I first kissed a boy at 12 years old, on the school ski-ing holiday. We, a “naice” London all-girls’ school, were accommodated with two boys’ schools, one from the heart of Glasgow and one from the Isle of Man. So it was to Joe Birrell I first gave my lips, if not my heart. He taught me to sing “I belong to Glasgow”, for in truth we had little to talk about. Every week for three months after our week away, he sent me letters detailing the fights he’d had, or was hoping to have. I never, to my shame, wrote back.
Yet something had lodged in my lizard brain, or else I was cursed by the bad fairy as a child. I have stumbled over Scots when I least expected to, always end up drinking in some shabeen at 3am in the morning with Scots when away from home, and was requested twice to go up to work in Glasgow, which is how I met husband. I am now the proud owner of what are making every appearance of being Scottish children.
Monday, November the 30th is St. Andrew’s Day. Traditionally, SNP members meet at 11am outside their local hostelry for the stirrup cup, and then go with their pack of Westies and Scottish Terriers on a foot hunt for Englishmen.
Yet something had lodged in my lizard brain, or else I was cursed by the bad fairy as a child. I have stumbled over Scots when I least expected to, always end up drinking in some shabeen at 3am in the morning with Scots when away from home, and was requested twice to go up to work in Glasgow, which is how I met husband. I am now the proud owner of what are making every appearance of being Scottish children.
Monday, November the 30th is St. Andrew’s Day. Traditionally, SNP members meet at 11am outside their local hostelry for the stirrup cup, and then go with their pack of Westies and Scottish Terriers on a foot hunt for Englishmen.
Ready. Aye. Ready!
So to celebrate St. Andrew’s Day (hooray for Regulus!), the Monday poem.
Which is all about surveillance. Over a hundred and fifty officers worked on this operation; I got Andy.
So to celebrate St. Andrew’s Day (hooray for Regulus!), the Monday poem.
Which is all about surveillance. Over a hundred and fifty officers worked on this operation; I got Andy.
Union
Andrew Hamilton, red brick wall of man,
rugby-ruined face, you scared people.
“Call me Andy”, you said, “the Animal.”
Incomprehensible, the Edinburgh bloke translated;
I had blanched as your vowel sounds mauled my ears,
but my mouth smiled, and accent aside, Andy,
you never made much sense anyway.
Condemned by some clerical error
to a fortnight at your side,
you, Andy Hamilton, were my partner.
I made the best.
After the briefing day (I made the notes)
we hit the town, you, the pavement,
for you could drink, big man, you could drink.
Which meant, every morning, you could not drive,
so I did; but it also meant, every morning,
you could not read the map, so I did;
but it also meant, every morning,
you could not operate the radio,
so I did. Mornings were not good,
and that’s omitting the vomiting.
From around mid-afternoon, however,
you came into your own
and could do things with a car
I could only dream of.
At 140 we sang together, your head clear,
your soul good, I cried out the route,
you raced it and the speed and the song
made me love you then, and life.
Remember you saved me at Chesterfield?
Nowhere for me to disappear,
but you spotted the dossers,
grabbed a can, and God, Andy,
you were good in the gutter.
I don’t think the tramps even realised
you were not one of them.
We were different, Andrew Hamilton, you and I,
but together we made a team, solid.
You were sick into my handbag once,
a Mulberry; I never left you then
and you, big man,
you have never left me.
Andrew Hamilton, red brick wall of man,
rugby-ruined face, you scared people.
“Call me Andy”, you said, “the Animal.”
Incomprehensible, the Edinburgh bloke translated;
I had blanched as your vowel sounds mauled my ears,
but my mouth smiled, and accent aside, Andy,
you never made much sense anyway.
Condemned by some clerical error
to a fortnight at your side,
you, Andy Hamilton, were my partner.
I made the best.
After the briefing day (I made the notes)
we hit the town, you, the pavement,
for you could drink, big man, you could drink.
Which meant, every morning, you could not drive,
so I did; but it also meant, every morning,
you could not read the map, so I did;
but it also meant, every morning,
you could not operate the radio,
so I did. Mornings were not good,
and that’s omitting the vomiting.
From around mid-afternoon, however,
you came into your own
and could do things with a car
I could only dream of.
At 140 we sang together, your head clear,
your soul good, I cried out the route,
you raced it and the speed and the song
made me love you then, and life.
Remember you saved me at Chesterfield?
Nowhere for me to disappear,
but you spotted the dossers,
grabbed a can, and God, Andy,
you were good in the gutter.
I don’t think the tramps even realised
you were not one of them.
We were different, Andrew Hamilton, you and I,
but together we made a team, solid.
You were sick into my handbag once,
a Mulberry; I never left you then
and you, big man,
you have never left me.
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