Andrew F. Giles

A Cold Eye

2012-01-10T15:39:00.000Z

Despite Scottish poet Richie McCaffrey's recent suggestion that poets should read as much poetry as possible, sometimes it is a relief to return to one solid mind, much revered, consistently instructive. Although Richie is right, of course. I especially appreciated his assertion that poets should always read and support the journals and magazines they submit to. In my guise as editor of New Linear Perspectives, I once received a submission from an American poet who shall remain nameless. Shortly after, an NLP e-newsletter was sent out, whose mailing list said poet asked in no uncertain terms to be removed from. I suggested he stay on the newsletter mailing list if he expected his poetry to be considered for publication. He sent back an e-mail in large font, blue ink, which said "Fuck you, asshole". This comment itself was poetic in its way - shame that feisty sentiment didn't find its way into his poetry.
Back to the point; one solid mind. I often return to Michael Donaghy's poetry. Gutter published my geeky paean to the man last year. He was once my teacher at an Arvon Foundation course in Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath's old place in Yorkshire. I didn't really know him, he wasn't a friend. He was like a hero at the time - I was only 15 or 16. He has become even more of a hero since, as his image grows, expands, mystifies with time. More of him in a moment.
I've been discussing with my friend the Artist the merits of activism recently. A lot of middle-class acquaintances seem to be taking the world's problems on board and saying something about it. Part of the discussion pointed toward a feeling of embarassment - an almost cringeworthy nature - to some of these outpourings from privileged westerners. However, another side of the argument centred upon righteous anger, and a feeling that there was a need to express it in some way. At the moment I feel myself leaning more towards a sensation of indignation, but the problem still remains - how to express that. Certainly, I am no political poet; the likes of the extremely erudite George Szirtes have fought for, and stand blazing, on that platform. But there is no harm in attempting to express this indignation through poetry. This all sounds wishy-washy, I know, but there is a deeply old-fashioned, very British spirit at work (perhaps even a sort of guilt) that disallows activism on the premise that is rather infra dig. De trop, as I said sniggeringly to the Artist. But it isn't really, on second thoughts, a time for sniggering. Everyone has the right to speak out. Should everyone speak out? I can't answer that question. However, poetry as an artform is bound to pose a series of questions, and create a platform at least for speculation.
Sally Evans of Poetry Scotland recently published one of my poems, about the London riots of Summer 2011. Later she sent me an e-mail suggesting I send it to Alan Morrison of The Recusant, a socialist poetry journal, who are about to release The Robin Hood Book, an anthology of poetry and writing that takes its name from the "Robin Hood Tax". He duly accepted it, and also one of my father Willie Giles' poems - he writes his 'end-of-capitalism' blog The World According to Willie here. These poems could at least be a way for 'kith and kin', as Morrison puts it, to question actions they feel may be unjust and thus place the argument in the public sphere.
Michael Donaghy wasn't a political poet either. He was too wise, perhaps. Too fun. He saw beyond mere politics to a subtler fabric that binds and undoes the universe. However, his poem 'Blinder' has a sinister tone that encapsulates a current world counternarrative. It is as suggestive as it is menacing.
Who is the dark prince, "standing in the shadow of the sun?" "He is a great prince, taking the form of a thrush,/ He made the market. He makes it crash". What a horrifying figure; a latterday Colossus ("And he is big. Oh, he is global") - disguised as something rather appealing. He knows exactly what we are up to, "and has already read and censored this":

He is bright foam on the wave,
sustained cold fusion in a plasma cocoon,
and incurable virus, a pocket watch.
His eyelid opens and he snaps it shut.
He casts a cold eye. He eyes you up.

from Blinder, Michael Donaghy

That cold reptilian eye is a suitably nightmarish image and I think a successful way to suggest that something's not quite right. No answers. No blatant flag-waving. Just under-your-skin, in-your-bones imagery that may lie dormant momentarily. It may just wake up.

Snow & Memory: Here, Boy

2011-12-22T14:11:00.002Z

Aah. The log fire is burning. Monkey the cat is starting to get that look of deep bliss on her usually supercilious face. Kate Bush is singing about snow, and memory, on the stereo. I have been reading quite a lot of Spanish author Julio Llamazares' books, especially Luna de Lobos (Wolf Moon), his novel about memory and the Spanish Civil War, and his poetry La Memoria de la Nieve (The Memory of Snow). Llamazares sees snow as the embodiment of memory - fleeting, intangible, imbued with mystery. Spanish cultural memory is often represented by intangibles, especially ghosts, the spectres of trauma; Llamazares' poetic landscape of snow and ice, full of fleeting ghosts and strange codes and symbols, seems the perfect, if somewhat obtuse, reflection for Kate Bush's recent album 50 Words for Snow.

Much has been made of another 'return to form' for Kate Bush. But she has been slowly and organically evolving unlike most artists of her age. She has noticed the change in her voice, and adjusted her register accordingly. Instead of the ebullient and wilfully weird lyrics of her earlier songs, Kate Bush has become more poetic (or rather, less obvious) over the years. I especially love the new album for that ambiguous link it makes between snow and memory. She revisits earlier themes. In 'Lake Tahoe' she imagines a reflective surface (the lake) that holds the image of a woman, and the song becomes an elegy for the woman's relationship with her dog, but also her relationship with time (I especially like the subdued dog noises at the end, a nod perhaps to the frenzied barking of Hounds of Love). The people in Bush's new album are able to transcend temporal boundaries. Her duet with Elton John imagines a relationship that spans hundreds of years. Whereas previously Bush has written intensely personal songs,or songs veiled with strange imagery, here she unites the two with a thrilling concept. Snow is time. The human experience is eternal. 'Here, boy - you've come home!' she sings over the tinkling of falling snow. I may be biased. Any song that is a paean to a fine hound lost in time is a winner with me.

Like Llamazares, Bush deals in ambiguities, silences, and questions the progress of time as linear. It's easy to wax lyrical about Bush - especially as I am a lifelong fan, and the fan sites and reviews and musings are numerous - but this album is a pleasing milestone along the progression of a singer who realises that she must grow old, that time must pass, and that change is a given. I rather like that simple truth on this album.
Anyway, that to me would be a more pleasing attitude at this time of year. Not the fanfare of capitalism, but the quiet and inexorable passing through life of individuals. The question would be - what to do in that short space of time? I've got it wrong so many times and can offer no answers here... but will continue to listen to 50 Words for Snow and try and eke out some meaning:

Her eyes are open but no-one's home
The clock has stopped
So long she's gone
No-one's home
Her old dog is sleeping
His legs are frail now
But when he dreams,
He runs...

('Lake Tahoe')

I'll hopefully have some news in the New Year. Submitted lots of new work to various competitions and magazines, and applied for my doctorate, so out of all those sent pieces of paper something should come back.

It's been a beautiful year, sometimes harsh, sometimes silly, sometimes scary, sometimes shaming, sometimes joyful. I learnt shit-loads. Show yer face, 2012.

POE-NERO II/ Poetry Scotland/wrong

2011-11-09T13:15:00.004Z

There is a question hanging in the air, like a rancid bird strung to a cloud. This means: the question will probably have a negative answer. Why is my Blogger page not working? I cannot add links. I'm going to kick up some stinks. It is really doing my head (in). I might go to bed, instead. Or see red. Or make someone DEAD, preferably the person who invented Blogger.

I am supposed to be telling all and sundry about the article I wrote about Panero for NLP, an article that replies to a year's worth of translators and editors and fans buzzing around the last one I wrote. But instead I am going to jump into a boat. But not gloat.

http://newlinearperspectives.wordpress.com/poetry/poe-nero-ii-chinese-whispers/ (this looks pretty budget - but click on, my clickers)

I also have a poem coming out in Poetry Scotland called 'Violin'. I would provide you with a link. But you have to go and buy it - it is only £1 - and if you read my interview with doyenne of Scottish poetry Sally Evans, you'd know that. Unless you are a cat. Or a fat-cat. In which case it would not interest you at all.

Man alive! I cannot even use italics! This is making me sicks. I really want to pummel you with sticks, Google-Blogger of Despair. Like an angry dominatrix. What a fix.

It will not even let me add a photograph. I would laugh. But I won't. Instead I will fix that problem. With Balzac! Wasn't he a rotund gentleman?

Today has not gone as planned.

Gutter 05

2011-07-08T15:13:00.003+01:00

My nod that says gracias to the great Michael Donaghy (via folksters the Unthank Sisters and Alasdair Gray's great folk novel 'Lanark'), 'Unthanks', and the poem I wrote about a weird old family heirloom, a book of Rupert Brooke poems that I found, 'Soldier II', come out next month in Gutter, the Scottish magazine of new writing.

Ambit 2011: The Youth Issue

2011-06-16T12:51:00.002+01:00

New poems 2011: Ambit & JERRY

2011-06-09T11:29:00.009+01:00

I've been concentrating hard on some new work this year. That's right - there are things to do apart from hare-watching and Kate Bush-lovin'! I do have a sort of day job as the editor of Scotland's online arts & culture journal (alongside visual arts editor, artist Claudia Massie) New Linear Perspectives. This year has been a magic monster-truck ride for NLP but there is a lot more to come. The submissions keep pouring in, it's a deluge I tell ye.

I've put my translations of Panero's work aside for now - as I am becoming more and more involved in an academic focus on his work, I've decided to let the translations breathe awhile and come back to them at a later date. I just hope he stays put in his sanitorium until the day comes when I can let loose his wild, unfettered, genius vision on an English-speaking world.

This year I've been working on my own poetry, and have six poems coming up for publication this summer. Fanfares on trumpets played by young hares have been sounding up and down the valley.

The first two will appear in Ambit: the Youth Issue. Ambit to most poets is a much-loved publication, run by the indomitable Dr Martin Bax and the stage for many greats to cut their teeth - such as Carol-Ann Duffy (who later became a poetry editor at Ambit), J.G. Ballard and Eduardo Paolozzi. Take a look at the very first issue from the Summer of 1959, which Ambit have posted on their website and which includes a very entertaining foreword from Dr Bax himself.

The first poem is a English-French hybrid that channels the spirit of Maigret whilst acknowledging his later, darker American inheritors. Claudia Massie (who is admittedly biased) calls it "blistering stuff, a sort of noir-hop cauchemar fantasy", which I loved. But who doesn't love a hugely exaggerated compliment from a dear friend. It's so bloody quotable it's untrue. The second focuses on Piers Gaveston, the lover of Edward II, who was given all sorts of favours by his one true love but was eventually beheaded. He is normally represented as a simpering homosexual, and it was up to yours truly to put the record straight.

The other four poems will be featuring in the very excellent JERRY magazine, which is on to its third edition. It is run by Emily Wolahan (a successful poet in her own right) and Ethan Hon, and has already featured some marvellous work. I'm so delighted to be a part of it. Infact, I whooped out so loud the day the email came that the blackbirds flew from the trees like half-mad bullets trying to shoot the moon. All very poetic. Please don't quote me on that.

The poems for JERRY include a whimsical imagining of the great pioneer of wildlife sound recording Ludwig Koch creeping about the set of Sally Potter's film Orlando - a very favourite film of mine. Tilda Swinton, I've been trying to get you interviewed for NLP for months. I draw a line at camping outside your house - for now. But I have an eraser. Others include a paean to another great hero, Allen Ginsberg, and a strangely musical memorial to the victims of the Japanese tsunami. I told myself for days I will not write a memorial poem but it just came out. I am pleased with it, others may not be - but, I ask you - it only lasted on the news for about a day, a much worse and less controversial incident than 9/11 but who is talking about those people now? Nobody. And still the western world bays for Muslim blood. It is at moments like these we need to turn to poetry, methinks.

I've just read Patti Smith's book 'Just Kids' (such an amazing book - well worth a read) about her relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. We featured it in NLP not that long ago, take a look. It really took me back to the manifestos of early modernists such as the Futurists who were totally bombastic about what they wanted to achieve through their art, something I feel does not always come across in today's culture, so saturated by the excrement of the global village. Patti and Robert truly believed in their artistic integrity and their artistic mission, and it is through publications such as Ambit (a long-time runner in the race of creativity) and JERRY (a newcomer, but champing at the bit) that these manifestos are achieved. Thanks for that Patti, I didn't realise what a great lady you were.

Is the plural of manifestos MANIFESTI? It should be allowed a run in the English tongue. Expect a few ur-manifesti from this blog forthwith.

Image: 'Saturno devorando a su hijo', GOYA

Soup: how they roll

2011-04-11T21:28:00.008+01:00

I am to blogging what Bono is to humble pie. Not frequent bedfellows. Sin embargo, in the spirit of Kate Bush, who has re-imagined songs from two of her albums, the blog is going to repost some poems I wrote a few years ago. They continue to amuse me and the Artist, at least.

I've just been re-visiting Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate via the joys - wait for it - of an audio-book on my ipod. Only three years ago I was delighting in slipping disc after disc into my portable CD player and watching the passers-by whoop and grimace in horror and disbelief (equal amounts). Thanks to itunes I am now able to inhabit the Mitford then whilst traipsing the Scottish now; I am fully modern and laugh out loud as I loll. It reminded me of a sextet of soup-drinkers I wrote about a few years ago, thought it might be time to re-visit them too.

This is the story; six dead writers eat soup. Gore Vidal isn't dead, actually, but he has always kind of acted like an aloof sort of ghost - I mean he isn't the guy you turn to for line-dancing and bourbon, and never was. I also hope he lives forever - it isn't hard to imagine a creaking, sharp-boned Gore intoning and looking markedly disinterested as the world turns. And the rest will do their thing - this, my friends, is how they roll. With soup.

Ted Hughes:

Cracking pepper into
Brothy depths recalls the
Brackish marshy moor;
Here I lie, Nature’s son,
Sucking in soup and my soul
As I gulp it down, barking.

Gore Vidal (no music here, just a ticking clock):

This soup; my endgame, and
America’s last soup, embittered
With corrupt carrots and the
Last aristocrat of the modern
Empire: Me! Cold dish
Clutched in my cold dead hand alone
Except for my close circle of carefully selected famous friends.
I shall never speak of them.

Sylvia Plath:

Suppe, monstrous soup of
My loins and one final meal
Before bed; lead – my head
Swims in it:
Ach suppe,
You really did it this time.

Patricia Highsmith:

As we slice the onion, slicing
By rote – who knows why the knife
Slips to a passing throat,
Ripping the jugular? Tom and
I’ll consult the severed
Head in the handbag, readers.

Nancy Mitford:

Admit, soup-making is
Ghastly
Mindboggling and to top it
All Non-U. I ran a soup
Kitchen in the blitz – utter
Hell, too awful, and the
Clothes too English. Admit.

Edith Sitwell (set to music as yet unwritten):

You’ll remember I make soup
With the hands of a cripple; croup
Dictates these Elizabethan moon-boiled
Poetic talons must not be soiled,
But photographed.
I’m not at all the type to cry
But this soup rankles. Why?

Rain

2011-03-15T13:27:00.005Z

Busy month with New Linear Perspectives. I was in Bratislava interviewing ex-Siouxsie & the Banshee Steven Severin, which you can see here.

Awaiting various replies from poetry magazines - this year I've had a lot of (kind - although not an adjective that fits neatly with the noun) rejections which I am pasting my wall with - no need for wallpaper at ma hoose.

I enjoyed Equinox, I think Barbara Dordi does a great job. Please buy it to support new poetry - and my own, I hasten to add!

The Carse of Lecropt is wet, wet, wet. The pheasants are head down in the field grubbing away, but the hares have started to leap about so Spring cannot be far from us.

Equinox March 2011

2011-01-10T12:38:00.004Z

My poem 'Face' will be out in brilliant poetry journal Equinox (edited by Barbara Dordi) in March 2011. Other contributors have included U. A. Fanthorpe, Ann Drysdale, William Oxley, John Whitworth, Myra Schneider, W. N. Herbert, Mario Petrucci and Tony Curtis.

Dordi follows Pound's dictum: "The artist selects and presents the luminous detail. He does not comment". So, in the spirit of Equinox, no comment from me. But Mr Oxley had something rather glowing to say about this "bi-annual occurence":

"Equinox is surely the most beautiful of contemporary poetry journals" (William Oxley)

Busy times ahead: poetry, go-reborn and New Linear Perspectives

2010-11-23T13:14:00.005Z

After a short sojourn whilst I've been getting myself some edu-kay-shun at a real live University, here is an update for you all on up-and-coming exploits.

I've been writing lots of poetry; the appearance of 'Gas' in quirky writing magazine Collective Fallout was great. I'm aiming for the big guns now, hence the fact I haven't been putting it up on my blog, but instead have been running it past my best critics, my Dad, and Pat Neil, who has recently written another piece for New Linear Perspectives called 'The Spider on the Differential', which you can read here.

Last week at go-reborn in Edinburgh was great fun, I met some interesting peeps. I especially liked Asta Pestkunaite, whose work reminded me of Archimboldo, and who spent some time explaining the brilliant and haunting theory behind her portraits. Her website is here. I also had a nice chat with artist David Lemm, who helps run the pop-up space at Such & Such on Brunswicke Street. His stuff is ace - all shadowy figures and geometrical shapes - so I'm hoping for a collabo with him soon. He has already painted for poetry, as it were, in the last Pop-Shots magazine, so watch this space.

My old sparring partner Jaco Justice did a brilliant job at go-reborn last weekend, so I was really proud of him. The new website with the new blog space (which I will be hosting) and the wicked new on-line store are available to look at now, so have a skeg as we say in Yorkshire. The usual suspects were involved, especially Jono Freemantle, Fleur MacIntosh from the amazing boutique Godiva, photographer Dave Anderson and some new faces.

Otherwise, genius artist friend and blogger at the Spectator Claudia Massie and I have been working on a project for some time called New Linear Perspectives. It is an arts and culture on-line literary magazine that has already seen some amazing writers involved. Claudia is taking a break from the day-to-day running of it for a few months and will be handing that job over to me, so there should be a lot more info on that soon. It is a really exciting project and different from stuff I have done before. We are also lucky to have Zoe Green, poet and writer, on board, which is a real coup.

I'm back on the blog tip now so there will be loads of new incoming.

Such and Such - arc of time

2010-10-28T14:55:00.003+01:00

My written piece on Edinburgh and 'the arc of time' will shortly be published in the goreborn publication. This will be available to buy at the Such and Such pop-up initiative that is on throughout November, at 105 Brunswick Street in Edinburgh. goreborn has the 20th-21st November slot but there are a plethora of talented artists appearing throughout the month.

For more info on the event, and to get a limited edition invite to the private viewing on Friday 19th November, please email jj@awareinjustice.com

Pick of the Edinburgh Festival

2010-08-10T13:59:00.003+01:00

Sexy, bruised and timeless. My favourite play ever now playing at the Edinburgh Festival.

Collective Fallout: Vol 2 No 2 Out Now

2010-07-08T13:50:00.004+01:00

Poetry fans! Support new poetry! The new volume of ace literary magazine Collective Fallout is out now.

You can buy it here. I'd like to say 'and in all good bookshops' but I guess you'd have to catch a plane to the US for that.

Not only are you supporting local talent but talent the world over. Do it.

My poem, 'Gas', appears.

Storm

2010-06-01T12:17:00.004+01:00

The garden has been

rent asunder, my green-

fingered real-life scene

is dead, pedalled away

in the thunder, nothing

seen or said. Still,

it lends a stately air

of decrepitude to my mood

which no pill could have cured

before the storm.

The worm has turned.

I no longer wish

for perfect lawns and a pond

heaving with fish that gasp

for air. I'm leaving all that

behind, ribbons in the

wind on the day after the

fair has been spirited from town.

Now I crave weeds and

the days have gone when I

numbered pots and seeds and

dressed them in muslin and

gauze. I creep about. I pause.

I watch the spider move from

crack to rock and back and

let the rust on the gate lock

spread. Those outside do not

know if the wilderness is

hemmed in or if the

spider's criss-crossed thread

keeps them out.

The worm does not care.

Like I said, it turned,

and dug my house from

inside out and in the

rout I saw my face as a

white orb in the glass.

I like the grey space

of light on the bed-springs, the

cracked spout of the tea-pot

clogged with muck and brine.
You worry. I say it's fine.

Photo courtesy of Kirsty Palmer

Panero @ The Nervous Breakdown

2010-05-14T11:28:00.004+01:00

My translation of Leopoldo María Panero's poem El Lamento del Vampiro has been published at swanky and very cool US literary webzine The Nervous Breakdown. You can see it here.

Ur-times

2010-05-13T11:59:00.006+01:00

Busy times ahead. 2010 is turning out to be quite a year. An ur-year. I'll explain.

I'm working on translations of Leopoldo María Panero's poetry at the moment. I am also working on a piece about said poet for brand new on-line literary endeavour New Linear Perspectives, whose website looks amazing, and has, amongst other things, just published some poems by bewitching wordsmith Zoe Green.

Leopoldo María Panero resides in a manicomio on the Canary Islands. He writes dark poetry from the other side of sanity with horror-laden images reminsicent of the work of Poe and Ambrose Bierce. But you can read about him at NLP in a few weeks. I've actually just been reading the Devil's Dictionary by nineteenth century American writer Ambrose Bierce and it is unaccountably hilarious. Also known as 'the wickedest man in San Francisco', 'Bitter' Bierce redefined language in his satirical manner, with various targets - here are some of them beginning with A:

Academe (n.): An ancient school where morality and philosophy were taught.

Academy (n.): A modern school where football is taught.

Admonition (n.): Gentle reproof, as with a meat-axe.

Affianced (pp.): Fitted with an ankle-ring for the ball-and-chain.

African (n.): A nigger that votes our way.

Clearly, his pot-shots at education, social mores, the sanctity of marriage and race relations were somewhat shocking for genteel 19th century San Fransiscans. What interests me is his gloomy, fetid foray into the horror genre, or the beginnings of it, alongside Edgar Allan Poe, a true sociopath - which brings us circularly back to Panero, a socio-psychopath who declaims the world from his self-imposed exile in a lunatic asylum.

Interesting times.

I am also trying to get my head around Mallarmé and Mallarmian theory, not a happy time for me as Mallarmé's poetry can be as dense as a hedge and the feeling of connecting eye to word is like being pulled through said bush thicket, backwards. And that's just reading the English translation.

Otherwise, trying to hone my translation skills by reading Ezra Pound, according to some "the greatest translator of modern times". Cambridge scholar Clive Wilmer writes interestingly on the journey of a translator through their subject - something he calls the 'search for an ur-language' - especially on the genius of this blog's favourite Ted Hughes, who has translated Ovid's Tales to great success. Ted Hughes knew how to dig deep, exacavate, rebuild, transform. I love that man and his big earthy words. You can read Wilmer's article here, very interesting.

Incidentally, the use of the prefix ur is hilarious and beguiling. I always laughed in German class at school whenever we were forced to mention our great-grandparents. Surprisingly frequently, actually. Maybe the teacher was a gerontophile. He was certainly a minor pervert, but that is another story. He wasn't an ur-pervert, which is the key thing. Anyway, your grandfather and your grandmother are your Urgrossmutter and Urgrossvater in German. I think it should replace the overused uber (you can add your own umlaut as my computer certainly won't do it for you) as a catch-all hyperbolic ephithet.

Go and check out New Linear Perspectives, it is beyond excellent. Urxcellent. Oh yes.

You can buy the rocking Ambrose Bierce t-shirt here.

Alan Fentiman/ Gilling Gig on Tour

2010-04-15T15:43:00.003+01:00

It is nice to have talented friends and family. Alan Fentiman is an super-talented (and award-winning) film-maker and DJ who also happens to be married to my sister. His website is here where you can see him interviewing the likes of ex-KLF money-burner Bill Drummond and artist Stephen Mathewson to name a couple.

He is also filming Willie and Greg Giles' progress as they continue their meteoric rise in the echelons of rock with the continued success of Gilling Gig. They are taking on a massive challenge: touring the North East with their usual (and some new) faces, as always collecting money for charity (so far over £3500) with the culmination of all this ROCKIN' being a concert in Newcastle City Hall in 2011.

They also happen to be my father and brother, so a natural element of familial pride creeps into this blog. But also - what an amazing project! Check out the whole rock-frazzled behemoth here. I'll be keeping you updated and obviously rocking with them as they sprinkle the North East with a little bit of that Giles magic.

Image courtesy of Alan Fentiman at www.alanfentiman.co.uk

Poetry Scotland

2010-03-29T09:28:00.005+01:00

Good news. My poem 'Earl of Mar's House' is now published online at the Poetry Scotland website.

Have a read here.

Miss Dahl

2010-03-25T13:29:00.003Z

I very much enjoyed Sophie Dahl's new cooking programme the other night. Most interesting was the reaction to it. The horrific Jan Moir wrote another spiteful piece in the Daily Mail, saying she was "no Nigella" and other various unnecessary things. Giles Coren, hilariously, called it a "sickening sham". My favourite TV critic, Nancy Banks-Smith, was much kinder. Banks-Smith is wise, and knows when something is light, fluffy and "like a day-old chick". She exhorts us all not to "stamp on it" and I think Moir and Coren could take a leaf out of her book. Whatever your feelings for Miss Dahl, anyway, do try the halibut with sweet potato chips, fried wild mushrooms and garlic and a herby creme fraiche sauce. It's very good.

Dead Close to Nature 5: Condie House Revisited

2010-03-04T14:50:00.005Z

Safely ensconced in my new country pad (hidden behind Bridge of Allan on the Carse of Lecropt), I have already met my new neighbours. A small and fearless herd of deer who crop grass and watch me in the field opposite. A plethora of fat pheasants that dot the flat Carse and whirr off screeching as I zoom by on my bike. A lone hare that lopes off, nonchalant, as I pass him/her on my morning run. My friendly blue tits (think oiseaux here, people, not weirdly coloured and amiable boobies - also birds by the way) and their rather greedy bigger cousin the great tit, feast on nuts outside my window as I type this. My view from the back door is of the castle and the Wallace Monument and this hidden part of the Carse of Stirling seems to lie behind a veil, a time-altering curtain that begins at the Dunblane-end of Bridge of Allan and ends somewhere east of Doune. There is a sense of wilderness here, and despite being only miles away from the metropolis of Stirling the animals and I live slow-motion in silence. Bliss.

My next adventure will be to explore the ruins of Arnhall Castle (possibly a location for Monty Python's 'Holy Grail', but that has yet to be confirmed), which lies behind the deer field. But before that mission I'd like to conclude something I began months ago.

I received a missive from a certain Roddy Oliphant in reply to my blog on Condie, the ruined manor house Claudia Massie and I discovered near Forgandenny (I say 'discovered' - naturally a misnomer - but in many ways it has been and remains largely forgotten). My request for knowledge indeed drew interest - the very reason for this blog; blogs should be used as a forum rather than a platform, wherever possible, and it was great to hear from Roddy, not least becuase he hails from the family that once had an interest in the house at Condie. Also, via Claudia (and after talking to David Willington, one of Forgandenny's connoisseurs of the history of this area of Scotland), I got hold of a book by a certain Gregory Ross.

'Forgandenny: A Place in History' (Triuirdarach Publishing, 2007) is a monster tome and the book I was looking for all those months ago when researching the house at Condie. It researches the full history of Forgandenny and surrounding parishes from its time as a probable winter site for nomadic groups 6000 years ago, to the ninteenth century fire that destroyed Condie House (and beyond to the wars, but it is the final destruction of the house that interests the blog, and of course the mystery of the stabbing).

Firstly, here's Roddy's wonderfully brisk summation of the affair with the knife: "Actually it was not Sir George Oliphant, Bt. who stabbed his step-mother but his brother James. James found his step-mother in bed with a priest. The priest escaped by leaping over a gate in the garden which was from then on known as the Priest's Gate." I needn't add any more; but let your imaginations run wild.

On the 13th March 1866 the house appeared smoke-filled to an early-risen kitchen maid. By seven o' clock the house with "consumed in flames", although residents (including Lady Marianne and her daughters) escaped unharmed. Most of the house was destroyed, certainly all the relatively new manor house, and all belongings lost, thus we are left in 2010 with the ruins of Condie surrounded by hare-filled fields and echoing with ghosts. Greg Ross' book contains more information on all aspects of Forgandenny and I cannot say enough good things about it. It is truly an epic historical work, and important. Roddy writes a very informative foreword and is an expert on Oliphant family history himself.

An interesting footnote, amongst many I could make, concern Marianne and Laurence Oliphant of Condie's nephew, the writer Laurence Oliphant (1829-1888). He was described by the American ambassador Henry Adams thus: "his figure and bearing were sympathetic - almost pathetic-like with a grave and gentle charm, a pleasant smile and an interesting story. He seemed exceptionally sane and peculiarly suited to country houses" (Ross, 458). Splendid chap. Marianne was related to Lord Elgin, who became Viceroy and Governor General of India. Before this appointment (when Lord Elgin was Governor General of Canada), Laurence Oliphant was his private secretary - he travelled with him to China. Laurence was also a journalist, and his travels led him to write books on far-flung reaches of the world. He was fascinating, not only because he clearly spent much time at Condie House before the fire, but because of his connection with Thomas Harris, his "spiritual guide and mentor". Thomas Harris had set up a religious community in Santa Rosa where Laurence and his wife went to live. In order to help raise money for the commune, Laurence became involved in some financial ventures, notable joining the Direct United States Cable company which "was resonsible for beginning the laying of the Trans-Atlantic cabel" (Ross, 459) using the good ship Faraday, named, one presumes, after my illustrious forebear. How I love the weird symmetry of history.

Ted McCagg

2010-02-18T22:12:00.006Z

Being a great fan of nonsense surrealist cartoonists such as Glaswegian David Shrigley (if you haven't looked at 'Why we got the sack from the museum' - do it forthwith), I was pleased to discover the hilarious Ted McCagg yesterday. He seems alarmingly talented, but I must tell the world. You see, without people like Ted, we'd all fall into a doze of boredom until the lights just went out. Believe me. Oh - and he shares a name with Ted Hughes - another Ted we'd be worse off without.

He (McCagg - Hughes too literally earthy and doomy at this time of required calm) is keeping me going as I pack my bags for yet another move across the wild countryside of Stirlingshire. With all my signature items packed - silver cigarette tin, hairclips, monkey nuts - I am indeed just another plain old manatee.

Gasp and titter at Ted's pictures here.

Marvel at Ted's magical plethora of talents here.

Thanks to Ted for letting me use his work to spruce up my blog.

My life, my death, my choice

2010-02-03T13:05:00.006Z

Although I won't weigh-in too forcefully on the debate on assisted death, I enjoyed reading Terry Pratchett's comments yesterday in the Guardian (an extract from Monday's Richard Dimbleby Lecture) about his own possible future assisted death. As you may know he is suffering from posterior cortical atrophy (a rare form of Alzheimer's disease). When the specialist told him this, Pratchett says "I quite genuinely saw him outlined in a rectangle of flaming red lines". I am quite clear that Pratchett has every right to make an educated decision about how he ends his life. He says "it must be allowed as a result of careful consideration". He continues; "my life, my death, my choice".

This seems perfectly fair to me. It does seem rather disgusting, however, that only now that a famous and well-spoken person speaks out about this disease that there is any kind of real debate at all. Previously we have had some moving documentaries on the subject (for example 'Right To Die' by Canadian director John Zaritsky), but I fear that in the State of Great Britain all we can really expect is a reality TV show revealing the boats of geriatrics soon to be shipped out to Martin Amis' 'medal and martini' booths - there's bound to be a bit of money to be made out of it. Hence the following ditty:

The magic of the failing brain is

hallucinatory; you see things, or

indeed you don't (but you won't

remember that, we'll do it for you.)

Cameras in position: black is not a happy

colour - yet rather face that magic

until it swallows itself in a dark hole of

monolithic storm then pass the test.

Right? Right. Good man. More or less.

Lights! (too bright? That's the Alzheimer's

pixillating your eye-pins, or something)

Can we give him more eye-liner?

You can be sure a screaming starlet is

yanked out of the ether of the

fizzed-out Terry P who looks at the

teapot and it is not here

but he knows there, in some battling

space jumping with atoms, is tea in front of he.

See? Death sums up, rattling:

"Clogged with rheum and the decision

of death! Catchy. Pass me a microphone

and we'll make a reality series. I'll

wear high-waisted trousers with my cowl."

Death, they name is Simon, and it's

clearly uncouth to start making

merry with a hatchet; let's film the slow

and shaming unravelling instead -

once you go with one they'll all catch it.

The State on Death - AFG

For the other side of the argument, read Dr Crippen's piece here.

The Assisted-Suicide blog is here.

MP3

2010-01-29T15:29:00.005Z

In the week that Apple launch the new and possibly thrilling IPad, I too have created a paean to technology inspired by poet Tony Williams' stint as the Guardian's poetry workshopper. He wishes us to think of commodities. I have entered this before (see Gas) but have yet to be published on those hallowed webpages. As usual I've gone wildly 'off-message'; but it is true to say without my MP3, wantonly reactionary in its non-Apple-ness, I would be a lesser man.

You cannot see but under my shirt

I am working a panel of pert

buttons with my fingers, and coils

of white wire lie against my skin.

The MP3 sits reassuring and thin

to protect me from the gargoyles

of a thousand white headphone-

wearing passengers who vant to be alone.

We forge six-hundred glittering train miles

in a capsule battered by bomb-lit vials

of light. You cannot see but this MP3 machine

has a long cord, a gland, a spiny dart

that sews my inner ear to my inner heart,

whose sound within its glaucous mine

is pearly-eyed and huddled on my bones

as I pass through various travel zones.

Em-Pee-Three, AFG

Derrick Brown

2010-01-26T18:02:00.005Z

So many good poets out there, but Derrick Brown seems to be one of the better ones. He describes himself as a "gondolier, magician and fired weatherman" amongst other things. I've just read his poem 'cotton in the air' which merits a read through or two. Quite hypnotic and arrestingly sexy. He describes the movement of a lover's lusty limbs as being like "poisonous wrens", which I love. It is softly sensual as well when he describes undressing: "your tank top slides down the huh huh huh of your shoulder". Sublime. Have a look here.

It's on The Nervous Breakdown site which I've been a fan of for a while and who old friend Kip Tobin writes for. Click on his name to read his recent blog on mix CDs (or mix tapes as us reactionaries call them) which is typically brilliant, sharp and romantic. Just like Kip.

Books: Michael Donaghy knew my suicidal hamster

2010-01-23T20:54:00.006Z

I've been busy reading.

Philip Pullman had me back in his grasp for a while - those Northern Lights are mesmerising. But like C.S Lewis he does do god a little too much. That is rather the point of the trilogy, but still - Mr Pullman. We tire. The first book is thrilling but the further he cuts into new universes (and especially the rather vomit-inducing trip to the world of the dead, nameless harpies included) the more I desire to escape all reference to our erstwhile Creator or indeed his troop of angels. But, that aside, Philip Pullman is a genius and writes a fabulous new version of the Bible that is less risible - an update, shall we say.

Then a slew of Wilbur Smith. Guilty pleasures die hard and Wilbur dresses up a racist nation with hard men and feisty women - he does for Africa what Jilly Cooper does for the Cotswolds, and for that I thank him.

Then Robert Harris' 'Lustrum', the one where Cicero is consumed with thoughts of power and Harris plots his ultimate downfall through the very pleasing and measured voice of Tiro, his scribe and the man who invented shorthand. Whereas in 'Imperium' Cicero is the strong arm of the righteous, here he is the well-spoken icing on a very corrupt little cake. He becomes the figurehead of a failing Rome, and Harris has Caesar all angles and jutting malice quite monstrous in the background. There are so many books about Rome, but Harris is one of the best. So many stand out characters, not least Cicero's wife. One of the worst I have recently discovered is Steven Saylor (from 'A Gladiator Dies Only Once'):

"I left the consul's house with a list of everyone Decimus Brutus could name from his wife's inner circle and a pouch full of silver. The pouch contained half my fee... and if I failed him, I would never collect. Dead men pay no debts."

No shit, Sherlock.

Better is Eric Linklater's 'Magnus Merriman', a little gem I picked up at the Stirling University bookstore. Magnus is a drunken journalist and writer who deludes his way through the war and then Edinburgh and the Orkneys with frankly side-splitting results. Linklater was a contemporary of Hugh McDiarmid and other Scottish Renaissance poets and writers and Linklater lampoons them fondly, but defiantly. Here's an idea of the greatly heroic Magnus:

"In common with the ancient Athenians and the modern Americans, Magnus had a great liking for novelty, and would adopt a new fashion - in though, in clothes, or in behaviour - not only with enthusiasm but with such conviction that often it appeared to have been his own discovery."

A sham. A master. A buffoon. A legend.

I should write taglines for Hollywood movies, n'est-ce pas?

Otherwise it's all poetry, especially remebering Michael Donaghy, who died in 2004. He was a poetic genius and man of Celtic blood and strength who I was taught by, if only briefly. We called him Uncle Mikey and he took us under his wing. He smiled (I realise now he must have been suppressing insane laughter) at my youthful poem about the imagined death of a hamster who was in the same kitchen as Sylvia Plath when she gassed herself. Heavens to Betsy! I can't believe I have revealed such information. I should have called it 'A Hamster Dies Only Once'. The squeaker snuffed it, but by Jings it was a poetic death.

One of my favourite poems of his has always been 'Held - here's an extract ':

Not as this hieroglyph chiselled by Hittites in lazuli,
Spiral and faint, is a word for 'unending',
Nor as the hands, crown, and heart in the emblem of Claddagh,
Pewter and plain on that ring mean forever,
But as we stood at the window together, in silence,
Precisely twelve minutes by candlelight waiting for thunder.

His close friend is Don Paterson, and Paterson's collection 'Rain' includes tributes to Donaghy, so well crystallised and sad and true. For these moments I love poetry. These two poets are a must read; but apart from these two bookish, learned men I have learnt of a darker, less tutored, more dingy poet called Charles Bukowski and his stuff is well worth a look-see. All poetry, however, should be read. Even Andrew Motion.

I once wrote a really mean poem about Mr Motion which was wrong on so many levels, even if I do think the man is an out-and-out bore and try-hard. He deserves a good reading. Like we all do. I wish I could make a speech at an awards ceremony a bit like the recent Mariah Carey one - where I say: "Thank-you all but I'm sorry I'm a bit..." and Andrew Motion shouts "...fucked up!" from the audience. But it will never be, alas.

More blogging, so much more to come and nearing fruition.

Keep reading friends.