Fearless Francis is a little boy living in Glasgow in the late 1950s. He lives in a fantasy world, playing in the tenement streets, having all sorts of imaginary adventures.
But they are more like mishaps.....
Fearless Francis in
The Martian Invasion Of Cubie Street
Part 2 - Granny's Revenge
The Showdown
Grannies are just as protective of their grandchildren as the children's own mothers, even more so. In fact a Granny feels she has nothing to lose by getting 'tore in' to anyone who "hurts a wean" - so woe betide anyone who is foolish enough to invoke a visit from an irate Granny.
The furniture shop man was about to find this out.
The day after the wee boy's traumatic experience at the hands of the furniture shop man, Granny paid the shop a visit.
The man was busy extolling the virtues of an old settee when he noticed the rotund figure of an old lady standing just inside the door of the shop. Thinking nothing more of it, he returned to his customers, a middle-aged couple who had more money than sense and who were almost ready to buy the settee, which had probably been retrieved from a dump by the furniture shop man.
"Haw - Yoo!!!", the Granny's voice boomed into the shop, "Ah waant a wurd!"
The man replied irritably, "Aye, later ya auld bag, Ah'm busy."
Turning back into the street, the Granny said, "Whit did he say?", for she was stone deaf. Milling round the shop door were some neighbours from the close and the wee boy. The Granny had lost no time in telling the neighbours about what happened to her 'poor wee lamb'.
Rolling up her cardigan sleeves and pulling off her scarf, she marched straight into the shop, right up to the man and jabbed her finger into his chest.
"So ye think yoor a big man threatenin' a wee wean dae ye?", the finger prodding him some more.
The pain of the prodding finger made the man step back. He was just about to give the owner of the finger some verbal abuse when he noticed that his shop was filling up with some very angry-looking women. Recognising the boy, it all fell into place - experience had taught the man that he was 'for it' and that there was nothing else to do but to take what was coming.
The wee boy was getting scared; the women were swarming all over the place, pushing him against a wardrobe. There wasn't much room in that small shop. The couple asked to leave and they headed for the door, squeezing past the angry women.
By this time the Granny had built up a full head of steam. Prodding him some more she said, "Yoor lucky Ah've no tolt ma man - He'd shake the shite oot o' ye!", prodding him some more.
If truth be known, the wee boy's Granda was never known as a fighting man and usually left it to 'hur' to sort any trouble out with the grandchildren or the neighbours.
By this time the crowd of women were getting excited and were shouting obscenities at the defenceless man. The Granny's prodding was getting more intense, but the last prod became a fist and she hit him hard on the chest, knocking him backwards over the edge of a settee, making him fall across the seats. This was unintentional on Granny's part, but lucky for him.
"Aw hen, Ah'm really sorry, Ah'll no dae it again, Ah promise - gonnae no hit me!!", the man pleaded, raising his arms up in defence, expecting more blows.
At that, the women's anger turned to laughter, then they mocked him, "Look at yon big feartie, scared o' a wee auld wumman!"
The Granny gave a chilling warning to the frightened man. "If Ah ever hear o' yoo touching any wean in this street, yoo'll answer tae their faithers, and by Christ it'll no be a punch ye'll get next time!"
With honour satisfied, the Granny swaggered towards the door, the women respectfully clearing the way, the wee boy proudly following her. The man sensibly stayed on the couch until everyone had gone.
A few days later, Fearless Francis was back on duty. He had learned that his arch enemy Zantor had landed his spaceship in Orr Street and had plans to steal all the comics out of the bookshop.
With his imaginary costume now changed to red, he embarked on his mission, but first he had to check out the furniture shop across the road. With steely determination he approached the locked door and shook the handle to make sure. He gave the shop the once-over with his x-ray vision - all clear.
The furniture shop had closed. The man had broken into the empty shop a few days ago, fitted new locks.and was using it illegally. The factor had been tipped off, but the man was long gone by the time the factor's men arrived to claim the property back.
Knowing that the world was safe in this street, Fearless Francis set off on his deadly mission a few galaxies away - round the corner in Orr Street. He did not know how many light years he'd be away.
But Granny was making stovies - so he had to be home by six.
This is a General Knowledge crossword, although the solutions are all Glasgow street names, but don't let that put you off. The clues are general enough for you to find the answers.
You can download the PDF file here and then send it to your printer...
If you want the solution, send an e-mail to magpie - make sure you ask for Crossword #1 in the header or the body of your e-mail.
This crossword was compiled by magpie
using Crossword Compiler 8
Fearless Francis - The Martian Invasion Of Cubie Street Fearless Francis is a little boy living in Glasgow in the late 1950s. He lives in a fantasy world, playing in the tenement streets, having all sorts of imaginary adventures.
But they are more like mishaps.....
Fearless Francis
in
The Martian Invasion Of Cubie Street - Part 1
In which our hero is sent out for a packet of tea
and encounters a spaceship disguised as a furniture shop.
To a seven-year-old boy, the world was an exciting place. In his world, he was a super hero, afraid of nothing. He pored over his Superman and Batman comics (bought for 9 old pennies from a shop in Orr Street), his young mind soaking in all the fantastic stories that helped feed his wild imagination.
One day, the wee boy's Granny sent him off to Paterson's Dairy for a packet of Red Label Brooke Bond tea. Paterson's was just across the road from the wee boy's close - that shop being on one end of the tenement on the right and Dick's Dairy being on the other, to the left. Depending on the Granny's state of 'tick' (credit), she rotated between the two.
While still at his front door, the wee boy spun round quickly, transforming himself into Fearless Francis - his woollen jumper and short trousers changing into an imaginary blue costume and cape. These colours he changed frequently, depending on what comics he had read. So Fearless Francis, his super acute hearing switched on and x-ray vision already scanning for wrongdoing, continued on his mission, but first he had to fight off 20 Martians who lay in wait for our intrepid hero at the close mouth (tenement entrance). Battling his way onto the street he dispensed with them one by one. Having saved the world yet again, he crossed the road. It was quite safe for a child then, not many cars went down Cubie Street.
But what was this? A new shop had just opened right in the middle of the tenement opposite. Was this the spaceship of his arch enemy Zantor, heavily disguised as a shop? Obviously this had to be investigated. For only one man could face the evil Zantor - Fearless Francis!
It was a second-hand furniture shop. Grotty old smelly settees filled the place, chairs stacked up on the corner, tables dispersed among the settees and wardrobes lining the back wall. It looked as if the shop was not open for business yet. There was no sign above the shop, but the door was open. This could be a trap, thought Fearless Francis, using his super power brain.
Fearless Francis crept in quietly, turning his head from left to right, scanning the shop with his x-ray vision, ready for any eventuality. Unfortunately his x-ray vision failed to spot the big man standing right in front of him as he turned his head back to the front.
"Whit the f*** are ye dae'n in ma shoap, ya nosy wee b*****d!!!!" he bellowed at the boy, grabbing the unfortunate urchin by the collar. Fearless Francis reacted swiftly - he wet himself.
Now it was not just the wetting of the short trousers. Not so much 'pzzzzz' as 'SKOOSH!' and in copious amounts. Far too much for short trousers to hold, the excess liquid pouring onto the furniture shop floor. The shop owner was so angry at this and threw the wee boy out of the shop. By this time the wee boy's super alter ego had completely left him to fend for himself.
Having being reduced to being a mere mortal and also being reduced to tears, the wee boy still had to go to Paterson's for the tea. So he stood in the queue with the smell of urine very strong. No one said a word to him, he bought the Red Label Brooke Bond tea and had to make the dreaded journey back to his Granny's. This terrified him more than the man in the shop. He had given his Granny a showing up and she would not forgive him.
Luckily, his Granny was a kind woman, although stern with the wee boy for his own good, when he came in and she saw the state of him, she was more concerned than angry, recognising that he was still shaking with fear and shock. She put her arms around him and the wee boy told his story between sobs and floods of tears.
In the comfort of his Granny's arms, the wee boy was beginning to heal. He was safe and secure with the one who loved him. As his Granny caressed him gently, he felt a lot better and soon the fear was gone. His Granny hugged him and rocked him to and fro, her arms enclosing him like a warm safe blanket of love.
Granny would deal with the furniture shop man later.
The River Clyde has been an important artery to Glasgow for hundreds of years. Ships sailed from the Broomielaw to the United States of America and other countries.
Go across the River Clyde today, and it's dead. The water is still, hardly any craft gliding across its smooth surface. One wonders if the Clyde Port Authority even bothers to dredge the river now.
Now compare that to London's Thames River - barges ply up and down the river all year long, carrying tourists and sightseers. Why can't the River Clyde be like that?
There have been a few attempts to use the river, such as the amphibious bus (which proved quite expensive), and a seaplane has trips from the north of Scotland that uses the River Clyde, but I'm told the tickets are over £100.
All it takes is for some enterprising business to set up some sort of transport system, with a regular scheduled service, say from Greenock to Glasgow's Broomielaw.
But if we keep on building any more of these low pedestrian and vehicle bridges, nothing will be able to traverse the River Clyde in future.
Magpie's Musings - Royal Concert Hall Steps
These steps have been a focal point of Glasgow's Buchanan Street, and the Buchanan Galleries Shopping Centre. They have proven to be very popular with shoppers and for those taking their lunch breaks during the summer. They also attract impromptu concerts and buskers alike.
But the steps may disappear as part of a £100m revamp and extension of the Buchanan Galleries Shopping Centre, despite protests from the public and politicians.
Surely there is a way to integrate the steps in any new design? Yes, it's a good idea to put a roof over the top end of Buchanan Street, but I see no need to take away the steps.
Magpie's Musings - Glasgow Police Museum
I read the sad news today that the Glasgow Police Museum in Turnbull Street Glasgow is to close by the 8th of December 2008, and the collection is to be put into storage.
The building that houses the museum requires some attention after years of neglect.
Chorus:
I'm a cat, I'm a cat, I'm a Glasgow cat and my name is Sam the Skull
I've got claws on my paws like a crocodile's jaws, and a heid like a fermers bull
I'm no the kind of cat that sat on a mat or the kind that ye gi'e a hug
I'm the kind of cat that strangles rats, and even the occasional dog
Well, I roam aroon doon Shettlestoon and they all know me by sight
"It's the Skull! It's the Skull!", you can hear them yell
As they vanish in tae the night
The Polis Station doon oor way has bars on the windy sill
It's no to keep the prisoners in, it's to keep oot Sam the Skull
I'm a cat, I'm a cat, I'm a Glasgow cat and my name is Sam the Skull
I've got claws on my paws like a crocodile's jaws, and a heid like a fermers bull
I'm no the kind of cat that sat on a mat or the kind that ye gi'e a hug
I'm the kind of cat that strangles rats, and even the occasional dog
Well, one fine day no so long ago, they all had had their fill
They sent for the R.S.P.C.A. to come and catch the Skull
Theres naebody kin get oot while he's roamin aboot chasin all the weans up the close
Peein on the stairs scratchin his erse and sittin there pickin his nose
I'm a cat, I'm a cat, I'm a Glasgow cat and my name is Sam the Skull
I've got claws on my paws like a crocodile's jaws, and a heid like a fermers bull
I'm no the kind of cat that sat on a mat or the kind that ye gi'e a hug
I'm the kind of cat that strangles rats, and even the occasional dog
Well, oot came the men aboot half past ten in their wee blue Escort van
Right roon the back, one had a sack, and the other had a mallet in his hand
I watched them run doon the back of the hoose,
Then I casually strolled tae the van
I jumped in the front and I was off, everything had gone tae plan
Ye can hear them say doon Shettleston way, "Whatever happened to Sam the Skull?
He had claws on his paws like a crocodile's jaws, and a heid like a framer's bull."
You can tell them for me that I'm still running free, never a day is dull
It might sound absurd, but I'm livin' wi' a bird in a single end in Maryhill
I'm a cat, I'm a cat, I'm a Glasgow cat and my name is Sam the Skull
I've got claws on my paws like a crocodile's jaws, and a heid like a fermers bull
I'm no the kind of cat that sat on a mat or the kind that ye gi'e a hug
I'm the kind of cat that strangles rats, and even the occasional dog
I have a program that lets me generate jigsaws from my own photos and which makes an .exe file that I can send to my friends. They can download and play the jigsaws offline, without having to load the original program.
You can get hints, magnify each jigsaw piece, rotate the pieces - and of course SAVE it and you can go back to it later.
NEW! Listen the music of A Band Called Quinn as you try to piece together their photograph. The track is called The Last Night I Saw from their album Sun Moon Stars.
My thanks to A Band Called Quinn for giving me permission to use their photograph and audio track for this jigsaw.
PLEASE NOTE: If the jigsaw does not play after downloading and unzipping the file, you may need the Xvid codec. I have provided a download link in a note called READ_FIRST.txt, which is in the same folder as the puzzle.
When you load this jigsaw and click the little house icon on the top right-hand corner, if you're online it will take you to the Band's YouTube Subscription page, where there are some excellent videos.
You are welcome to download these files to your hard drive and distribute them to your friends.
Display photographs are half actual size of jigsaws (800 x 600). The best resolution to display jigsaws is 1024 x 768.
A Band Called Quinn
100 jigsaw pieces - fairly easy, just enjoy the music
Always scan for viruses before opening any zip file
Segment #4 - The Story Unfolds I use visualisation quite a lot for storywriting, not just words. I see the story unfold around me, as if I'm part of it, and the characters interact with me. I'm going to try an experiment and piece together a story in little segments.
Segment #4
I have been to Glasgow Cathedral a lot recently.
Although I was born in Glasgow, and lived there most of my early life, I had never set foot inside the Cathedral, but these past two years has seen me visit this great building on a few occasions.
Today I was inside the main hall, all spartan with the only colours being provided by the glass windows and faded flags. The interior colours were mostly light grey, dark grey and black.
I was not feeling well that day and unsteady on my feet. I was fine until I stepped inside the Cathedral. Usually the incense that pervaded the air of churches made me feel this way - but in this part of the Cathedral, the air was clear.
My head was spinning, my vision grew dim, everything was becoming darker. The sounds of visitors' footsteps sounded so far away. I knew this was a prelude to a blackout, and either I had to sit down or take a sip of water.
The darkness was almost complete and I felt a pain in my head. I must have fallen and struck my head on the cold stone floor and yet I was still conscious, but now I could not see.
"Push them back against the wall!", I could hear.
I opened my eyes and found myself behind one of the great oak doors of the Cathedral.
A familiar feeling came over me. I knew I was no longer in my own time and that I would be witnessing events firsthand. I knew who I was and what I was doing here.
Glasgow Cathedral was in great danger - it was the time of the Reformation.
I had been employed with five other men to guard the Cathedral on behalf of the City Merchants, who had saved the Cathedral three years before from Reformers that came to destroy it. I must confess we were unprepared for what happened next.
The attack by the mob of students came suddenly and caught me and my men offguard. In the short but decisive battle that followed, I took a blow to the head. My men were kicked out of the Cathedral, but I was overlooked as I lay between the pews.
As the Reverand Howieson was ranting from the pulpit with the students as his congregation, I managed to crawl towards the main oak doors. As I reached them, I rolled over behind the door to the left before the Burger men marched in to drive the students out.
I knew I was badly hurt, and I had never felt so much pain. I thought I was dying.
And now the battle raged within the great hall, and in the gloom and confusion it was difficult to distinguish friend from foe. The Burgers did not wear uniforms, and were in fact hired thugs. They cared little about the consequences of their actions, bu their leaders had not taken into account that they would have to fight, and fight in near darkness. The Cathedral's own torches had not been lit when the students stormed its sanctum two hours earlier, there was still sufficient light from the plain glass windows at that time.
"Push them back against the wall!", the burgers' leader shouted.
The superior numbers of the burger men and their lethal clubs soon changed the course of the battle. The students were forced into the other corner near the oak doors. The burgers formed a half-circle and brought their heavy clubs down over their heads, as if chopping wood. One or two students managed to break free from this ferocious attack, but were pounced on by one burger whose job was to attack anyone who managed to stray from the main group. The burgers skill and ruthlesness soon brought the battle to an end and the students threw down their weapons. Two of the burgers did not show mercy and waded into the now defenceless young men.
After two unfortunate students were left nearly dead, the burger's leader called a halt and commanded his men to drive the defeated students out of the Cathedral.
Archbishop Montgomery chose that moment to enter the Cathedral with his entourage, including Matthew Stewart of Minto, Provost of Glasgow. Stewart had a royal warrant to install Montgomery as Archbishop. As the entourage passed the fleeing students who were still being pursued by two vicious burger men, they cried out for mercy, but the Archbishop ignored their pleas, and entered the great hall of the Cathedral.
The Reverand Howieson refused to move from the pulpit. Archibishop Montgomery stood before the pulpit and said, "Step down sir, and go in peace from the place of God. Otherwise I will instruct Mr Stewart to remove you forcibly, if need be."
"I shall not move from this spot and claim this this church in the name of the Presbyterians!", cried the Reverand Howieson.
One of Stewart's men climbed the stairs of the pulpit and grabbed Howieson's arm. Howieson pulled away. Undeterred, the man grabbed Howieson's long beard and dragged him down the spiralling stairs, but Howieson fell half way down, and when he emerged from the bottom of the stairs, it was noticeable that his front teeth were missing. Stewart's men laughed out loud at the unfortunate cleric, but Archbishop Montgomery motioned them to be quiet and then said to Howieson, "You will spend some ime on reflection upon your deeds today." Then, turning to Stewart, he commanded him to take Howieson to the Tollbooth.
With great pomp and ceremony, the remaining men formed two lines, as Archibishop Montomery ascended the stairs of the pulpit. From there, he gave a sermon to them, lasting well over and hour. Torches had been lit all over the Cathedral and the two torches below Archibishop Montgomery, bathed him in an eerie light.
Behind the oak door I still lay and I watched the Archibishop, could see him gestulating, but could not hear him. I was very cold, and grew very tired. The flickering flames in the Cathedral grew dim. I closed my eyes, slipping into unconsciousness.
"May I suggest you go home sir, and go to sleep in your own bed?" This stern voice woke me up.
I found myself sitting on one of the chairs that surround one of the great pillars, and looking up a stern older gentleman in a security uniform.
Taking it easy at first, I stood up. I was ok, I didn't hit my head, and I must have sat down before I passed out.
Some American tourists were looking at me with amusement and one boy roughly age ten was making oink oink noises. Obviously I had been snoring, and regrettably my snoring IS loud, and is such a large chamber, the sound must have been greatly amplified.
Muttering almost incoherent words of apology, and realising my faces was scarlet with embarrassment, I headed for the exit, closely followed by the security man.
Outside, I headed for a bench, sat down and tried to recall the events of the last few minutes.
Eventually I got up, took one last look at Glasgow Cathedral, and I wondered if what I saw had actually happened.
I felt a lot better now and chuckled as I thought of my snoring reverberating all through those hallowed chambers.
Magpie's Musings - Face Painting On The Move
You ladies have my admiration - no matter how you travel, be it as a passenger in a car, on a train, on a bus or on the subway train - you still manage to put your makeup on!
I've watched the women's makeup routine on a few occasions, mostly on the subway train. Despite the train driver's best efforts to knock the passengers about - there's the young lady, mirror in hand, putting eyeliner on, steady as a rock. Just like those movie cameras that are weighted and balanced to let the camera man film wihout camera shake, the young lady sways with the movement of the train or bus, and applies each layer of makeup with precision and skill.
I am impressed.
Segment #3 - The Story Unfolds I use visualisation quite a lot for storywriting, not just words. I see the story unfold around me, as if I'm part of it, and the characters interact with me. I'm going to try an experiment and piece together a story in little segments.
Segment #3
I like walking through Glasgow Green.
Even as a lad, I'd walk down here. Sometimes my Granny would send me out with my little sister in the pram and I was told to take her for some fresh air. It didn't do my image any good - a wee boy pushing his sister about in a pram, but I ignored the other boys' sneers and made the best of it.
Today was warm and sunny, and I was standing facing the old Templeton carpet factory, now a business centre. The familiar red bricks shown brightly in the sunlight. I was just thinking about those days pushing a pram, all those years ago.
Suddenly, I felt a strong wind on my back. I instinctively knew it was the west wind, and I remembered the tragic consequences when the west wind hit those very walls when they were new, the mortar between the bricks still fresh.
I turned around to face Glasgow Green. Some boys were playing football on the grass - but suddenly - they were no longer there. I turned around again, and the building had changed. There was wooden scaffolding, ladders and wheelbarrows laying around. Piles of shiny new bricks lay in neat bundles.
I saw a man shout up to some men. I knew who he was.
It was George Laird.
"Come on lads, it's five tae five! It's time we were finished!", George shouted, grabbing his toolbag.
"Aye, it's bloody freezin' here. Ah'll be glad when the roof's put oan and we can at least keep oorsels dry." said Billy, one of the bricklayers who was standing beside George.
It was Friday and another hard day was over. Some men went straight home, while others headed for the local hostelry for a well deserved drink. George, who was one of the joiners on the site, grabbed me by arm and said we were all heading for the pub, but to wait for the rest of the lads.
I couldn't believe it - somehow I knew I was a brickie, and I was back in time. I fervently hoped that it was not Friday the 1st of November 1889.
But I knew it was, and a feeling of dread came over me.
I felt I knew these men well. They were my friends, and I was part of what was about to unfold.
We noticed that the strong wind that had buffeted the building earlier was now becoming stronger. George looked at me, and I nodded. We didn't say a word. The wind came from the north west, blowing old newspapers across Glasgow Green, some landing briefly on the damp grass, only to be picked up again and hurled through the air, swirling helplessly around in circles.
At last, at 5.05pm, the rest of our mates appeared. They had been held up by an over zealous foreman who had insisted that the area they were working in was properly tidied up before they were allowed to leave the site. We agreed that we should walk along London Road and try one of the local pubs near Bridgeton Cross, hoping that there would be room for us to sit down.
I was no longer with my mates.
Now I was standing in the temporary weaving shed, behind the new building.
140 women were working, they had to wait until 6pm before they too could go home. Each woman tended a loom that weaved the fine carpets destined for exotic locations throughout the world.
They did not see me standing there, in the middle of the shed. I could not move.
One woman managed to catch the eye of another behind her.
"Whit dae ye think tae yon new building behind us? Hiv ye seen the front of it?"
"Aye. Och, Ah think it's too dandy, with a' they fancy colours. It looks like a whorehoose!"
Both women laughed out loud at that observation.
Outside, the wind picked up yet again, buffeting the wall of the new building. Three powerful gusts of wind hit the building in quick succession. The new mortar could not take the strain and since the building was just a shell and had no support within it, the walls collapsed inward - towards the weaving shed.
There was a loud rumbling noise as the new building slowly fell over, on top of the weaving shed. The sound of crashing bricks and tiles - and then silence.
Only a brief silence, for the screams of injured women soon pierced the evening air.
I was back with George Laird and our friends.
The ground beneath our feet began to rumble and we could hear a sound like crashing thunder. Without a word, we rushed back along the road and down William Street. The sight that greeted us made us stop briefly in horror. But we sprang into action and joined in the chaos as we, and other helpers tried vainly to find a way through the rubble, unorganised and with no idea of where to start.
Eventually, two foreman shouted all the men together and started organising teams. The fire brigade had arrived along with two doctors. We were all quickly put to work.
All through the night we struggled to free the women, living and dead from the rubble, working as quickly as we could in the darkness, until an electric arc lamp was rigged up.
At last the grim task was over and all the bodies were lined up inside the finishing shop, with the survivors taken to hospital or being sent home, if their injuries were not severe.
One of the foremen call George and I over.
“You two can start by organising they labourers over there tae separate all the good bricks in the rubble so that we can use them again.”, he said.
“Right now? Is everybody accounted for?”, asked George.
“Aye, 29 lassies died last night, a lot o’ them were very young, including one who wiz jist 13.”, said the foreman, “every one’s been accounted for and the injured are in the Royal Infirmary - so let’s get this lot sorted!”
After a brief rest, our two teams worked all through the day. Progress was painfully slow and the cold November weather made the work even more of a toil.
The foreman came up to me. This time more relaxed and more talkative.
“I see that Templeton’s expects the rest o’ their workers to turn up for work at 10 am on Monday morning. They just put a sign up ootside the factory gates.”, said the foreman.
I said nothing and carried on with the work. I wanted to finish before it got too dark, because not even the big electric light could repel the shadows that surrounded the piles of rubble, shadows that sent shivers down my spine. I thought I could still hear the cries of many women.
The rescuers' grief and that of the victims’ relatives hung around the area like a murky fog, the pain and anguish absorbed into the rubble of bricks and stone which would once again be rebuilt by skilful hands, only this time the overwhelming sorrow would be etched into the bricks indelibly.
We cleared away an area where part of the wall of the weaving shed office was still standing. The office clock was still on the wall.
It had stopped at 5.15pm
My emotions got the better of me and I closed my eyes, praying that the images would go away and that I'd be back in my own time.
Mercifully, when I opened my eyes - I was.
Looking for reassurance, I turned around, and saw the welcome sight of the boys playing football on Glasgow Green.
I had to get away from this place.
For I could still hear the screams of dying women.
David Ross's interesting style of presenting makes Glasgow Cathedral come to life.
Magpie's Musings - If It Was Good Enough For Walt Disney.....
A few years ago, it was announced that a new Disney Store was opening in the St Enoch's Shopping Centre in Glasgow. So, being out of a job at the time, I posted off my CV. To my surprise, I got invited for an interview at one of the city hotels. I was in my forties then, and I thought that maybe I'd be too old.
But off I went for the interview. All the applicants were herded in to a room with a big conference table and chairs, and there we filled in the basic application form.
We were then shown the usual glossy video of Disney staff being 'nice', with their cheesy grins and sickly sweet manners (nearly turned my stomach - go to a Disney Store and see for yourself). Afterwards, we all had our individual interviews.
The lady interviewer was much older than me, and she wore a multi-coloured Disney tracksuit.
She pointed to my face and said, "That moustache has to go."
Now, I'm not too bothered about facial hair. I used to grow a moustache then shaved it off again, just to annoy the wife, who liked me to sport a moustache. To be honest, I would have shaved it off anyway.
But there was a principal at stake here.
I said, "Tell me something - would I have to wear a stupid-looking tracksuit like that?"
"Yes - and you will be asked occasionally to dress as a Disney character."
"Uh-huh", I said, "and you want me to shave my moustache off too?"
"Yes", she said, "all employees must be clean shaven."
I bit my tongue and resisted the temptation to reply, "Even the women?", but it was SO tempting.
I stood up, stroked my moustache and said, "Well, if it was good enough for Walt Disney, then it's good enough for me - goodbye!"
Segment #2 - The Story Unfolds I use visualisation quite a lot for storywriting, not just words. I see the story unfold around me, as if I'm part of it, and the characters interact with me. I'm going to try an experiment and piece together a story in little segments.
Segment #2
A typical day in Glasgow - rain. Oh it didn't matter that it was supposed to be summer and it was the middle of July.
It still rained in Glasgow, or to be precise - ON Glasgow, in abundance.
No water shortage here.
You'd think a Glaswegian would know to take an umbrella, no matter how the day started out. At one point, it would be sure to rain. My umbrella was in the boot of the car.
So there I was, walking up Wishart Street, camera in hand. I had decided to park my car near Glasgow Cross and get out to take some photographs of the High Street, then on to Glasgow Cathedral. By now, the car was too far away, so I decided that my parka coat would keep me dry enough as I continued, determined to take the photographs I wanted.
I stood near the Necropolis at Wishart Street and wondered why Glasgow allowed the Molendinar Burn to be covered over by this street and diverted underneath. The Molendinar Burn was of great historical significance and should have been cherished, not hidden away.
As I stood there mulling over this, it suddenly stopped raining and the clouds were beginning to clear. My surroundings became blurred. First the great cathedral disappeared, and then the Necropolis, both being replaced by a blanket of wild grass.
I was now standing on the bank of the Molendinar Burn.
The scent of wild flowers filled the air. The long grass swayed as a gentle breeze caressed the land, bringing a welcome coolness from the heat. Water noisily rippled and and out and across the stones in the burn, untainted, coloured blue by the reflection of the clear sky.
I heard a faint rumbling in the distance, far down the dirt road running alongside the burn, where the water was deeper. A few minutes later, a cart pulled by two oxen came into view. The cart drew closer to the shallow crossing across the burn.
I watched as two man were walking towards me, guiding the oxen. The man sitting on the cart was clothed in a plain coarse grey garment of a holy man, with long sleeves and a hood. His face could not be seen because the hood covered his head.
The cart reached the low water crossing of the burn. The holy man called out to me.
"Come my brother, be a good christian and lend a hand. There before you just beyond the bank of this burn is the burial place that Ninian himself has consecrated. it is here that we will bury our friend, Fergus."
And so, on that sunny afternoon, Fergus was laid to rest by strangers who had befriended him during his last few days of life, and I assisted. I was dressed in the same course cloth as they. My camera was gone. We had no tools to dig, so we used our bare hands. The soil was hard and dry - we used sharp pointed stones to break up the earth.
The holy man said a prayer over the fresh grave of Fergus, and then all four of us left the burial ground and came to the burn. Stripping off, we waded into the cold but pure water and cleansed ourselves of the soil. The holy man got dressed, but waded back into the water, then turned to us.
"My brothers. Let me baptise you in the name of God, and prepare you to receive Jesus, pure of body, mind and soul."
I could not move, even though I wanted to. I realised that I could no longer be seen by the three men.
On that day the two men were baptised by Kentigern, the holy man.
As the bright sky gave way to dark clouds and heavy rain. I could hear St Kentigern's voice, but it was fading into the past...
"Upon the bank of this burn", announced Kentigern, "I will build my church to the glory of the Holy Trinity. Go you to yon small village and tell the good people there to come and be baptised, so that they can receive Our Lord."
I stood on the pavement in Wishart Street as the rain came beating down. I tightened the hood of my soaked parka around my neck and made my weary way back to Glasgow Cross.
The photographs could wait for another day - hopefully a dry day.
As I walked, below my feet and under the tarmac, the water from the Molendinar Burn was rushing towards the River Clyde.
It was a wet day for the annual parade of vintage vehicles around the West End of Glasgow.
Segment #1 - The Story Unfolds I use visualisation quite a lot for storywriting, not just words. I see the story unfold around me, as if I'm part of it, and the characters interact with me. I'm going to try an experiment and piece together a story in little segments.
Segment #1
I was walking along the Gallowgate in Glasgow, heading for Glasgow Cross, I'd just passed the Tollbooth when I was suddenly prodded painfully in the back. I turned round and came face to face with the oddest character I had ever set eyes on. He was about 5'5", tubby and smelled of cheap perfume. He wore a long scarlet cloak opened to reveal black silk breeches and waistcoat, with leather shoes with gold buckles. On his head was a 3-pointed hat and a grey wig.
"Out of my way man!", he bellowed, and then he grabbed me by the collar and with remarkable strength, threw me against the wall. I felt the point of his gold handled cane on my throat and he bellowed at me again.
"How dare ye walk amang us gentry, these are our stanes and if I catch ye here again, I'll have my men beat ye until you have no skin on yer back. Keep outside of these pillars - now be off with ye!"
He raised his cane as if to hit me hard, I crouched down and covered my head, ready for the blow, I was so stunned I had no time to think - it all happened so fast.
The blow never came. The man had gone.
Passersby were laughing at me - I was still crouched against the wall, absolutely stunned.
I stood up, and walked back towards the Gallowgate.
I knew enough about Glasgow to recognise who the man was.
Did I step back in time briefly?
Or did he move forward in time - because nothing changed in the Trongate when he accosted me.
Still badly shaken by this encounter, I headed home as quickly as I could.
I often walk the streets of Glasgow at night, and never felt any fear. I reasoned that if I worry about being attacked, my fear and timidity would be apparent and then I would attract the very undesirabe attention that I am trying to avoid. Besides, I'm a tough lady and handy with the pointed end of my umbrella.
So, head held high, and striding quickly along the Gallowgate, I headed for home, tired and alone. It was dark, raining and late. I was a 20 minute walk away from my warm cozy flat.
I had reached the Barrowland dance hall. In those days, nothing was opened on a Sunday not even a pub, and especially at 10pm. The shutters were down at the dance hall and the Barrowland itself was locked up.
I became aware that I was being followed.
It was that woman's instinct that we get that can't be explained. We just KNOW something is not right. I heard footsteps behind me, and I judged that he would about 20 paces back, I knew it was a man.
Quickening my step, I hurried along towards Belgrove, where the lights seemed brighter and there would be people about. I was determined to confront the stranger. Perhaps I was wrong, and he was just walking home. But no, I knew he was following me, I just knew.
With a sigh of relief, I reached the corner at Belgrove Street. There were men about. Now to confront the stranger.
I turned round quickly and walked towards him. Within 7 strides I was up close to his face, intending to startle him. He smiled.
"Hello Mary", he said in a gentle, friendly voice, sendng shivers down my spine.
Taken aback slightly by his manner and the fact that he knew my name, I nevertheless summoned up enough anger to give him a piece of my mind.
"What's the big idea you following me from Glasgow Cross - and don't deny that you were following me!", I shouted at him, "and how the hell do you know my name? Are you a loony or something. I've a good mind to shout over to those men over there and they will give you a right good hiding!"
I stopped for breath, I was angry, but I was also scared. Then he spoke to me, his voice sending more shivers down my spine.
"Mary my wee angel, I would never hurt you. I often walk behind you at night until you are safely home. I mean no harm."
"Who are you?"
He moved to the right of me and the light of the street lamp bathed his face. He was a handsome young man, about 20 I'd say. Jet black hair, strong jaw. He was about 6 feet tall. He was smartly dressed, with a black suit, white shirt and black tie.
"Let's just say I'm an old friend of the family. Mary, allow me to accompany you to your home. There are two men hanging about the corner of Duke Street, looking for a victim to rob. I want to make sure it is not you. Take my arm, my wee angel."
To my surprise, I put my arm around his, and we turned up Belgrove Street, towards Duke Street. I felt so safe with him and I did not ask him any more questions, although I wish I had.
We reached the corner of Belgrove Street and Duke Street. Two men were standing at the bank, watching us. As we approached them, my companion stared at both of them. Both men looked down at their shoes, looking very uncomfortable. How did he know the two men would be there? He had been walking behind me.
As we walked up the hill towards home, I asked him again.
"Who are you?"
"Mary, think of me as your guardian. Whenever you are alone and scared, just imagine that I am behind you. The chances are that you will never see me again, but if you do see me, take my arm and I will lead you to safety."
He gently put his hands on my cheeks and kissed my forehead. I felt a tingle run down my spine. It was not a sensual kiss, but I could feel his love for me. He truly cared.
I climbed the steps to my flat door and I heard him say again, "Whenever you are alone and scared, just imagine I am behind you, my wee angel."
I turned round to bid him goodnight, but he had gone.
Months went by and the stranger became a dim memory. I was busy getting our old family house ready for sale, my sons and I had to clear out a lot of very old furniture that had seen better days. We came across a cardboard shoebox stuffed full of old photos, birthday and anniversary cards.
My sons and I had a cup of tea and we started to look through the photos. They had a laugh at my baby photos, and I pointed out their aunt and uncles to them. We looked at photographs of my mother and father, and John, my eldest son, asked what had happened to his grandad, because he was in a wheelchair.
"I was just a few months old when he was returning home from a funeral and was knocked down by a drunk driver, his legs were crushed and his face disfigured. He also had brain damage which grew steadily worse. I never heard him speak, he just sat in his wheelchair, looking so sad."
"Poor grandad", said John, "must have been tough for him. Not being able to talk to his own daughter."
"Yes, but I used to talk to him. Sometimes when he was well enough, he'd write me a wee note. It took him ages to..." I jumped up and screamed. The boys jumped up too, scared out of their wits.
"What's wrong?", asked John.
But I was too busy rummaging through the old photographs and birthday cards.
And I found it. A birthday card to me for my 6th birthday. Inside the card my father had spent ages on it, but had finally written a message.
Happy Birthday. My wee angel.
I cried and cried, my boys hugging me, all concerned. I said I was all right and that we should look through all the photos, to see if we could find older photos.
As I knew would happen, we found a photograph of my father in army uniform. His handsome face smiled back, as if he was smiling just at me. It was the face of the stranger I met a few months ago. The last time I had seen that photograph was when I was a wee girl. I cried again. I told my boys what had happened the night I met the stranger, and they were silent, listening to my story. My son John summed it up perfectly.
"Grandad could not protect you when he was alive", John said, "but he's probably been there watching over you since he died."
I know in my heart that this is true. At times when I'm walking alone, I wish I could see him again. But many years have passed, and I have never seen him since.
Magpie's Musings - The Stairwumman
I read recently that there have been a lot of disputes among people living in tenement closes (flat entrances) in Glasgow. Apparently some flat owners were not taking their turn in washing down the stairs.
It has always been understood that people who lived in tenement closes took turns to sweep and clean the stairs. There was never any disputes when factors owned the property - folk just got on with it.
My wee granny made a few bob washing other people's stairs. When I was a lad I used to go round with her, and I'd sweep them, while she got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed and washed them. I've never seen her use a mop.
She used to send me round on a Friday night to collect the 'stair money'.
My granny did that until she was well into her seventies, come rain or shine. Once, my then girlfriend saw her get ready to go out to do somebody's stairs, and giggled when my granny put on four coats!
When granny died, there was a massive turnout at her funeral, she was so well-known and liked.
Granny wouldn't understand today's disputes - but she would have sent me round to tell them all that she'd do the stairs for a few bob.
We had a numpty train driver who kept stopping short of the stop line at each station. The result being that those of us standing or about to get up, were thrown across the carriage as the train suddenly lurched forward again without warning, to reach the stop line just before the tunnel entrance.
After the third station I was getting decidely angry and swore I'd have a word with the train driver when I finally got off.
But you know what? One little thing changed everything. At first, the passengers in the carriage were all muttering angrily, and then we all had cheesy grins on our faces and were saying 'awww', or 'ahhhh, he's so cute'. Not to me, I might add. (although I am cute).
The object of our attentions was a lovely golden labrador puppy who just came on the train. He was being trained as a guide dog, so I guess the handler was getting him used to travelling on the subway. (I say 'he', it may have been female).
Every one of us was trying to get the puppy's attention, even a young group of guys. Where just moments ago everyone's face was like thunder - we were all now just sitting there with stupid big grins on our faces.
From the moment the puppy got on, the atmosphere changed dramatically.
Now all we need is to get that numpty train driver transferred to a desk job.
Magpie's Musings - What?
I travel on Glasgow's Subway a lot, every day in fact, and I'm constantly amazed at the folk who listen to their iPods or MP3 players, oblivious to the world.
I'm amazed because I don't know how the heck they can listen to music that is so loud, we can hear it half way down the carriage.
Thump thump thump, then the sound of screaching guitars - surely it's going to damage their hearing within a very short period of time?
It's not just the kids that are blasting the music from their headphones - older men and women are doing it too. God knows what they listen too. Can you imagine Barry Mannilow screaming down your ears?
I plainly heard the end of one track and the start of another, and deduced it was from the Beatles Revolver album - and I was standing 10 feet away from this man, who must have been in his fifties.
I'm no good at multi-tasking - I can't walk, watch where I'm going, and listen to music blasting in my ears at the same time.
Oh, I love my wee iPod Shuffle, still impressed by the fact that you can get so many tunes in such a small box, and I giggle every time I plug in my big headphones, with the wee Shuffle dangling at the end of it.
But I only use the iPod Shuffle when I'm in bed.
If I had to walk about with a set of headphones stuck to my ears during the day - I'd probably get killed.
There's going to be a huge market out there for hearing aids in the next year or so.
Introduction
I'd like you to meet Fearless Francis. He is a little boy living in Glasgow in the late 1950s. He lives in a fantasy world, playing in the tenement streets, having all sorts of imaginary adventures.
But they are more like mishaps....
Fearless Francis in
Gunfight On The Auchenshuggle Express
In which our hero changes his name (briefly) to
Fast Francis
The number 9 to Auchenshuggle tramcar trundled its way slowly along Argyle Street. The beam from Its cyclops headlamp made the wet cobblestones glisten and shimmer in the twilight of the winter's evening. The rain had just stopped and the streets of Glasgow seemed to have been scrubbed and cleaned with the fresh rainwater.
Fearless Francis knelt on the long seat of the tram and looked out the window. He was happy and excited. At last his constant nagging to Granny had paid off and he got the toy he had always wanted - a single-shot Derringer gun.
In those days, toy manufacturers endeavoured to make the toy guns look as real as possible. This Derringer was single-barreled, made of metal and painted in silver. The grip had plastic panels, but were made to look like ivory. But what Fearless Francis loved most about this gun, was the time-consuming way it had to be loaded with a small round cap. First, he had to cock the trigger, remove the 'cartridge', separate the bullet from its shell, place the round cap inside the shell, replace the bullet and place the whole cartridge back into the gun, uncocking the trigger.
His imagination was running wild again. Today, he was Fast Francis, the fastest gun in the Calton. His mission, as always, was to rid the world of evildoers. Stretching his fantasy to the limits, he imagined that this was no ordinary gun that he had just loaded - this was a thousand-shooter, and it was capable of shooting a baddie at ANY distance.
Suddenly, a red injun appeared on the platform of the tram. Fast Francis reacted swiftly, pointed his gun at the injun's heart and fired. The poor old lady in the red hat and coat got such a fright that she farted and screamed at the same time. Pandemonium broke out as the conductress shouted at Fast Francis's mother, who in turn was skelping him across the ear. Eventually, everything quietened down and the old lady, with a vaguely unpleasant odour beginning to emanate from her, sat down. Everyone was glaring at Fast Francis, whose only recourse was to continue to daydream, to save his blushes.
The journey through the city centre was slow. Roadworks had closed some streets and traffic was nose to tail. This gave more time for Fast Francis to reload his gun. For now a new danger just boarded the tram. He was a mean-looking hombre who sat facing Fast Francis. Slowly taking his gun out of his pocket, Fast Francis made a big show of loading the cap. He gave the hombre a menacing scowl, to let him know he meant business. The object of his attention, a smartly dressed elderly gentleman, stared back at the little boy, and wondered if the poor kid was demented, or was he just constipated?
Still snarling at the mean hombre, Fast Francis finally loaded the gun, made a show of cocking the trigger, and put it in his coat pocket. His mother told him to get up as it was their stop. Fast Francis got up slowly, still scowling at the hombre. As he slowly walked past the elderly gentleman, the heel of his shoe stood on something of an indeterminate nature, but whose composition made it very slippy. Next thing Fast Francis knew, he was flat on his back on the dirty floor, his head spinning, the gun went POP! in his pocket, the old lady screamed and farted again, and mother shouted that she'd kill him when they got off the tram. The elderly gentleman helped him up.
When they alighted from the tram, his fiery-tempered mother lost no time and skelped his ear. "You gave me a showing up!", she screamed. He tried not to cry, and looked back at the tram as it began to trundle off. He saw the elderly gentleman looking at him through the tram window. Then the gentleman pointed his finger at Fast Francis, raising his thumb and bringing it down fast, as if to shoot him. Fast Francis reached for his gun, then realised it was empty. His mother was walking quickly down the road. She shouted to him, "C'moan you, get alang the road - NOO!"
Fast Francis decided to become John Wayne, and lurched forward in a slow deliberate fashion, lurching first to the right, then the left, trying to emulate the John Wayne walk. To the people standing at the tram stop, it looked as if the wee boy was drunk. He kept looking at the receding tram as he slowly, deliberately turned around, his hands hovering over his imaginary six-shooters, which he had suddenly decided to wear. He head was the last thing to turn around as it came into contact with a lampost. There was a clunking sound, followed by roars of laughter from the onlookers.
He staggered back slightly dazed, saw his mother glare at him in the distance, and decided to get on his horse and ride out of trouble. Slapping his backside and holding imaginary reins, he galluped past the queue at the tram stop, neatly ducked under his mother's swooping hand aimed at his ear, and rode into the sunset of his imaginary world.
Glasgow Compendium
