accidental rebellion

St Patrick's Day

“You’re looking sharp, Graham.”

“You too, Alastair. Boomtown’s bouncing tonight.”

“G, I, double BB, Y. Stevie Wonder, rolling thunder.”

“I’ve booked the taxi, Graham. Half eleven. The Cav should be rocking. Get the Guinness in, two pots! Here’s a little number to get you out your seats. Jump around, jump up, jump up and get down.”

“Careful, you’re spilling the dark stuff, Graham. Less to go down our necks.”

“Hiya Karen – Yvonne, budge up.”

“Yeah, lads, squeeze in. How goes it?”

“Good, the night is young!”

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Rebel Bombshell

I am NOT a rebel.  I am one of life’s rule followers. But I broke a rule once and was branded a rebel by the ultimate of rule enforcers: a policeman. The shame lives with me still.

I like rules. I like to know where the boundaries are.  I get a bit tetchy if someone steps outside the boundary – I worry for them.  It’s like stepping onto a minefield.  Stay to the path and you are okay.  Step off the path and there could be anything out there.  Stick to the path.  It’s safe.

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Window

When I was younger I feel as though I was a well behaved, well-mannered and in general, good wee lad. Though, I'm sure my Mum and Dad could tell me stories that would otherwise contradict this…

I have an older brother called Darren. He is four and a half years older to be exact. I love him dearly and I miss him so much now, ever since he moved to Vancouver, Canada.

However, he is coming back to Scotland to get married to his wonderful partner. I am as excited as my younger seven year old self on Christmas morning to see him again.

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The School Concert

Every Friday, there was a collection in class for the ‘Black Babies’ charity. We had all been issued a card divided into thirty small squares. For each penny we contributed, one square would be ticked off. When thirty squares had been filled in, it was for each of us to choose a name to bestow on ‘our’ baby.

One day an announcement was made that a more exciting way of raising money for the Foreign Missions had been decided upon. This was to take the form of a concert in the local Miners’ Welfare Hall.

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Hidden Rebel

Fifty one years ago I had a memorable holiday with my parents, sisters and cousin when we went to Port Seaton in East Lothian. We were staying on a campsite in a converted railway carriage that my grandfather and his friend had built in sections, then transported to the campsite and assembled piece by piece. They added a small kitchen, along with gas lighting and bedrooms complete with camp beds. Staying in that carriage, which my late grandfather had built with his own hands, made the holiday very special. We also had an Alsatian called Rex who came along on our summer of adventure.

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The Head

The other teenagers jostle and cry like seagulls circling a fishing trawler. At their centre, we stand. He like a king and I, his lowly serf. He pushes me. I step back, my sportsbag dropping to the ground. He follows, eyes blazing, chest pumped and fists white. I bend to reclaim my bag just as he thrusts with his infamous headbutt: his nose bursting on impact with my tilted head. He falls to my feet, his face cupped in his bloodied hands. Quietly triumphant – the seagulls now silent and still – I pass unhindered, and away to meet my own fate with the school's Head.

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