NOT A GREAT IDEA

I see that Peter Lawwell has been elected to the main board of the SFA. Of course, you won't read about this in the Daily Record. Just as this rag supports the Big Lie, hoping that if it keeps saying 'Rangers' often enough we'll all believe the club never died, so they ignore Lawwell's appointment, hoping that by doing so then it will go away. They've still to tell their readers that Lawwell was appointed to the ECA earlier this year so this latest denial is par for the course.
 
As to the election to the SFA board itself, I'm not sure that Lawwell accepting such a position is an altogether wise move. Certainly, he will make sure that there is a more level playing field than there has been in the past and he can counter the pernicious influence of Cambell Ogilvie EBT but I think it will be a bit of a PR disaster. We've had to listen to the paranoid whining of The Peeppul for ages now but it can only get worse with this appointment. Every time from now on that Bisto FC faces another financial catastrophe Peter Lawwell will get the blame. Every time the man in the middle fails to grant the expected favours to Bisto FC then Peter Lawwell will get the blame. And it won't just be The Peeppul themselves pointing the finger; their friends in the media will be on hand to make sure that the myth of the Ibrox team being hard-done-by is kept to the fore. Like I say, I don't think this was the wisest of moves on the part of Peter Lawwell.
 
With all the in-fighting still going on among The Peeppul, it's nice to see that they have something to smile about. They have Ronny Deila to thank. That display in Warsaw was nothing short of embarrassing. Yes, the two penalties were soft to say the least and it's always hard playing with ten men but Legia scored two before Ambrose was sent off. The second half was pretty poor by Celtic and it was only because Legia aren't as great as they think they are that the score didn't end up being a complete humiliation. As it is, 4-1 isn't insurmountable but if Celtic play as they did last night then they haven't a hope in hell.
 
The jury's still out on Deila but he's going to have to come up with the goods pretty quickly. Throwing a new signing in at the start of an important tie like this shows remarkable naïvety. Hopefully Deila gets his shit together before the tie at Murrayfield or it's going to be the qualifiers for the Europa League, if we're lucky!

And so the Commonwealth Games is coming to an end. By all accounts it's been a great success and the closing ceremony will hand over to Australia's Gold Coast for the next Games. Kylie Minogue is going to appear to represent Australia, so who's been picked to represent Glasgow? Well, there's Lulu, God help us, some electronic group I've never heard of, called Prides or something, and then, the big headliner...Deacon Blue. I mean, Deacon Blue FFS! If they wanted to resurrect some old band then surely some internationally-known one would have been better. What about Simple Minds? Or what about Midge Ure? At least then everybody round the world watching would know who they are, instead of the God-awful, parochial Deacon Blue leading a singalong for the grannies! Come back, Altered Images, all is forgiven!

 "Hello, playmates, it's your old pal, Big-Hearted Bill Struth again! Now, what's all this I hear about a Celtic chairman getting onto the SFA board? Is that what they call progress? Next thing you know they'll be letting blackfellows, Jews and, Heaven help us, women in! It wasn't like that in my day! Ayyyyyythenkyow!"

 Here's the first chapter of the new book I'm working on. Let me know what you think:

Chapter 1

 

The first thing they really noticed was the smell. It was like nothing they had ever encountered in their lives before. John Donnelly stood at the rail of the steamer looking apprehensively at the scene unfolding on the river bank. For the thousandth time he wondered if he was doing the right thing bringing his family to this place. But they had three children now and a farm labourer’s wages would never be enough. He knew what it was like to be hungry and was determined that his children would never have that knowledge.

The heat was oppressive as well. It had been a long journey over from Belfast, with the sun beating down on them all but now it seemed hotter, even though the sun was nowhere to be seen. John fingered his collar, desperate to take it off.

‘I think I’m going to be sick with that smell, Daddy!’ said Kate beside him.

‘Me as well!’ said Wee John.’

These were two of his children; the baby, Maggie, was with her mother, being fed in some quiet corner. Of the two standing next to him, holding tightly onto his hands, Kate was the older, having not long since turned eight. Wee John was four and was already becoming a bit of a tearaway.

John felt a bit sick himself. The voyage had actually been fine, apart from the heat, and none of his family had suffered from the sea-sickness affecting others on the steamer. Now he felt like joining those that were hanging over the side, trying to be sick even though there was nothing left in their stomachs to bring up. Most folk had recovered a bit during the journey up the River Clyde but that disgusting, all-pervasive smell had, if anything, made them worse. It was not just a smell; you could actually taste it in the back of your throat.

And there was not just the smell making the place seem hellish. Dirty smoke seemed to hang everywhere, making it impossible to see very far. Dark, distant shapes suggested buildings but they could just as easily have been hills or even giants, like from the old stories. And even though the smoke hid the sun from view it trapped the heat, making it hard to breathe. John imagined that this was what Hell was probably like.

Rosie, his wife, came back to join them, the baby sleeping contentedly in the large shawl that was wrapped round Rosie’s waist, shoulders and head. They said nothing to each other but just stood and stared. Neither of them could believe that this was going to be their home from now on.

John irritably fingered his collar again. He looked at Rosie, wondering how she managed to cope wrapped up in that shawl. She nudged him with her elbow.

‘Stop playing with that collar!’ she admonished. ‘You’ll end up making it all dirty!’

The smoke got thicker as the steamer approached the Broomielaw quay. There seemed to be hundreds of the small ships, belching thick, black clouds from their funnels. There was a lot of shouting going on between the crews on the different ships and between them and men on the quayside. Their steamer ground to a halt as it waited for a berth.

At last, after a wait of nearly twenty minutes, the steamer pulled into the quayside and ropes were thrown ashore, to be tied round capstans by the waiting men. A gangway was shoved onto the steamer, ropes on either side of it to stop anyone from falling, and all the passengers started to move toward it.

Everyone was coughing and John and his family were no exception. It was like being forced to stand over a fire and breathe in the smoke. It went right down into your lungs and seemed to stay there. You could feel it working its way through your whole body, inside and out, like it was going to be there forever and you would never get rid of it.

Everyone was silent as they walked down the gangway, apart from all the coughing of course. John screwed up his eyes against the smoke and looked around. Everything was dirty. The buildings were black with soot, the sky was black with smoke and even the skin of the people he saw seemed to have black dirt and grime ingrained in it.

‘Daddy,’ said Wee John, in between coughs, ‘I want to go home.’

‘This is our home now,’ John replied tersely and hoarsely.

‘John!’ shouted somebody in the crowd ahead of them. ‘John Donnelly!’

A man was waving to him. It took a while for recognition to dawn in John’s head as the man looked like all the other men standing there. He had on a grey, flat cap, greasy-looking black trousers above heavy, black boots. A clean collar was around his neck, holding a tie, which, along with his shirt, was mostly hidden behind a tight, black jacket, which had all three buttons fastened. Finally, John recognised his cousin, Hugh Devlin, and waved back.

‘Welcome to Glasgow,’ said Hugh, as John and his family reached where he was waiting for them.

It had been a few years since John had clapped eyes on his cousin, who had moved to Glasgow seven years before. Since then he had turned into a Glaswegian; the dirt was etched into the lines on his face, as if somebody had coloured them in with a thick pencil. John’s heart missed a beat when he realised that he would look like that as well one day.

‘Good to meet you again, Rosie,’ said Hugh cheerfully. ‘And this must be Kate and Wee John!’ He scooped them both up in his huge arms and placed them, screaming delightedly, onto his shoulders, one on each side. ‘Ready to go, then, John?’

With Wee John and Kate held securely on his wide shoulders, Hugh started to lead them east along the Broomielaw. John pushed the big, old, wooden pram that held their few possessions tied up in a large bundle. He smiled at Rosie reassuringly and she did the same but they could both tell from each other’s expression that neither of them felt particularly confident.

They were not the only ones heading east; it seemed that everyone that had got off the steamer was going in the same direction. There was a crowd in front of them and another crowd behind them, all silent as the grave. John wondered if they had all received letters like the one he had got from Hugh, telling him how to behave in Glasgow. It was best to keep your head down and keep quiet until you arrived at your destination.

It seemed to take forever going along this street and John began to wonder if they were still on the same one or had moved onto another, or even a third. The street was crowded with horses and carts, delivering goods to and taking them away from the quayside. There were crowds of people too but they were all on the other side of the street, where the shops stood. John stole a couple of sidelong glances at these people and saw a mixture of folk; men dressed like him, others wearing more expensive clothes. There were women and children too, dressed according to their station in life. Some of them stopped and stared at the procession on the other side of the road. One or two boys pointed and said something, receiving a clip round the ear for their cheek.

Then John saw something he had never seen before and almost stopped in his tracks to stare. It was a woman with no hat, shawl or any other kind of covering over her head! He was quite shocked. He knew it was 1899, nearly a new century, but still…

At last, just when it seemed as if they were going to walk in the same direction forever, Hugh led John and Rosie across the street. The rest of the crowd kept going the same way, hardly noticing the small group that had left them. John looked across quickly at the long procession as he followed Hugh along a side street. He wondered where they were all going.

High buildings rose on either side of this new street. The street itself was quite narrow so it had a slightly claustrophobic feel; this was more than made up for, however, by how cool it was. John smiled as he watched Wee John and Kate, still on Hugh’s shoulders, gaze upwards, open-mouthed. There was nobody else around so John felt brave enough to speak.

‘Hugh?’ he asked. ‘Are we going somewhere different from the rest of those folk?’

‘No,’ Hugh replied, stopping and turning to face John. ‘This way is longer but, believe me, a lot better. Just remember what I said about looking inconspicuous!’

It was a long journey and rather a winding one. Mostly they travelled along narrow backstreets but, now and again, they had to venture out onto a main thoroughfare. Just like on the Broomielaw there was a mixture of people of different classes, whose way of looking at the family differed according to their station. People of the same class as John looked at them with hatred in their eyes, while the more well-to-do held handkerchiefs to their noses and viewed the small group with utter disdain. John could not help but notice that there was a certain amount of fear in their expressions too. Still, he was glad that these individuals were on the streets as he knew that the working-class folk would not dare commit violence in plain sight of their betters.

Gradually the grand buildings disappeared, to be replaced by a street of work yards and working-class tenements. John allowed himself a glance up at the street’s name: Baird Street. When he looked down again he felt a knot tighten in his stomach and a cold chill run through him. A small group of about half-a-dozen ne’er-do-wells were leaning against a wall up ahead, smoking cigarettes and clay pipes. Not one of them was wearing a cap or a jacket or even a shirt collar. Their dirty, collarless shirts hung loosely on their skinny, hollow-chested frames. They looked sneeringly at John and his family but said nothing.

Even when Hugh walked in front of them they remained silent. There was, however, a tension in the air, which John could feel stretched almost to breaking point. He and Rosie had reached the men and John felt himself relax slightly; it looked as if nothing was going to happen. And then Kate spoke.

‘Are we nearly there, Uncle Hugh?’ she asked in a loud voice. ‘I’m bursting for the toilet!’

The sound of her Irish voice somehow roused the crowd of ruffians from their torpor.

‘Just what we need,’ said one of the men loudly, ‘more fucking tinkers from Paddy-land!’

‘Why don’t you all fuck off back to Oirland!’ shouted another.

‘Aye!’ another agreed. ‘We don’t want you over here stealing our fucking jobs!’

John doubted if the man had ever done an honest day’s work in his life! He felt the muscles in his arms tense but he kept his eyes to the ground. One came right over and gave John a push. John made the mistake of raising his eyes and looking directly into the man’s face. It was an ugly face, thin and unshaven, with the mouth pursed into a rictus of hatred. The man took the clay pipe from his mouth and spoke.

‘Here’s some holy water for you, you cunt!’ he said and spat right into John’s face.

As soon as he’d done it he moved back slightly, nervous about what John’s reaction might be. John looked at the man’s ugly, smiling face, whose mouth exposed the few black and broken teeth that the man still possessed. He could smell the man’s breath from the spit; it smelled of cheap tobacco, stale beer and decay. He took his hands off the pram, took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. The muscles in his arms tightened and he felt the heat rising in his face. The man in front of him started to show fear. After all, John could probably rip his skinny carcass apart with his bare hands.

Rosie put a hand on John’s arm and gripped it tightly. He turned and looked at her and then ahead at Hugh’s pleading expression. Without saying anything he put his hands back on the handle of the pram and moved off, Rosie still holding onto his arm, as if nothing had happened.

‘That’s right!’ shouted the skinny man. ‘Just keep moving if you know what’s good for you!’

Children suddenly appeared from every nook and cranny; obviously drawn by the shouting. They soon sized up the situation and decided to join in the fun. They started to skip behind the family, keeping enough distance for a good head-start if things turned nasty. A couple of them started chanting in a sing-song voice.

‘Stinky-minky-tinkers!’ they sang.

The other children soon joined in. Others came to see what the commotion was and added their voices to the refrain. Before long there were about forty children skipping along, singing their new song at the top of their lungs. John had never felt so frustrated and humiliated in his life.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity, they reached the end of Baird Street, where Castle Street ran from left to right in front of them. As soon as Hugh stepped onto the road, and they saw where he was heading, most of the children turned and ran back along Baird Street. A few hardy souls followed the family across the road, looking to squeeze as much pleasure out of the game as possible.

Hugh led John, Rosie and their small band of tormentors onto another road, which John noticed was called Garngad Road. He recognised the name and realised that they almost right at their destination. Once they had gone along Garngad Road a way, Hugh let Kate and Wee John down from his shoulders and stood, holding their hands, waiting for John and Rosie to catch up with him.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ he said, letting go of the children’s hands.

The band of singers saw him advancing on them and turned tail to run off. One of them was not quick enough, however, and received the full force of Hugh’s right foot up his rear end.

‘My dad’ll get you for that!’ the boy shouted, once he was a safe distance away

‘Send him along!’ Hugh shouted back. ‘I’ll kick his arse as well!’

He took Kate and Wee John by the hand and led his small band forward again. Now that they seemed to have reached home turf, John allowed himself a look round. What he saw was hardly inspiring. All around were filthy, close-packed tenements, which looked as if they might collapse if somebody farted too hard. The buildings were black with soot and you could not see the sky for the smoke and filth. The smell was even worse here and John guessed that the source was nearby. It could not be good for you, living in this place and John regretted again bringing his family here; but what else could he have done?

Among the tenements were different factories with chimneys reaching up to the sky. All the works were closed, it being a Saturday evening, but some of the chimneys still vomited a constant stream of dirty smoke into the sky. John guessed that the fires beneath them were difficult to get lit and so were never allowed to go out. He let out an involuntary cough at the mere thought of all the filth floating about in the air around him.

There were dirty children playing in the street, kicking a makeshift ball composed of rags, while others were pushing each other in an old pram. A group of girls sat on the opposite pavement, trying to beautify their grubby, old rag dolls. He shuddered when he realised that this was going to be his own children’s playground.

They passed a few streets leading off the main street to the left, where John saw the same scenes of children playing while women hung out of windows, watching them.

‘Just round this corner!’ called Hugh cheerily.

They turned into a narrow street where the tenements were more closely packed than they had been on Garngad Road. It meant that what little light there was filtering through the smoke was mostly cut off, making it seem as if night was already falling. Thankfully, it also made the street slightly cooler than out on Garngad Road. John looked up at the faded sign on the end building; Cobden Street.

The buildings had openings all the way along the street, on either side, like dark mouths yawning, as if to show that they did not care about the people within. John and his family followed Hugh into one of these mouths.

Inside the close the chemical smells were replaced by smells of unwashed people and the lingering smells of old cooking. These were familiar odours and were a welcome relief from the all-pervading stench outside. It made the place seem more like home. There were noises of people talking, babies crying and a man and woman arguing. John noticed that the stone stairs were clean, as if they had been recently brushed and mopped. They stopped on a landing with four wooden doors, which had been painted at one time but were now cracked and peeling. Hugh turned the doorknob on one of the middle doors and they all went inside.

There was a tiny lobby going to the left, with just enough space for the makeshift bed that lay there. Directly opposite where they all came in, was an open door and through it came Mary, Hugh’s wife, and her two daughters, Tessie and Molly.

‘I’ve already got the kettle on,’ announced Mary as she came to hug them all.

Tessie and Molly danced about excitedly, grabbing a hold of Kate and hugging her tightly.

‘You’re going to be sleeping in with us!’ laughed Tessie, who was nine and the older of the two.

Molly, who was six, was more practical.

‘You don’t pee the bed, do you?’ she asked, causing everyone to burst out laughing.

‘I think I might,’ said Kate, dancing from foot to foot, ‘if I don’t get to go for a pee now!’

‘Come on!’ laughed Tessie. ‘I’ll show you where the lavvy is!’

‘It’s okay,’ said Hugh when he saw John ready to go with the girls. ‘We use a bucket and then empty it in the one outside. I don’t like the girls using that thing out the back; it’s filthy!’

Kate looked mortified.

‘Don’t worry!’ laughed Hugh. ‘It’s hidden away. Nobody’s going to see you!’

‘Excuse me, Uncle John!’ said Tessie as she squeezed past him.

Everybody’s attention had been drawn to the bedding lying to the left in the lobby so they had not noticed the heavy curtain hanging down on the right. It was nailed to the top of the wall, near the ceiling, and draped right down to the floor. He wondered where on earth Hugh had got it; it looked quite expensive.

‘Here it is!’ announced Tessie, pulling back one side of the curtain.

Behind the curtain was a small recess with a metal bucket on the floor to one side. John could not see if the bucket had already been used; he could not smell anything either. When Tessie had pulled the curtain back a pleasant, fresh smell had wafted out; it was a smell that John had never encountered before but he liked it. Hugh noticed his surprise.

‘Mary sprays the curtain with Sanitas every day,’ he smiled. ‘It stops the stink going through the house.’

They all left Kate to it and walked through into the living room. The heat hit them immediately. The dirty window was open only slightly, a piece of wood jammed in to stop it falling down. There was a fire in the grate with the kettle sitting on top. The fire was only comprised of a couple of lumps of coal, enough to heat the kettle, but it made the room hot and stuffy.

‘Have a seat,’ said Mary. ‘It’s your home as well, now!’

There were four wooden, straight-backed chairs for the adults; the children would have to make do with the floor. John took off his jacket and hung it over the back of one of the chairs while Rosie unwound her shawl and sat down with the baby on her knee.

‘Where will I put the pram and our stuff?’ John asked.

‘Just leave it behind the door for now,’ Hugh answered. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea first!’

John sat down and took off his collar, glad to be rid of it. He put it into the inside pocket of his jacket, making sure to put the studs into a different pocket so they would not get lost. The baby woke up and immediately started to bawl, demanding to be fed. Rosie moved her shawl around so that she could feed Maggie without everyone seeing.

‘So how was the voyage over?’ asked Hugh, taking a chair over next to John, placing John between himself and Rosie so as to giver her some semblance of privacy.

‘It was certainly long,’ replied John. ‘It took nearly twelve hours!’

‘With that bloody sun beating down on you all the way over?’ Hugh shook his head.

John nodded. ‘It was a good job we brought a couple of beer bottles filled with water!’

That was about as much small talk as they could manage. All their family, apart from the two of them, were dead and they had grown up in different parts of Derry so they had nobody in common to ask about. They had only met each other occasionally as they were growing up so, really, they did not know each other that well. And now, here they were, flung together, having to share the same living space. They both sat awkwardly, looking at the kettle, willing it to hurry up and boil.

Kate took Wee John to show him where the toilet was while Mary fussed about preparing cups and saucers on top of the sideboard and putting tea in the teapot. The kettle at last started to boil and Mary lifted it from the fire with a folded cloth. She poured hot water into the teapot and placed the kettle at the rear of the sideboard. She then stirred the teapot, put the lid on and left it to brew for a couple of minutes.

‘Do you want me to hold the baby, Rosie, while you have your tea?’ she asked.

‘But what about your tea?’ Rosie replied. ‘How are you going to drink yours?’

‘Oh, never you mind about me. I’ve not been stuck on a boat all day! Besides, I’m dying to say hello to my wee niece!’

Maggie had finished her meal and had gone back to sleep; she was a good baby and very rarely caused a fuss. Once Mary had the tea poured and the men seen to she took the baby while Rosie helped herself to a cup of tea from the sideboard.

The four of them drank in silence while the children played about, giggling, in the lobby. When he had finished his tea Hugh took out his clay pipe from his shirt pocket.

‘You’re not smoking that filthy thing in here!’ snapped Mary. ‘Take it outside where the rest of the smoke and poison is. And empty the bucket while you’re at it!’

Hugh gave John a resigned look and motioned toward the door with his head. John smiled his sympathy and stood to follow his cousin outside, lifting his jacket from the back of the chair. He waited while Hugh fetched the bucket from behind the curtain and then followed him out the door and down the stairs.

In the back court John discovered why Hugh and his family used a bucket. There were only two toilets for all the people living on that side of the street. Hugh had checked both of them and they were both blocked and overflowing. The contents of the toilets had run out from under the wooden door and had formed foul-smelling puddles in front of them. Hugh had to stand in one of these puddles to empty his bucket down the toilet bowl. Not that it was worthwhile; the contents of the bucket just swilled over the edge of the bowl and ended up on the floor.

Hugh rinsed the bucket under the water pump at the far end of the back court and took off his shoes one at a time to rinse those as well. He and John then went back to stand outside the back entrance to their close. He got his pipe lit and drawing well and then pointed to the chimney stack they could see over the tenements opposite, belching smoke into the filthy sky.

‘That’s the copper works over there,’ he said. ‘At least there’s not far to walk of a morning!’

John just smiled and looked around the rest of the back court. In the middle were two large middens, full of ashes; it might be summer but folk still needed to cook. He could smell cooking smells coming from the buildings around him now; it even managed to overpower the stench from the toilet and the pervading stink from the factories. John felt his mouth water and realised that he was hungry.

Hugh must have read his mind as he said, ‘We’ll need to be getting something to eat soon. You lot must be starving!’

He did not wait for an answer but tapped his pipe gently against the wall, taking care not to break it. Satisfied that the smouldering tobacco had gone he blew on the bowl a few times to cool it and then placed it carefully back in his shirt pocket.

‘Let’s go,’ he announced. ‘I’m feeling hungry myself.’

‘Wait,’ John replied, ‘I’ve got no money on me. I’ll need to run up and get my jacket. Besides, I’ve not got a collar on or anything!’

‘Never mind collars and jackets!’ laughed Hugh. ‘We’re only going to the next street. And you don’t need money; we already put a bit aside to treat you on your first night in Glasgow. I could do with a hand carrying the stuff back, though!’

Mary and Rosie, meanwhile, had lifted the bundle out of the pram, had opened it on the floor in a corner of the room and retrieved the baby’s blankets. Kate held her little sister while her mother and aunt worked. Once the pram was ready, Maggie was able to lie down properly and Kate was free to rejoin her cousins.

With Maggie safely out of their arms, Mary and Rosie were able to use some of the water left in the kettle to wash up the tea things in a basin. Rosie then dried them and put them back in the sideboard while Mary went down to the back court to empty the basin.

Kate, Tessie and Molly sat on their bed in the lobby and spoke of important matters like school and friendly and unfriendly children in the neighbourhood. They spoke of games, places to play, secret places to hide, dolls, sweets and special occasions. Wee John had nothing to contribute and sat on the edge of the bed, bored to tears. He would not dream of leaving, however; he hated to be left out of anything.

Mary came back with the empty basin and smiled at them. It was only a few minutes later that John and Hugh also came in, carrying parcels from which came the most delicious smell. Tessie and Molly knew immediately what was in the parcels.

‘Hurray!’ they both shouted and skipped into the living room behind the men.

‘What is it?’ asked Kate as she followed them through the living-room door.

‘Fish and chips!’ cried Tessie and Molly together, jumping up and down excitedly.

‘Fish!’ exclaimed Kate disgustedly. ‘But it’s not even Friday!’

Back at their old home Friday was a day of vegetables and potatoes only. The stricture against eating meat on a Friday normally meant a fish dinner for families; Kate and Wee John, however, could not stand fish of any kind. Since John and Rosie were not overly fond of fish either they just stuck to eating a normal meal without the meat on Fridays.

‘You wait until you’ve tasted this fish!’ laughed Hugh.

Kate had to admit that it certainly smelled enticing. Hugh separated the parcels and shared out the food; a fish supper, fish and chips, for each adult, and half for each child. He ripped the newspaper to put each child’s share into its own parcel; they were not going to bother with plates.

When Kate bit into the fish she was pleasantly surprised. It was one of the best things she had ever tasted. And as for the chips, she could not believe that they were made with potatoes! If she was to be served this kind of fish on a Friday from now on then she would have no problem eating every bit.

After they had finished their meal Hugh gathered up all the papers and the children helped him to pick up any bits of fallen food. He was taking it straight out to the midden.

‘It doesn’t do to have chip papers lying about,’ he said, ‘it encourages mice.’

‘Do you get mice coming in here?’ asked Kate, looking around fearfully.

Of course, they had had mice in their old home but they had slept on a bed then, raised up from the floor. She was going to be sleeping on a mattress tonight and she was frightened at the thought of mice running over her face or getting into her hair.

‘Don’t worry!’ her Uncle Hugh reassured her. ‘I haven’t seen a mouse in here for a long time. They’re after food and there’s none to be had in here! In fact, there isn’t a full larder in the whole building so the mice go somewhere else!’

Kate felt better and she was relieved to hear her cousins affirm what their father had said. Rosie was relieved too; her imagination had been conjuring up huge rats coming in to devour her children.

Once Hugh had disposed of the chip wrappers it was time for bed. Both Hugh and John owned rather battered pocket watches, which kept quite good time. It was half-past eight and time for the children to get ready for bed. The adults would not be long behind them since they would all have to be up in the morning to go to mass.

Hugh produced a single mattress from beneath his and Mary’s double bed, which was in a recess at the side of the living room, hidden by a cheap curtain. Mary quickly made up a bed for Wee John in the lobby and all the children went to the toilet, got changed and excitedly leaped under the covers.

Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Hugh, with a flourish, pulled out a folded, double hair mattress from under his bed.

‘God, Hugh! How many mattresses have you got hidden under there?’ laughed John.

It did not take long to get a bed made up in the middle of the floor. Once Maggie’s nappy had been changed she was happy to go back to sleep in her pram. Mary marvelled at such a good baby, who was not too demanding and who slept without any fuss. And so everyone got ready to settle down to sleep.

It was still quite light outside but this was dealt with by the simple expedient of an old blanket draped over the window, the edges of it tacked to the top of the window frame. Hugh pulled the curtain across to hide his and Mary’s bed to give them and the other couple a bit of privacy.

‘Well?’ John whispered to Rosie as he lay on his back, his arm around her shoulders as she snuggled into him. ‘Did we do the right thing?’

‘I don’t know why,’ she replied, ‘but I think everything is going to be alright. I think things are going to work out fine.’

She was tired and soon fell asleep, breathing deeply. John was tired too but his mind was still working. It had been a long day; a very long day. He thought of all the ships at the Belfast docks, delivering produce and raw materials from all over the world. Other vessels were being loaded with export goods and people, to be taken to the British mainland and beyond. It was one of the small ships carrying goods to Glasgow that John and his family would be travelling on.

He remembered the man that had spoken to him, taking him aside from his family. He was a red-faced, bluff stevedore, who had obviously worked at the docks for a long time. He had admired the baby and the children and swapped friendly small talk with John and Rosie before indicating with his head for John to follow him.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, my friend, but I would imagine that you and your family are Roman Catholics,’ he said, once they were out of earshot of the others.

John nodded, wondering why the man was asking.

‘Well, if you’ll take my advice,’ the man continued, ‘get some more money together and go to America. It’s not the paradise they make out but I assure you that you and your family would be a lot better off over there than you’ll be in Scotland.’

‘But I’ve got family in Glasgow and a job lined up,’ John had argued. ‘What’s wrong with Scotland?’

The man looked around before answering. ‘I think you’ll find that Scotland is not all that different from Ulster. You Catholics have it just as hard over there as you do here!’

John had thanked the man for his concern but at least he had a reasonably well-paid job to go to in Scotland, something that was hard to come by in Ulster for a Catholic like himself. Why should he give that up to take his family away to the other side of the world? And would things be any different in America?

The walk along Baird Street had come as a shock to John. He had never encountered anything like that in Ulster, although that might have been to do with the fact that he had lived in a small, out-of-the-way place. Still, it brought home to him what the man in Belfast had meant. He hoped to God that it had been an isolated incident and was not typical of what happened in Glasgow.

He closed his eyes and listened to his daughter and her cousins whispering softly out in the lobby. He could not make out what they were saying but they sounded happy. Maybe he was reading too much into what had happened in Baird Street. He was sure of one thing, though: he would never forget the ugly, twisted face of the man that had spat at him!

STRIKE!

I remember when I was in Primary 7 at St Aloysius (not the posh one but the one in Springburn) the boy up the stairs from me was in one of the other P7 classes at my school. (For some reason there seemed to be a hell of a lot more people at school back in the 70s!). His cousin was at St Augustine's Secondary in Milton and one weekend we couldn't wait to quiz him about a story that had been in the papers. I don't remember all the details, but a teacher in the school had lost his job. He was very popular and all the pupils went on strike, refusing to even go inside the school building until he was reinstated. I can't recall if he was or not.

Anyway, my pal was really taken with the idea of a strike and was keen to do it at our school. I tried to make him understand that there had to be a reason to go on strike but he was adamant. He got everybody in his class fired up as well on the Monday and word went round the school. Blood-curdling threats of vengeance were made to discourage any blabbing to the teachers. The next day was a Holiday of Obligation, which he and his classmates saw as an ideal opportunity. On the way back to school from St Aloysius Church we would be passing a swing-park on the corner of Springburn Road and Elmvale Street. He and the others were going to sit on the wall, against the railings, raise a clenched fist and shout, "Strike!" That would be the signal for the rest of us to join in and sit on the wall as well.

Of course, the next morning, on the way back from mass, things didn't go according to plan. Only four of them sat on the wall, fists in the air, and yelled their call to arms. The rest of us just stayed in our lines, walked past and pretended we knew nothing about it. The four were marched down to the Heidie's office as soon as we got to the school and their constant blowing on their hands at playtime showed what the Heidie had thought of their attempt at industrial action!

I was reminded of this when I read in the Daily Record that the Bisto Board has again assured the Sons of Struth that they won't sell or lease Ibrox. How many times is that now? Which begs the question, what was the point of the latest march? Indeed, what is the point of the Sons of Struth or the Union of Fans at all? Their stupid idea of the Bisto Board handing over the deeds was never going to happen and assurances is the best they're going to get. Since the board has told them time and again that Ibrox will not be sold or leased then the whole happy band and its marches makes as much sense as those lads at St Aloysius with their strike!

Meanwhile, Keith Jackson is not a happy bunny. He left for work in his car only to discover that there's a big event taking place in Glasgow and he was stuck in traffic jams. He makes the excuse that he's 'been away' but with the amount of build-up his paper gave to these Games surely he must have been aware that some disruption was inevitable? Anyway, he's full of spite about it and questions the point of what he calls 'a C-list event'. Maybe we should take Jackson at his word and scrap all C-list events, and even the B-list ones. Let's just have a Premiership and get rid of all the dross in the also-ran leagues. I wonder how Jackson would go for that idea!

And, naturally, he's got to have a wee dig at Celtic. His headline says, 'Glasgow's 2014 bash could cost Celtic their invite to Champions League'. This, of course, got some of The Peeppul excited. Was somebody in the smsm finally going to take notice of their 'state aid' shite and publish all the stuff vomited forth on Football Tax Havens? Sadly for them, it was just Jackson trying to make out that Celtic will get gubbed because they have to play their next home tie at Murrayfield. Yes, because the last one was such a disaster, eh, Keith? One poor whatever-the-singular-of-Peeppul-is obviously couldn't manage the big words in the article and just relied on the headline. He said, "Ha ha, so their collusion (corruption) with the GCC could come back to haunt them. Karma, what a (B)itch!" You almost feel sorry for somebody like that. Almost.

There's one particular clown that always posts on stories about Bisto, Celtic and the Referendum. He calls himself John Johnston and is one of those strange, McMurdoesque creatures that still believes all the Nineteenth-Century propaganda against the Catholic Church. He tried to tell me that 'Pontifex Maximus' (or, as he calls it, 'pontifaxmaxius') translates as 'ruler of the world'. How he reached this conclusion he couldn't, or wouldn't, tell me. His favourite phrase concerning the Referendum is 'Scots don't vote for a pig in a poke.' This makes me laugh since wasn't that exactly what he and his ilk wanted all the SPL clubs to do with Charles Green's new team?

I'm beginning to suspect that there's something funny going on over at McMurdo's website. It looks as if he's not posting anything and neither are his disciples. I think he's managed to get his site running so that you can only read it while wearing orange-tinted specs. That way we normal people won't be able to laugh at him anymore!

I actually got somebody commenting on my last post. (Yay!) He was an intelligent (well, he must be if he reads this blog) individual by the name of K Mav. We had a bit of a conversation about religious teaching in schools, which is compulsory in all Scottish schools at present. To be honest, I swither about this all the time. It's good to instil a code of moral ethics in children and, in the main, this is what religious education tends to be about. I think, though, as far as God and religion goes, the churches themselves are going to have to buck up their ideas. Ministers and priests have got too used to preaching to the converted, the old biddies that turn up to church every Sunday. When they're faced with a class of disbelieving ten-year-olds they tend to be way out of their depth.

In one of my P6 classes all the children, save one, professed not to believe in God. We had a great discussion about it and they had solid reasons for their disbelief, like the death of a baby brother, a little sister having Down Syndrome etc. I invited the local C of S minister in to answer  their questions and they were quite excited about it. Imagine their disappointment, and mine, when she came in and just prattled on about things in the Bible. I felt like screaming, "But they don't fucking well believe in the Bible!" The whole thing was a waste of time as far as I was concerned. The children's feelings were summed up by one girl. One of the boys had been at learning support and arrived back just as the minister was leaving. "Aw naw!" he said, "Ah missed it!" The girl embarrassed me, but spoke the truth, when she yelled out, "It's awright, ye didnae miss much!"

One of the problems with RE in schools is that most teachers haven't the first idea and rely on material provided by the council. (The C of S, and others, don't produce any school material so the ND schools all use the Catholic stuff!) Maybe RE should be more about investigation and discussion. Part of the 5-14 RE curriculum was called, 'Personal Search' and perhaps this is what they should concentrate on. The children could find out about different religions, as they do at present, and have discussions about moral codes etc. Local religious leaders could come in and argue their case; although they'd have to do a lot better than that minister I had in my class!

As to all the furore about Catholic schools, they're going to disappear soon enough. These days parents send their children to the nearest school no matter what kind it is. While teaching in ND schools I had more than a few Catholics in my class, while there are many non-Catholics attending Catholic schools. Twenty years ago, while I was still allowed to work in Catholic schools, I was in one in Glasgow. The parish priest, an old Irishman, came in to speak to the P2s, since it was getting near time for First Communions. He left with a face like thunder when he discovered that there was not one Catholic in the P2 class! That's the way things have been heading for ages and I can see Catholic schools fading away in my lifetime. Rather than let this happen, however, the bigots want them done away with now, just so they can claim some pathetic sort of victory!

Finally, I see the Daily Record is all concerned because about a quarter of the Scottish population that is eligible to vote hasn't even bothered to register. Some of the folk the DR interviewed have never registered in their lives and hum and haw about doing it now. I wonder if the Westminster Government will try to pull the same fast one they did in 1979!

"And the young Peeppul ask me, what are they marching for? And I ask myself the same question!"

ANOTHER BIGOT NAMED BILL

So that's Sooperally and his Sanatogen Allstars returned from America with their tails between their legs. They crept back into Scotland and are all now curled up on the sofa, catching up on the soaps they Skyplussed with a mug of Horlicks and an Abernethy biscuit. Meanwhile, one or two facts have emerged that The Peeppul seem to have ignored.

In the Daily Record Craig Swan, a man angling for the Director of Communications post at Ibrox, let slip that the Bisto FC tour was paid for by a company called Revolution Sports Management (no, me neither). Apparently this mob pay for everything and look to make a profit from ticket sales and sponsorship deals. That'll be why the PA was shouting about two-for-one offers at the local pizza place then! Swan says that Bisto wanted to 'touch base with their massive support abroad.' Aye, right! A few old bigots in Canada doesn't make for a 'massive support'! I wonder if Revolution Sports Management managed to break even.

Another wee financial windfall comes in the shape of the money being paid by GCC for the use of Ibrox in the Commonwealth Games. Bisto is being paid the best part of half-a-million quid for this. On top of that is money to pay for the use of other grounds for Bisto games plus, I would imagine, travel costs. Compensation is to be paid due to logos and sponsors' messages being removed during the rugby sevens and, no doubt, there will be other wee bits and pieces to be paid for. What was that they were saying about state aid?

The filthy Daily Record has two stories running that make an interesting comparison. One has been there for a couple of days, the other will probably disappear after today. The first concerns the new school campus in Dumbarton, where Aitkenbar and St Peter's Primary Schools will be. The DR decides to make a huge fuss out of the fact that there will be separate entrances, disingenuously ignoring the fact that it won't be one school, but two. There will also be two staffrooms, one for each school. All of this the article puts down to the influence of Archbishop Tartaglia.

The author of the article, Bill Heaney, uses phrases like 'collusion', 'behind closed doors' and 'malodorous deal' just to let the bigots know whose side he's on. Of course, they all come crawling out ranting and raving about how this 'segregation' is the 'real cause' of sectarianism in Scotland. It's an old argument but I've never heard one of these bigots address it: why is it that there are denominational state schools throughout the world, including England and Wales, with no problems but only in Scotland is it seen as something sinister? One of these vile creatures even goes as far as to call Catholics 'heretics' with no action taken by the DR moderators.

Let's imagine a scenario where there is one entrance, one staffroom and one set of toilets for the children; you can just see what would happen then. The complaints would be that the children in the ND school have further to go to reach the entrance, or the toilets from the playground and that the staff in the ND school have further to go to get to the staffroom. The call then would be for the ND school to have its own entrance and facilities! These Peeppul are never happy unless they've got something to moan about and somebody to blame!

But why have separate, denominational schools? Well, one answer to that is that there is actually no such thing as a non-denominational school in Scotland, especially in the primary sector. The law in Scotland says that Religious Education and observance is compulsory in all primary schools and that said education and observance should be Christian. Primary schools are also obliged to have a chaplain from a local church. Effectively, this means that if the head teacher in a school in Govanhill, which is almost entirely Muslim, invites an Imam in to lead an assembly then she is technically breaking the law.

Most ministers are quite low-key and just come into the school when invited. They also put a lot of effort into making their visits interesting and enjoyable. I've worked in a few schools, however, where the local minister treats the school like his own, personal fiefdom. One school had a Free Church of Scotland minsiter, the spitting image of Donald Findlay, complete with Sherlock-Holmes pipe, who would come in and berate teachers for not teaching about Christianity 'properly.' One teacher, who happened to be a Muslim, did a class assembly comparing Ramadan to Lent and felt the full force of his wrath. "The Reformed Church does not believe in Lent!" he thundered. The poor woman had to ask me what the hell the 'Reformed Church' was! And then there were the East Kilbride dinosaur jockeys; remember them?

One individual commenting on the DR story claimed to be a member of the Scottish Secular Society and provided links to its website. I had a look and I must say that there's not a lot to choose between the SSS website and a blog by a bitter member of The Peeppul. There's nothing at all said about compulsory Religious Education in schools, nor is there anything about the indoctrination of the young by the Orange Order to make them believe fairy stories about lost tribes and chosen people. Practically the whole website is given over to attacks on the Catholic Church. This seems to be par for the course in Britain when it comes to so-called secularism. Read the website of smug, self-righteous anti-theist Richard Dawkins and you'd be forgiven for believing that the Reformation never happened. The attacks on the Pope and Catholicism make it look like the Catholic Church is still the dominant force over many people's lives. It says something when McMurdo's disciples often use quotes from these websites to back up some of their outlandish claims. Maybe a better name would be the Scottish Sectarian Society!

And the other story in the DR? Brendan O'Carroll, of 'Mrs Brown's Boys' fame, is to appear on a future episode of 'Who Do You Think You Are', which has already been recorded. Like many, including myself, he has a horror story to tell about the Black and Tans. His grandfather was dragged from his home and shot dead in front of his nine-year-old son, O'Carroll's father, who was also shot but survived. There is no place for comments on this story. No doubt the DR don't want posts from everyone about atrocities committed against their family members. The excuse would be that they don't want to encourage sectarianism. And yet the story about the schools, with its inflammatory language, seems to be perfectly acceptable, as do the comments of the scummy bigots. It's quite disgusting, really, when you think about it.

Meanwhile, McMurdo's blog is like a ghost town. The bigot-in-chief has vanished and nobody has posted anything since Wednesday. Obviously nothing could appear today; not on the Sabbath! But where are they all the other days? They must be watching the Commonwealth Games, desperately looking for something to moan about!

Finally, why is everyone that has ever appeared in a Rangers jersey always described by the Daily Record as 'legend' and 'ace' even though nobody remembers them or knows who the hell they are?

Training at Murray Park

THE GAMES - A - BOGEY!

The Daily Record is running scared at the moment. The Commonwealth Games taking place in Glasgow is an ideal opportunity to push the Better Together agenda, with the Queen and the Royal Family easily overshadowing Alex Salmond in the propaganda stakes. The problem is, and Auld Lizzie and her brood deserve some credit for this, not one royal has come out in favour of either side in the referendum. And that creates serious problems for our media in Scotland. Every overseas nation that is taking part is independent but still has the Queen as nominal head of state; something that the Bettertogetherers keep telling us would be impossible in an independent Scotland! And then there's the added problem of The Peeppul.

Predictably, a word that always describes the actions of The Peeppul, they're all over any story about the Commonwealth Games to shout them down. Now, I'm not a big fan of watching athletics and I avoid these things like the plague; the Olympics, the European Championship Games etc, I find a complete and utter bore. Not so The Peeppul. Remember McMurdo and the rest telling us how great the London Olympics were and how it made them proud to be British? Strangely they don't feel the same about these Games; I wonder what's different. Oh, aye, right!

As if it wasn't enough to see Phil the Greek and his German burd at Celtic Park, the idea of Celtic fans Rod Stewart and Susan Boyle singing at the opening ceremony had The Peeppul frothing at the mouth, as did the Tongan boxer wearing a Celtic shirt. The bit about Scotland being presented by two gay celebrities, John Barrowman and Karen Dunbar would have Gregory Campbell's head reaching bursting point and that kiss would have his horsehair knickers in an absolute twist. You can just see him, fists in the air, crying, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" as God spread sunshine over the proceedings.

Of course, their hooves have been clattering away at the keyboards in frustration and fury. Susan Boyle forgot a word, Rod Stewart was rubbish and the whole thing was tacky. It was no more tacky than the London Olympics ceremonies and, yet, they all loved that! Comments galore have been deleted on the Daily Record forum and you can no longer post on the story about the opening ceremony. Who'd have thought that The Peeppul would be so against such a celebration of Britishness, eh?

But, then, The Peeppul don't really have their troubles to seek at the moment. Sooperally's tour of North America has been an unmitigated disaster, The Daily Record, however, desperately tried to put a positive spin on it. "Ally McCoist hails new boys Darren McGregor & Marius Zaliukas for providing bite to kill-off Sacramento." screams one headline. Kill off? They only beat the lower-league part-timers 2-1! Meanwhile, Celtic's convincing triumph over KR Reykjavik inspired the headline,  "Ronny Deila's side show signs of progress with comprehensive win at Murrayfield." So beating a team of amateurs 2-1 in a nation where football ranks alongside peever in importance is 'killing off' the opposition, while trouncing Iceland's champions 4-0 merely 'shows signs of progress'! It looks like the agnivores are back; if they ever went away!

Although Police Scotland has given permission for the big Rickets Walk in Edinburgh to go ahead, the local council has still to give its consent. Somehow I don't think Edinburgh Council will want the English settlers in the New Town subjected to this kind of thing. It's practically straight after the International Festival is finished. Does Edinburgh really want to round off an event with visitors from all over the world with a display of insular bigotry and racism? And wait until the Cockburn Association get wind of The Peeppul's predilection for pishing on monuments; they'll have plenty to say on the subject!

Rather tellingly, the master of the cut-and-paste on McMurdo's site, WullieWontHe, includes a Scottish Defence League march in his news about Orange parades being given the go-ahead by Police Scotland. This particular bunch of racists want to march duing the Festival, prompting an objection from a chief superintendent. I imagine that the same bandy-legged prowlers would be attending the SDL march as well as the proposed three Orange Order ones. Hopefully Edinburgh Council will give the go-ahead to them all. The one during the Festival would be a belter, letting the whole world see what The Peeppul are all about.

Speaking of politician manqué McMurdo, I see one of his fellow UKIPers has come out against The Peeppul. Gordon Gillick (and yes, he is related to Victoria; he's her husband!), UKIP member of Cambridgeshire County Council had the following to say:


"The people we describe as obese, thick, badly educated, whichever way you like to phrase it... they enjoy being 25 stone, they’re not discontent, they’re just a burden on the state".

That pretty much sums up the supporters, as well as the manager and a good chunk of the playing staff, of Bisto FC. I don't think McMurdo had better bother standing for election again anytime soon!

JUST SAY 'NEIGH'!

"Folk just don't understand the pressures. I mean, it's not just hard physically, but it's mentally draining too. It's so easy just to slide into drug-taking. I started off just with a few odd puffs at a joint and then, before I knew it, I was taking temazepam and valium. I ended up on the hard stuff: the morphine hay..."

INFAMY! INFAMY....YOU KNOW THE REST!

McMurdo has decided to post nothing but a picture, entitled 'Slaying The Dragon' on his blog. The picture shows, presumably, St George killing the eponymous brute. Of course, it's not hard to figure out what this picture is supposed to represent; The Peeppul are not known for their intellectual abilities, after all. St George is obviously The Peeppul; that gallant band standing up for all that's decent in society, like racism, religious bigotry and forelock-tugging obsequience to anyone with a title. The dragon is all their enemies; and, by God, there seem to be a lot of them about!

The pathetic Football Tax Havens, an obsessive site where somebody with a lot, and I mean a lot, of time on his hands desperately tries to prove financial chicanery at Celtic in a bid to deflect from the troubles at Ibrox. This mainly involves supposedly crooked land deals between Glasgow Council and Celtic. One of these deals was the purchase of the site of the old Lennox Castle Hospital, where Celtic currently has its training facilities. It took long enough for the clown writing this guff to realise that Lennoxtown is actually in East Dunbartonshire, not Glasgow, and that the land concerned belonged to the NHS. This oversight has now been corrected and, apparently, East Dunbartonshire Council and the NHS are also part of this conspiracy to help Celtic.

Meanwhile, those fine, upstanding, anonymous fellows at Vanguard Bears are outraged at the money being spent in the East End of Glasgow. It's all just to benefit one team, they bleat. In fact, if they are to be believed, the whole Glasgow bid for the Commonwealth Games, and the subsequent award, has been nothing more than a gigantic con in order to provide state aid for Celtic. It seems, too, that Peter Lawwell was put in charge of the Games, with carte blanche on how the money was to be spent.

The Scottish, indeed the whole UK, media are too scared to investigate any of this, being in Peter Lawwell's pocket as they are. McMurdo and his disciples can't understand this and are sacrificing goats by the dozen down the Lodge to get the Great Architect or whatever to strengthen the resolve of the poor, frightened journalists that do want to get this story out there. One lunatic suggests sending e-mails to every newspaper in the Commonwealth, directing them to Football Tax Havens. They might not be the global brand they imagine themselves to be but, by God, they do paranoia on a global scale!

So let's see, there is a huge conspiracy going on to help Celtic and destroy the Ibrox team. Involved in this are Glasgow Council, East Dunbartonshire Council, the NHS, the SFA, the Scottish Government, the Westminster Government, HMRC, the Commonwealth Games Committee and the whole of the British media. Oh, and Scottish Enterprise is involved as well; musn't forget them! Running the whole spider's web of connections, corruption and subterfuge is Peter Lawwell. Isn't it reassuring to know that Celtic is in the hands of a man that single-handedly rules the whole planet? I've heard that Glen Daly's rousing anthem is to be replaced at home games. Starting in the new season, before the teams come out, Peter Lawwell will stand in the Directors' Box, taking a salute to the strains of Harry Secombe singing 'If I Ruled the World'!

Let's put aside the global conspiracy against Bisto FC for a minute and just concentrate on Scotland. On the one hand The Peeppul like to tell us that Bisto is Scotland's biggest club, with a huge support that dwarfs all the other clubs put together. I remember reading one eat-the-breid on McMurdo's blog saying that since less than a fifth of the population is Catholic then that means that more than four-fifths of the population are 'Rangers' supporters! It's hard to argue with that kind of reasoning. But, even allowing for this character's serious mental flaws, he is voicing what most of The Peeppul believe: the Ibrox team is supported by the majority of people - The Peeppul - in Scotland. Which, of course, begs the question of who the hell is conspiring against them!

McMurdo and his disciples are fond of telling us how all the Raynjurz-Haturz have conspired to get themselves elected, locally and nationally. So who's voting for them? I can just see the matrons of Bearsden and Milngavie rushing down to vote their local 'Raynjurz-Haturz' candidate onto East Dunbartonshire Council! Or maybe it's the denizens of Lenzie that are returning these folk to East Dunbartonshire Council. Er...maybe not! If it is true that it's all Celtic supporters getting themselves elected then it's probably down to the illiteracy of The Peeppul. Helpfully, ballot papers have nice pictures at the side so that they can vote for the candidate with the most Raynjurzy-looking picture, like the Tory Union Flag. Unfortunately, however, their illiteracy is so bad that most of them don't know how to spell 'X'. Watch out for a campaign to allow a dirty thumbprints to count as an eligible vote for a candidate!

I see that Bisto FC has decided to have a 'Fans' Board'. Precisely what this board's function would be, other than to shut up the likes of Listy Graham and Halloween Houston I've no idea. In the true spirit of Ibrox democracy, The Peeppul aren't getting to vote for any old candidate. A committee, including Davie Weir and former rugby international Al Kellock (?), will choose who the candidates will be from submitted nominations. No chance of a Sons of Struth candidate, then! And can I point out that Kellock comes from East Dunbartonshire...are they sure he can be trusted?

Finally, I've had to laugh at some of The Peeppul trying to claim Germany's World Cup win as a victory for a Protestant nation over a Catholic one. They've been quite sleekit about it, using phrases like 'Northern European' etc. but we all know what they mean! Things must have changed dramatically in Germany since 1945 as The Peeppul never tire of telling us that it was a Catholic nation that started the Second World War!

It reminded me of an old bigot that turned up at the door of my previous house one Saturday lunchtime. Ostensibly this old witch, and her younger companion, were spreading the word about the Jehovah's Witnesses, multiple copies of The Watchtower in hand. Normally Jehovah's Witnesses and the like avoid my house like the plague. I'm quite happy to spend ages debating with them and not letting them escape. One woman I spoke to in Glasgow eventually had to use needing to collect her daughter as an excuse to get away. Needless to say, after one visit word gets round and they never come back! The pair that turned up that Saturday were our first Jehovah's Witnesses since we had moved in eight years before.

It was a bad day for them to call. I was just about to go to the bookies so I said they were welcome to come back another time. As usual, however, they tried to force the issue, or, rather, the older woman did. She said nothing about the Jehovah's Witnesses; all she went on about was how the Catholic Church did this and the Catholic Church did that, while the younger woman stood looking embarrassed. I asked her if she was recruiting for the Jehovah's Witnesses or the Orange Order. This got her going even more so I apologised to the younger woman and then told the older one to fuck off!

On my way to the bookies I always popped into an elderly neighbour's to see if he wanted a bet put on. Like many old guys he had a house full of blank betting slips so he usually had them ready and filled out before I arrived. When I got to his house there was that old witch banging on about Catholics starting wars all the time. When she saw me approach she started to move away but she was still slabbering on about how Germany was full of Catholics and that's why they tried to take over the world under Hitler. As she walked away, still spouting her bigoted bile, I told her she was talking shite and asked if she'd never heard of Martin Luther.

'Of course I have,' she snapped, 'I have a dream...What's he got to do with it?'

Sums them up, really.

Ally, can you give us your take on the Gaza situation?

"Aye. Wur gonny sign 'im next week!"