar Wilde, a man who was judged harshly by a hateful society, sent to prison, and became a thoroughly broken man. This is what Stephen Fry said about him on that broadcast:

“He was a giant brought down, and it was monstrous, really, how he was treated. When he came out of prison he was a wreck, a ruin, and he said, at the very moment in this Christian society, especially when you should be embraced when you have completed your sentence: that, in Britain, is actually when your sentence begins.

“He was utterly outcast; no sense of redemption or forgiveness at all - which is one of the reasons I continue to write to people in prison and support prison charities because, no matter what someone has done, although I’m not a Christian I do have the fundamental Christian value that the people for whom one has the most distaste are the ones to whom one should most reach out.”

I’ve never believed in life after death; I regard it as religion’s biggest scam. But I do believe (more now than I did ten years ago when my life was in a mess) that making the best of this strange and beguiling existence is the only way to give back to my loving parents what they have given me. And that is LOVE.

In the meantime, here is the next of my ‘tales of woe.’

 

 

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

 

Kevin the Complainer

The complements came in as the requiem was recited: a sea of sycophantic eulogy and euphemistic excuses for what everybody thought: Kevin was a cunt.

                        “Kevin lived life to the full,” they said, meaning he was constantly drunk. “The life and soul of the party,” meant he filled his cup with others’ generosity.

                        “Kevin kept us entertained all day,” – aye right: and kept us awake all night. “He was gentle and thoughtful,” – allegedly, except when pissed; then became an angry, marauding maniac.

                        “Kevin never complained about being ill,” apparently – but when healthy, was a hypochondriac. They called him Kevin the Complainer. If you think he led a colourful life, it was, in fact, a great deal plainer.

                        And that was what made his funeral even stranger. A good (well, bad) Catholic, he knew to keep the priest and his lot sweet as he faced the final curtain. Agnostic about God (but not his illness – of that he was certain) Kevin attended Mass more times in those three weeks after his diagnosis, hedging his bets against religion’s prognosis.

                        “How long have you got,” asked Father O’Flannel.

                        “About three weeks,” said Kev, “At the most.” The priest gave a sympathetic, head-tilted look as he gently placed the host on Kevin’s tongue. Thinking it was a doctor’s spatula, Kevin said, “Ah,” then quickly turned it to “A-men.”

                        Piously, Father O’Flannel replied: “Bless you, son.” If the church can be trusted for doling out salvation based on spurious certainties, then a Doctor of Medicine surely must be believed in? More than a Quack of Divinity! If one was all in the mind, invented by mankind, the other was proof enough. Given three weeks to live, even a con-man like Kevin didn’t need to seek out a second opinion.

                        “But what if he’s wrong?” the Sceptics asked, knowing Kevin’s track-record for inventing more ailments than a fantasy-footballer’s hamstring. Kevin, overhearing, replied:

                        “Who – God, or the Doctor?” He considered the question so pointless. “I’ll find out, I guess, when I get there,” he scoffed, although whether he meant heaven or hell, nobody offered a thought. Not three weeks but a fortnight later, Kevin was dead.

                        “I told you he was ill,” the Doctor said. But as Father O’Flannel read the last rites, with ‘Placebo Domino in regione vivorum,’ that Doctor started looking shifty. He had a secret to carry to his grave: it wasn’t drugs he gave to Kevin the hyper-conman, but non-effective pills. Kevin wasn’t even slightly ill.

                        For two-and-a-half weeks, Kevin learned a lesson of humility as he came to terms with a made-up God and the truth of his humanity. No wonder he never complained in his final hours: his ailment was indeed in the mind, governed by the power of eternal punishment for his life of sin than the various claims of science, religion, or medicine.

                        “Living life to excess,” the Doctor said to Kev, “Will be the death of you.” In Kevin’s case it transpired to prove the opposite that was true.

 

 

Revenge - The Sweetest?

Recently I wrote a short story about revenge. It was one of those pieces where I tried to cram too many ideas and influences into 3000 words, so it probably won’t get published (in which case, you’ll see it on here some day!) The starting-point was a Walter Scott quote which can be found in the railway station named after his writing.

Scott uses ‘sweetest’ here with bitter irony: revenge is hurtful, dangerous and damaging. When meted out on someone with an already broken life, the effect can be devastating. My short-story began as a curious tale about yarn-bombing. The walking-statue of Robert Fergusson was decorated a few years ago (so this part of the story is true) with a pair of woolly leg-warmers. In my piece, the guerrilla-knitting continued in a more sinister vein, as an ex-lover used yarn-bombs, street-graffiti and finally, photographic means to defame the person who had – so the story claimed – done her no wrong.

The final influence for my writing was a form of revenge that I, in my naïveté, wasn’t even aware was a ‘thing.’ There is a video on this which I urge you click on here before you read on. https://embed.theguardian.com/embed/video/commentisfree/video/2015/jan/21/naked-pictures-this-is-what-i-did-revenge-porn-emma-holten-video

Scoring revenge-points when love goes wrong is a cheap nasty thing to do, especially when that lover has done nothing unpleasant to you. That’s assuming there was any love there in the first place. If all a person wants from a relationship is sex, then love is disenfranchised from the start. And anyone who preys on another person in this way is pretty low.

Posting this on February 14^th may seem churlish, but I want to pick up on one thing from the video. 10% of this sort of revenge mentioned is carried out on men. That’s a significant proportion. I don’t want to bang on about victim culture here, but it seems that we can all be vulnerable from time to time, and must defend ourselves from unscrupulous people.

This month’s Cautionary Tale (again, not exactly celebrating St Valentine) is about someone who, through trying to be gregarious, chatty, and friendly puts herself in danger. When a person demonstrates good nature, whether they are a woman, a man, or a mouse, no-one has the right to take advantage of them. My mother used to say, “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” To avenge someone who has done nothing wrong to you makes you less than wrong. It makes you amoral.

I’ll end with a more pleasant conclusion. Last week, a different sort of yarn-bomb adorned the Robert Fergusson statue. It was not just a scarf, but an anonymous act of altruism, enough to melt anyone’s heart. Next month’s story is another Tale of back-fired benevolence, but one that I hope has a happier ending. But here, while I’m being utterly un-romantic, is this month’s amoral misery.

 

 

 

 

 

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Deborah Dangermouse

 

Deborah Dangermouse, Dangermouse Debbie, was hell-bent on putting herself at risk. She’d court conversations with total strangers, stickily stirring up situations like a wooden spoon beats up a chocolate-cake mix; whipping up turbulent salutations like egg-white puffed up with a whisk. 

                Dangermouse Debbie cared little for safety, and less for her health; she’d strike up a sentence in mid-conversation, having seemingly picked out her victim by stealth. Bashful and meek, she’d be walking alongside the man in the street, then suddenly pipe up: her little voice giving her co-pedestrian minimal choice. An instinct to overcome reticence, she did this with alarming lack of defence: one minute, quiet-as-a-mouse, not a squeak, then mid-sentence they’d find themselves haplessly having to speak.

                Debbie did nothing through malice or evil intent; her innocent banter came out of a simple desire to be friendly. Fed up with spending too long in the house, cooped up like a chicken, a hermit holed up in a cave, starved of company; a church mouse without any family; a domestic rodent without a cat, all Deborah Dangermouse craved was the chance of an innocent chat.

                Where was the danger in that?

                In the pub, in a queue, in the street or a park: wherever everyday people meet and engage she’d hover and pluck subjects out of thin air: Dangermouse Deborah just didn’t care. For Deborah, danger was so little bother and not a concern, she’d prattle in full-flowing waffle before her poor victim knew what they’d let themselves in for.

                At the bus-stop: The 34’s always late – I got stood up once, on a date – do you know how they work out the timetables – and she was off, full-pelt, non-stop. Woe-betide the passenger who got on the bus with Deborah: the assailed was pinned down to a lengthy, unwanted discussion until he or she reached her stop.

                In the disco: This is my favourite tune – last night was a full moon – did you know there are seventeen moves that are grooved by your average dancer – and before they had the chance to shimmy away or turn their back, Debbie would get them to listen to her full repertoire of fascinating chat.

                In the bar, she’d sidle unsuspected up to middle-aged men who were more selective about who they drank with. ‘I’m Mouse,’ she’d announce, ‘But you’ll probably call me some other name.’ (She got “Mouse” from a worrying mother, who protected her strictly from dangers, warning of single-men, weirdoes and strangers.) All the same, within seconds, Debbie was up to her tricks.

                She’d been accosting unsuspecting folk ever since she was six; by twelve she knew she had greater allure, and by 24 she had plenty in store for the gibbering drunk or colossal pub bore. Her loosening tongue and her loquacious banter created a thirst, for which one opportunist (he won’t be the first) provided a goal for her ultimate danger.

                Oh, Dangermouse Deborah, didn’t you think to look closer at what that man put in your drink?

Musical Intrusions

Last year, the ‘Antifolk’ musician and writer known as Lach was interviewed on the Radio by Janice Forsyth, who expressed surprise at the concept of an ‘internal soundtrack.’ Ask any musician what’s going on inside their head, and they’ll undoubtedly say, “Music, of course,” – although they might not be able to identify what music it is. As a musician myself, I find the aural back-drop is sometimes so deeply embedded, I’m not even aware of it. But I know it’s there. Other times, it is (almost) infuriatingly present. Often I get Bach arias on repeat; the Walton viola concerto, or bits of early Genesis stuck for hours.

Conversely, I find the constant intrusion of music in public spaces intensely irritating, especially in supermarkets. The Co-op (or Scot-mid, as we call it here in the Central Belt) always has the music on too loud, while Morrison’s has a more subtle volume (and often, an amusingly retro choice of music.) But the thing that sets my local Sainsbury’s in high standing above its competitors is the absence of piped music being played in the shop. 

Imagine my horror when, a few years ago, as I was making my selection from the range of Taste the Difference coffees, the sound of a steel guitar came piping through the speaker-system normally reserved for customer announcements!  For a second I wondered if I was being serenaded by Ry Cooder, but it transpired that it was Charleen Spiteri trying to choose between taking a lover, or a friend. 

I was trying to choose between Kenyan or Guatemalan roast. 

By the time I had reached the till, I was wound up to the point of irritable. The loud-speakers seemed to be suggesting (courtesy of the Bee-gees) that I should be dancing.  No, I should be shopping: this is Sainsbury’s, not a 1970s disco.  Not even the appearance of John Travolta in his flared white suit would have cheered me: I was grumpy and sullen as I left with my messages. When I wrote to the manager expressing my dismay, he replied to say that, after the shop closes they play music to entertain the late-night shelf-stackers. That evening, it must have come on early by mistake; it would not happen again.

 These two episodes were the inspiration behind the next of my Cautionary Tales from Charlotte and the Charlatan. I’m greatly honoured that Lach has asked me to read at the Launch Party for his new collection, The Thin Book of Poems, which was published this week. Naturally, I will be performing this story, as well as one of the poems from Lach’s book.

 

The great thing about Lach is his ability to embrace and engage with people from all walks of life, no matter what music is going on in their head. Long live the Antifolk!

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

Melodious Megan

 

There was never a time in Megan’s head when music could never be heard. She thought it absurd when somebody said their head was empty; there was plenty inside even if you denied an appreciation of music. You couldn’t choose it either. A person didn’t decide to have an internal juke-box playing: it just went on and on without saying.

            Megan had a constant musical babble accompanying her thoughts. Like a trickle of water from a dribbling tap, an incessant flow of sound followed her round, as if she was in her own film with a personal playlist. Her film-score came out of the depths of her mind; every kind of music played from the time she awoke to the moment she went to bed (even then, the noise continued somewhere inside her head.)

            There was no theory behind what music appeared in her mind. Occasionally she attempted to think of a melody, but she couldn’t pre-empt it: internally the music took its own course. It wasn’t a thing she could force or control, and while from time to time an ear-worm took its toll it would soon be replaced with another snatch that erased the original catch. Sometimes she would stop to greet a friend, but the music continued of its own accord, emerging subsequently on a different chord.

            Was it to do with being a musician? Megan wondered if a magician’s head was full of tricks and illusions. Did a mathematician constantly puzzle over algebraic solutions? A writer’s mind was full of different personalities, while an actor battled with voices and others’ realities? This idea filled Megan with fear: that a person cannot escape or separate their mental landscape from their profession.

            “It concerns me,” she told Charlotte, “That my internal symphony will be what others think of me.” She wondered: “Is this why people identify with what they do instead of who they are?”

            “You’re not far off,” said Lottie: “We’re judged by what we do. While most keep their inner voices hidden, others have no choice but to wear their foibles on their sleeve.”

            Megan asked, “If you believe in what you do, you should be proud of who you are?”

            “Only if,” said Charlotte, “It’s a true reflection. For most, our outer persona is a deflection of who we are. We rarely see the person behind the mask.”

            “That,” replied Megan, “Is not my greatest fear. When I look in the mirror, it’s not what I see but what I hear that riles me.”

            Charlotte gave a knowing smile: “This thing will not define you.  One day your head will play a different melody; you won’t need to explain yourself according to the tune that others think they hear. Their violence – and your fear – will be replaced with soothing silence.”

            That alarms me, thought Megan: I don’t want the noise to go any time soon. So she put Lottie’s theory on mute. And turned up her internal volume.

 

 

Humbug

I’ve never really ‘got’ Glasgow. My main dislike is that, as soon as you leave Queen Street or Central Station, you are faced with a sea of shops and a surge of shoppers. You have to push against the tide to find the stuff for which Glasgow is also famous. I usually head straight for GOMA, then Trongate or cca to get my cultural bearings, yet it is impossible to ignore the thousands of people surfing through the ‘style mile.’

So there I was in Glasgow recently, on the last weekend before Christmas, the worst possible time of year for one who hates displays of commerce, consumerism and affluence – a different sort of cca. And the first thing I thought about when I saw a piece by Barbara Kruger in GOMA was her famous work, I shop, therefore I am.

Many think that the run-up to Christmas is what the festive season represents. This frenzy of shopping, partying and pseudo-celebration of something that hasn’t yet happened becomes a fairground without a purpose except to rejoice in its own existence. It’s as though people can only identify with their materialist identity by jumping on the merry-go-round of spending.

The only thing that halts this spree is Christmas Day, when – thankfully – most shops are shut. Well, sometimes I also wish it could be Christmas every day. Far from being the first of twelve days of hearty eating and drinking to fatten us up for the hard months ahead, for many this is where the celebration ends: Boxing Day is when you tear down the decorations, chuck out the tree, and start the diet.

There is an expression in the Bible about performing acts of charity without letting the left hand know what the right is doing. A sinister adaptation of this image now occurs as a metaphor for corporate ignorance, where one ‘body’ is unaware of what is going on in a different department. This lack of communication between two elements is, on one hand, a worthy sentiment while, on the other, a symbol of failure.

We know, of course, that not all acts of generosity are performed with pure altruism. There is a concept in psychology which takes on the idea that we rarely give without expecting some form of reciprocation. I have played with this in the next of my Cautionary Tales, which I will post below. But first, to return to Glasgow. Not the shops, or pubs, or other cultures, but the people.

I was due to attend the launch of Northern Renewal who had included two of my poems in their latest issue. Nervous about going to an event where I didn’t know anyone, feeling fractious after battling through Christmas crowds, I popped into a nearby Wetherspoons for a pint of Old Scrooge. But when I arrived at the Launch Party I was welcomed with warmth, generosity, and immense friendliness.

These, as many folk are keen to point out, are factors that typify the Glasgow spirit, whether in the streets and shops, theatres or concert halls, pubs, clubs, or art galleries. Sadly, as I write this, Glasgow is reeling in another tragedy, following on from the Clutha disaster and the GSA fire, which will test its spirit and resilience.

I cannot imagine the horror of this incident, and my heart goes out to all those who, while engrossed in what I have dared to suggest was a meaningless pursuit of ‘happiness,’ found themselves in the grip of true horror. A lorry, out of control, among the juggernaut crowds of shoppers. There are some who will want to throw out the tree before Christmas Day arrives. And who can blame them?

Anyone who tells you that Jesus came to die for us so that we might have eternal life is lying: He came that we might live life to the full. This is what those folk were doing when death ploughed through the crowds with its uncharitable scythe. Days before, I was moaning about meaningless money, forgetting that Edinburgh Council’s vulgar slogan is ‘Inspiring Capital’ while Glasgow’s is, ‘People Make Glasgow.’ This is what will get those hardy Glaswegians through the coming days, and years. And life.

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

 

Benevolent Benedict

 

Benedict lived for one thing only:

to give. His reason to live was

to show unconditional generosity.

For Ben, this was a need more than basic;

he hated greed and favoured altruistic

gestures that required no reciprocity.

Generous to a tee, he gave to charity,

and abhorred all selfish acts.

Giving was selfless and never performed

while hoping for something back.

To make a donation was money-well-spent:

this was the philosophy of Mr. Benevolent.

 

This life-choice wasn’t derived

from religious affinity. For Ben,

it was more about ‘light’ than

the darkness of religions’ thrust,

which required you to trust that

you would be rewarded for your

good deeds. Whether there’s laughter

in Heaven or not, there’s no point

in bequeathing a gift to someone

who has breathed their final breath.

Uninspired by the life-hereafter,

he awarded a higher value to life before death.

 

“But can you be sure?” his friends would ask:

“That all your giving will be remembered

after you’ve left the land of the living?”

“That,” said Benedict, confident,

“Is no concern to me: I’ll be dead and gone.

Whatever money I earned or spent

won’t follow me into the grave.

I’ll be remembered by what I gave,

not what I took, even if eternity has been,

or will be, proven to be a reality.”

“But this life,” his friends remonstrated,

“Is ours for the taking: we must get all we can.”

 

“Oh really!” said Ben: “You’ll pay dearly

if you consider this life as anything more

than a gift.” Saying this, he knew that a rift

was forming between him and his associates.

“Wealth creates wealth,” they said:

“If you give it away, you’ll have nothing to show for.”

“For sure,” was Benedict’s curt reply: 

“And, by the same token, nothing to pay!

It’s better not to be indebted

than die in the red with a life half-regretted.”

 

“Surely,” said his friends:  “You must make

the best of the life you’ve got? Yesterday-

remembered is better than tomorrow-forgot.

Speculate, accumulate, and enjoy it to the full.”

Benedict was dismayed by their rhetoric.

It wasn’t in Ben’s nature to be uncharitable,

so he showered them with compliments,

accolades and, above all, unconditional

forgiveness (otherwise known as love.)

But he still had something to prove.

So he gave the ultimate gift with his left hand

not knowing what the right was doing.

 

Again, his friends eschewing

his selflessness, said: “You may

think of yourself as a generous donor,

but if you disown a responsibility

that most of us are unable to avoid,

you are no more benevolent than

Father Christmas, that fraudulent fake,

is opulent.” This may have been true,

but there was nothing Ben could do.

Time went on, and Benedict never

considered that what he did was wrong.

 

He continued to do for others what

he never thought of doing for himself.

And whether he got into Heaven or not,

he spent all his earthly life alone,

on the shelf, confessing that life

had been an unrequited blessing.

Grappling with Issues

November is a Big Month for writers – in particular those who attempt the crazy exercise of writing a novel in a month. Last year, I engaged in NaNoWriMo but cheated, somewhat, by re-editing a draft of a novel that I had shelved for a while. Sadly it remains on the shelf.

For Scots, and especially Edinburghers, the 13^th of November represents another important literary date: Robert Louis Stevenson Day. My friends at the UNESCO City of Literature throw themselves into this each year, with a mixture of events both intellectual and frolicsome. Two years ago a “tache-mob” was organised, where literary types gathered sporting the celebrated RLS moustache.

Another sort-of related theme that has taken over November is where (mainly) men let the hair on their top lip grow out. I’ve nothing against this, but I believe it has resulted in a resurgence of tache-fashion. Not, I confess, something I view with much passion.

Let’s not be churlish: “Movember” raises not only money, but awareness of an important issue. We are not as entrapped in the taboo over cancer as we used to be, but I think there’s a vital factor which is the way men deal with things mentally. The UK Movember website suggests numerous, complex factors affecting men’s health:

• Lack of awareness and understanding of the health issues men face
• Men not openly discussing their health and how they’re feeling
• Reluctance to take action when men don’t feel physical or mentally well
• Men engaging in risky activities that threaten their health  
• Stigmas surrounding mental health

It’s that last one that gets me. If men were more minded to fix their minds, wouldn’t the former factors follow suit? Sadly, many men hide behind a mask that prevents them from confronting their problems. Ultimately, Movember is a fun way to address this. And so, my next Cautionary Tale is just a bit of fun… but with a serious message.

from Charlotte & The Charlatan – and other cautionary tales

 

Gesticulate Gerry

 

Gerry was fond of a drink or two, and although not a soul in his work-place would think, when he got down the pub, that this mild-mannered man from finance without but a hair out of place, with a beer down his throat, was all over the place. And Why? Because Gerry seemed to lose the capacity to articulate his mildly intelligent words without an absurd need to over-gesticulate.

            In the office you’d hardly call Gerry flamboyant, passionate, animated. There was nothing about him you loved or hated; he was neither a winner nor loser. But down the boozer, his arms flew around like a windmill; his fingers were nimble, his hands, never still; he’d give vent to his words with elaborate gestures; a casual onlooker could probably guess what his dramatised spraff meant – which Gerry performed without hint of embarrassment.

            In the mirror you’d see him perform in full flow, with waving and gesture out-camping his colleagues with exaggerated posture, as if so engaged with his story the floor was a stage for each anecdote, adage, analogy, tale. Arms, fingers and sometimes legs would fly out and around like semaphore flags – you could say his stories were quite metaphorical, or in this case, downright semaphorical.

            If he was eclipsed by another body, you could still see Gerry’s limbs fly around like a fire-fly, like a demented marionette with its strings all akimbo; behind that silhouetted torso, like a daddy-long-legs in a lamp-shade – but more so. Gerry had arms too, and long ones at that, which presented a danger; a cause of alarm for the casual stranger. Keep an eye on your beer; hold on to your hat.

            Yet Gerry, with all his gesticular flair wasn’t only content with just groping the air. He thought nothing of grappling with gentlemen’s bits, nor – for the pursuit of a narrative – grabbing a handful of threepenny bits. You had to admit, he was entertaining, though Gerry’s behaviour took some explaining back in the office, after the weekend. If given the slightest interrogation, he’d pretend it was all gross exaggeration.

            You could never accuse him, for all his exuberance, of outlandish or concupiscent deviance: Gerry had no time for human touch, intimacy or lusty intention. His life was inert in that department, he had no truck with whatever affairs of the heart meant. In the morning he could barely recall how many body-parts his fingers had fumbled, or how many glasses tumbled as he threw out his shapes, molesting tits and arses for the sake of a quip: Gerry couldn’t give a flip.

            Only, one day in his morning shower, preparing himself for the 9-to-5 hour, he recalled the weekend’s escapades, his indulgence of over-dramatic charades, he wished he’d tried a similar action upon himself. He was caught in the single person’s accumulation of wealth that leads a man to care little, or naught, for his health. For all Gerry’s secret existence gesticular, he’d failed to feel for a far bigger issue testicular.