Another Busy Week

Leaving aside that frenetic and euphoric crowd-funder, it’s been another week of media frenzy; and true to form it needs to be disseminated.

You might be forgiven for thinking that, in these parts, we’re on a quest to secure a better life, dis-satisfied with the standard life, but it’s Standard Life in the news this week.  Here’s Rev Stu with a summary of how it was all reported in our press.

Indeed that continues yet, mis-reporting.  As I see it SL have simply included in their Annual Report – we’re into formalities of Companies House obligations here, and accounting requirements – a statement of an issue that affects their strategy.  And I read it as more of a statement to Westminster to sort out; a request, nay demand, for stability, for currency union.  Just what the Scottish Government has been demanding, Westminster refusing.  Clarity will come, but not until 19 September, for that’s when Scotland’s Tories have said they will be making those same demands.

Business for Scotland have an excellent article, de-bunking the media’s myths on the Standard Life statement.  Now read that; contrast and compare to those headlines in the Wings article, the features in your morning paper, the bulletins on the radio.  Happier now?  Thought so.

And Derek Bateman’s on the case too, not pulling his punches on the role of our state-funded broadcaster, amongst other things.  It’s a fine read.  So too Craig Murray – (I’m going to read his Murder in Samarkand soon).

So again, we note the dire newsprint circulation figures; we despair at the stance of the BBC; and we wonder why people rely on the old media in this modern age.  As mentioned the other day the internet is where it’s at.  We need facts, is the common refrain, information.  Well it’s out there, but you have to look for it.  If you wait to be spoon fed from your morning paper habit – that’s all it is, the crossword, Sudoku, TV listings and all over a cup of coffee – habit; if you listen to the news on the box, it’s all skewed, untrustworthy.

More facts, information – go seek.  Open your mind.

And there’s a couple of other points of interest.  Curling again.  I see that we’re to get a National Centre, in Stirling.  Fantastic news.  But catch the bit, BBC again, that says our curling medal winners were ‘predominantly’ from Scotland.  Eh?

And weather maps.  How do you view them?  Tilted, stilted, biased.  Oh, that’ll be the BBC then.  I enjoyed this piece over at Bella.  Start from the northern point of the country and head south.  Stop.  Where are you?  Still in Scotland chummy, that’s where.  Can you believe that, after nearly a decade of those maps?

Oh and iScotland’s AAA credit rating, the one Darling said we couldn’t get just he was losing the UKs.  Oh yes we can.  Here’s Newsnet.

So that’s a quick romp through a few recent issues.  I think you’ll agree, t’internet’s the place.  I know there’s a number of links for the interested, but some eyes have still to be opened.  Go on, you know you want to.

That’s probably enough for now.  I’ll spare you another performance from that labour wumman at FMQs.  I’m not even going to mention it.  Oh OK, if you’ve got this far…

Blimey (as they say round here), is that the time?

There I was in a pub, and the school bus due at the house minutes hence.  Blimey, and blimey again.  Seven miles.

But in three hours we had scratched the surface of 30 years, and more.  30 years.  Nearer 35 as it happens.  Oh yes age is catching up, but aside from that there was a lesson to learn.

Two chill glasses of the black stuff, and two bowls of what we used to call chips but are now fries; and steak & onion ciabatta, side salad for goodness sake.  Two blokes in the corner, side salad untouched, by one of them.  T’other is a new man it seems, eats greens, and dressing.  But underneath nothing has changed and the years roll back.  The swine has even avoided the shades of grey that give that salt &pepper, or big butch silverback to the rest of us.

It was back in the late 70s that I shared an office with Baker George.  Lunch back then was a different thing entirely, no salad for a start.  Oh the things young whelps got up to in those days, long forgotten so I thought.  And the people, where are they now?  Baker George knew, for I was the one that left, moved on.  And he told of some; names, memories, exploits.  He told me of successes, and of disasters.

I learned of an old friend; we travelled together, played football every week, even frequented the same ale house of a Friday night, me in the lounge, he in the bar.  Wrecked he became; the bottle took over.  A life destroyed.  And I knew nothing.  I can see him now, The Obergruppenfuhrer.

But enough of that.  We’ll meet again soon, will BG and I, for I owe lunch and the miles between us are ridiculously few.  No the real point of this is that life, as we all say, is far too short.  How easy it is to lose touch, to shrink into our own bubble as life becomes busy.

Back then, through the 80s, into the 90s, we had an excuse.  We did, didn’t we?  Can’t remember what it might have been.  But today, in this age of technology, of social media and email, and of course of blogs, how hard can it be?  How many people do we all think we ‘keep in touch’ with, purely by printing a label in December and scribbling a card?  And that’s it.  And years drift by, getting quicker all the time.

Then it dawns on you, or it did with Baker George, that he’s at the age his father was when it all came to an end.  So he picked up the phone, made that call.  And I’m guessing he’ll be doing a fair bit of lunching this year.  Perhaps next time Mrs Baker George will be around, for she goes back to those days too, and it’s she who does the social media thing, pops up on LinkedIn.  They’ve a wedding coming up, their daughter’s off, and a generation has rolled by.

Oh yes, too short it is.  Are you going to burst your bubble?

 

One Man And His Blog

At precisely 9pm on a dreich Wednesday night I raised a glass.  Old Pulteney, 12yo, large one – honey, with cream; salty with spicy note.  And at the same time across the land and beyond a thousand other glasses and more were raised.  One thousand silent toasts rang out, one thousand nods to the same place.  Bath.  For that is where he resides.  Which means a vote on 18 September is not his to cast, not yet anyway.

On that day many more than a thousand drams will rise.  And many glances will again be cast in the direction of Bath.  For one man has raised an army, and brought together a rag-tag mob, the cyber-warriors as the Daily Mail may cast them, detested.  And I sit here type-cast, late at night, hammering at the keyboard, another dram at the side.

But it is a night of celebration, and the toast is Reverend Stuart Campbell, Wings Over Scotland.

Earlier in the day, at ten of the clock, he launched his appeal.  Twelve months previously he did the same, pledging to work for the cause full time, but needing funding for a year.  Over the month of the appeal more than £33,000 was raised, and Stu’s services secured.  Since then he has carved a place in the history that is being made.

In a recent Scotpulse poll it was confirmed that the internet is the place to go for referendum information, and that Wings was the one.  The site stats are nothing short of astonishing.  I’ll not bore you with the numbers, but I am not alone.  Nearly a quarter of a million unique visitors last month alone.

So when he launched this year’s appeal many of us were primed and waiting.  But his plans are ambitious; more polling, more hours, more for other contributorss.  And a Wee Blue Book, a print version of all that we look to Wings to provide.  But it would cost, £53,000 in total, his own services at minimum wage rates, everything costed.  He gave us until 31 March.

And as I raised my glass at the appointed hour, with a thousand others, we watched as the donations meter ticked round, heading for an astonishing £75,000, in less than 12 hours.  Through the day funds came in at more than £100 per minute.  Wee things, as they say, a pound or two here, a tenner there.  There’s a crowd-funding facility, with Indiegogo, and beyond that a separate donate facility.

Some of us chipped in with some of the money we no longer spend on newsprint; some paid for the year’s papers.  A whopping single donation of ten grand, wow, off site so to speak, not part of the Indiegogo fund; a sign of what it means; a sign of how we value our man in Bath.

So as glasses are charged once again, and we look ahead to that date in September ringed in the calendar, the only thing left to say is Thank You Stu, and Keep Up The Fantastic Work.  Scotland Needs You.

Ironic isn’t it, that this positive sign, this faith in the fight for our future, comes on the same day the regional newspaper circulation figures are announced.  More double-digit plummeting for the quality press that once featured in the monthly figures, as nationals, the demise now revealed only twice a year.  The printed media is dying, and Wings readers know why.  And it just goes to show that if you give us what we want to read, the truth, then we’ll gladly pay.  Wonder if the print boys will take note?

Slainte Stu.

Links as always on the sidebar, but here’s another, straight to the crowd-funder, for those of you with any of those spare bawbees we’ll be using in the years ahead.  Sterling work, as someone said.

On the Podium

Yep, we’ve made it, after 12 long months of trying.  And we’re not finished yet, aiming even ‘higher’, for more of the same is promised.

But before we look into that let me indulge in some wise words from one of my favourite writers.  Kathleen Jamie rarely wastes a word, and always puts them in the right order.  So here she is, in The New York Times of all places.  And who am I to disagree?  I’d say that Ms Jamie has a pretty fair summary of recent events there, and of aspirations.

And those aspirations most certainly do not involve the destiny of rising higher on that podium.  For it is an awful place to be.

Having enjoyed the exploits of Team GB on the snow and ice of Russia’s Black Sea resorts; having listened to Hazel and Clare and all the rest extolling the efforts of the union-flag-bedecked exploits – I’ll leave aside Hazel’s boast that we’re going to be a world power in winter sports as a blip, having, rarely, allowed the occasion of the last day to cloud her usual judgement – and looked enviously at the efforts of the Scandic countries on those gruelling Nordic events, we find ourselves tugged sharply back to the grim realities of home.

For Team GB has surpassed itself, climbed from 4th to 3rd.  Only two nations lie in our sights, the USA of course, and Portugal.

For those are the only two developed nations on this planet who can ‘boast’ of having a higher ranking than us as the most unequal nations; the ones where the distance from poor to rich is so mind-bogglingly wide as to be obscene.  And that’s where Team GB are intent on going.

Just remember that – the third most unequal society in the developed world.  There’s a proud boast to make at the next dinner party, or on the beaches of ‘lesser’ nations this summer.

No wonder Kathleen Jamie wants to get off.  For she too knows that more austerity is winging our way, no matter who takes the top seats after the General Election in spring next year.  It’s a promise they’ve all made.

And as we’ve identified before it is those same Nordic countries that are at the other end of the index, the most equal societies, and usually the happiest and wealthiest too.  Which club would you rather join?

There’s plenty more reading with the latest edition from the AyeMag, from our local Yes Clydesdale team.

Boney Emperor

So there he was, tail between his legs, retreating from Moscow, back to Paris, and the world never the same again.

Napoleon’s Retreat from Moscow

I see it’s nearly a year since I happened across the tale, and from Richard Halliburton’s Seven League Boots I finally got my hands on his source volume, The Veiled Empress, Benjamin A Morton, published by G P Putnam in 1923.  And interesting it most certainly is, though Halliburton, as was his wont, fixed on the romance of it all.

But it’s all there, the childhood in Martinique and finishing in the mother country.  And the capture by corsairs on the voyage home until eventually passing into the harem of Constantinople, rising to become the Valideh Sultan, the Queen Mother.  As it happens the piracy was not, as I first imagined, somewhere of the coast of Africa, but within sight of Palma, Mallorca.

Morton takes us firstly to Martinique and paints portraits of the women of the isle, shows us the styles of the early 20th century, and points to the vital roles the island’s girls have played over the years, from the wife of Louis quatorze, to Jospehine, and of course to her cousin Aimee.

Now it’s pretty easy for me today to find information, in a matter of seconds, on the 1812 Treaty of Bucharest.  But it’s hard to look back a century from here and to imagine what Morton’s researches might have entailed.  But he it was who put into the equation what the historians in the previous hundred years had overlooked; and that was Aimee’s revenge for her scorned cousin from Martinique.

The treaty was signed by Sultan Mahmoud, Aimee’s son, and ratified by Tsar Alexander I the day before Napoleon invaded Moscow.  Five years previously Mahmoud’s predecessor, Selim III entered into the peace of Tilsit with Alexander, carving up a buffer between the various warring factions.  But after Selim’s murder Mahmoud continued the war with Russia.

Sultan Mahmoud, daughter of Aimee

Then Aimee heard of Jospehine’s fate and the rest, as they say, is history.  As Halliburton had told us Aimee was quite a woman.  As she lay on her deathbed her Muslim son summonsed the Superior of the Convent of Saint Antoine.  The Sultan’s guards escorted him to the port of Galata, where a caique with a dozen pairs of oars awaited.

In a sumptuously decorated chamber a woman lay in agony.  Her son dismissed the two black guards and he himself left his mother’s bedside, with his final words to her:

My mother, you have wished to die in the religion of your fathers, let your wish be fulfilled.  Here is a priest.  And he withdrew to a corner of the room.

For an hour Father Chrysostome remained alone, listening to the words, the regrets, the tears.  When the prince returned to the bedside he raised the consecrated wafer and placed it on the lips of the invalid.  At this moment the sole witness flung himself face dowm, calling upon Allah!

The Father was returned to his convent by the same caique and the same guards, greeted by anxious priests disturbed at the summons.  He prostrated himself in silent meditation, for the soul of Aimee Duboc de Rivery, mother of Sultan Mahmoud.

Halliburton took us to the Queen Mother’s burial place, and Morton gives us the translation of the poem on her catafalque.  Aimee was known, as was the custom in the harem where women lost forever their former names, by one name.  Hers was Naksh, beautiful, for she was The Beautiful One.  The inscription has a date, 1233 in Arabic numerals, which is the Mohameddan year that began on 10 November 1817.  Morton confirmed elsewhere that it was indeed in 1817 in the common era that Aimee had died.

At the time of Morton’s writing there were few vague remnants of memory of an infidel Valideh Sultan, but as he says, in Nantes, in Martinique, in a quiet home in Paris, the memory of her seems to cling like the elusive fragrance of an almost vanished perfume.

And aren’t we glad that some of Richard Halliburton’s works are back in print today.

The Anglosphere Media

In amongst all the excitement this week – the gold medal match is just an hour or two away – there’s been some fiery stuff on the Referendum front.  I’ll spare you any sarcasm on the Bowie front.  We really don’t need to hear four words muttered on behalf of someone who lives thousands of miles away and has clearly not a clue on the matter at hand.  The man may have been love-bombed by The Establishment.  Clearly a lad insane.

More importantly there’s some writing; articles that need to be read.  The first comes from Robin McAlpine, who impresses more with each article and during each interview.  This one, from Bella Caledonia:

The Anglosphere Media.

And to follow that up let’s see what Joyce MacMillan has to say in The Scotsman, which is hardly my newspaper of choice.  But she sees the Labour Party for what they are in these parts.  Did you catch the former PM walking out of an interview?

http://www.scotsman.com/news/joyce-mcmillan-with-no-voice-the-poor-must-pay-1-3314306

 

And just for some light relief here’s the wumman that said Party think is the person to lead this fine nation of ours, in full swing, courtesy of Wings:

Still undecided?

 

Sweeeeep

Hurrrrry;  Haaard!

You’ll have been listening to the roar of the polished granite, swept across the ice, won’t you; learning about in-turns and peels, out-turns and ticks, hoping the shooter sits in the house?  Curling, we are told, is sweeping the nation.  It does that, every four years, then gets forgotten again.

I too am enthralled, and today is set aside for another six hours of gripping viewing, the semi-finals.  That bad cold, an asthmatic chest, the desk can be vacant for one day…

Both teams have made it hard for themselves, losing games that were there for the taking.  But in the round robin stages it’s all about qualifying; then the competition begins, knock-out, anything can happen.  Remember Rhona.

And isn’t it just fantastic to be able to watch the whole game, to follow the ebb and flow much like a full day at the test match rather than highlights.  I’ve been tuning in to hear Jackie Lockhart and Steve Cram, online, on the box, for hours at a time.  What a grand job they’re doing, at times on air for nine hours a day, explaining, patiently; knowing a large part of their audience is on a voyage of discovery.

But for others it’s all very frustrating.  We know what a superb game it is, are aware of the nuances of reading the ice, a pick-up here, over-swept there.  And we know how hard that sweeping technique is, the effort required.

But only every four years do we find the full package available on our screens.  Yet every year there are World Championships, European Championships, Scottish Championships, both for the men and the women.  In fact I see we’re getting coverage of the Scottish Championships this very night.  And therein lies the problem.

For that entire championship, excellent as it is, has been condensed into a meagre one hour of viewing, at midnight.  And a further hour at the same time tomorrow, for the women.  I assume it’s for viewers in Scotland only, one of those rare departures from national schedules, others apparently not interested.  And the Worlds and Europeans get much the same, pitiful.

So while the world and the twitter-sphere seems in awe of the skills on the ice, the tactics, and the gripping tension, excited about discovering something new, we have to ask what investment the BBC will make in the sport when the Ice Cube in the Caucasus closes.

Let’s enjoy what’s left of the Olympic curling, grateful of full-game coverage.  And let’s cheer on the winners, whoever they may be, and share the woes of the team whose stone just slips out of the house, or misses the third stone of an ambitious raised triple take-out.  I’m assuming here that we will actually get coverage of games that don’t include either Murdoch and the boys or Eve’s lassies.  Come to think of it I don’t think I’ve seen a match involving two sides other than our own.  But I want to.

And I find myself thinking of those late nights long ago, the times when you were lucky to get a game and only at midnight, so busy were the rinks; and the Saturday mornings, coaching for FirstBorn.  It’s been  a while.  Still the glass is raised, often, yet.

Come on BBC, let’s get Steve and Jackie signed up for the World Championships, and extensive live coverage on our screens.  Or are you happy just reading out celebrity tweets of new discoveries every four years?  There’s lots of curling, every year, in Scotland, if you’re interested.  Why wait for another four years?  And it might not be that union flag next time round.  Just think.

Ye cannae dae that

The pound in your pocket

It’s the hot topic of the moment (other than the wind and rain further south which we’re thankfully avoiding in these parts).  First we had the promise of the love-bombing, then we have the stink-bombing.  One promised an offensive of lurve, whilst the other is just plain offensive.

Let’s start with an excellent piece from Bella Caledonia, penned before the Chancellor came to town:

Jekyll and Hyde.

But of course the likely content of the speech was trailed for around 36 hours beforehand, and much spat about nothing followed.  The greatest spat seemed to be between The Guardian and the BBC, squabbling over whose moles had the story first.  Interesting though it is to see Labour’s propaganda machines at loggerheads with each other, time is better spent with Iain McWhirter, also before the speech itself:

http://iainmacwhirter.wordpress.com/2014/02/13/after-the-love-the-rough-wooing/

I missed the speech, the curling being more entertaining.  And of course we’d read it before it was delivered, dissected it, and listened to the BBC telling us what George was going to dictate to us.  I suppose at least we should be thankful that he did actually come north and not deliver his sermon from a safe bunker in the south.

Mind you it does look as though he only made the trip to get that castle backdrop on our screens.  No time to stay, no questions from the media, no discussions with anyone; quick back to the bunker – that went well…

But now we have the aftermath, and what George didn’t say.  He didn’t say what most of the media have been spouting – ‘Ye cannae dae that’.  For of course we, like any other country, can use sterling as our currency if we want, with or without consent.  And he didn’t even say there will be no currency union, just gave us an analysis from the Treasury, the conditions, and what might happen if they are not met.

Now remember this comes from the Westminster government which long ago set out a stall of no pre-referendum negotiations, and of an Edinburgh Agreement signed by both sides.  But now the gloves are off, the poker hands are raised, stakes high.  And remember we own 8.4% of the Bank of England, the currency itself.  Assets and Liabilities.

The tactics may be perplexing.  Westminster, seeing the momentum of late, seek to drive more fear into the equation, perhaps taking the view that some in the Don’t Know camp can become firm No voters, as they do their utmost to keep Scotland’s riches flowing south.  But it is more than likely that we’ll see more hackles rising, moves from the DKs to become hardened Yes votes, riled at southern dictat.

But the game is clearly now on, and that’s what all the fuss is about; bluff, double-bluff, stick or show – you don’t take our debt, we might block the EU – blah blah blah.  But of course Scotland wants to take responsibility for some of the Treasury’s debt, and doesn’t want to be forced into using that as a negotiating tool.  I hear that it was Mr Darling that got all the potential Chancellors after the 2015 Westminster election to sing from the same sheet.  Labour and Tories Better Together.  And ultimately the debt, which has nearly doubled from the amount Labour left behind, rests with the UK Treasury, whatever Scotland decides.

As usual the analysis and scrutiny, away from the unionist press and media, is best served with Wings, where Rev Stu is on form.

And another analysis worth a read comes from Robin McAlpine, this time without his Common Weal/Jimmy Reid Foundation hats.

It’s a fast moving scenario at the moment and I’ve yet to consider the late night interviews, the morning bulletins, and what everyone may have had to say.

As expected Gordon MacIntyre-Kemp at Business for Scotland is bang on the money.  Read it.  Understand.

Fortunately there are still some Labour members with principles.  Let’s leave the last word for now with former First Minister Henry McLeish:

And Now, The Mantwo

As promised here’s the instructions to reproduce the meal that reminds Anna Badkhen of her fiends in Kabul.  The list of ingredients is here.

First make the dough:  Pour the flour into a large bowl and stir in the salt.  Slowly add 3-4 cups warm water to the centre of the flour; add enough water to make the dough not stick to your fingers but also be pliant.  Knead for 5 minutes, cover with cling film, and refrigerate for 30 mins.

For our author the special nature of mantwo is that it is served with three different sauces.  While you’re waiting for your dough to come out of the fridge, make the split pea sauce first.  Combine all the ingredients in a saucepan.  Bring to the boil, then reduce heat to simmer for 45 minutes, or until the peas mash easily.  (I’ve introduced a slight variation here by using a mix of split peas and red lentils)

While that’s cooking whip up the yoghurt sauce:  Combine all the ingredients and refrigerate – (so that’ll be a good stir then rather than any sort of whipping)

Make the stuffing:  Heat the oil in a large skillet.  Cook the meat and onions over a low heat until all the meat is browned, stirring so that the meat doesn’t clump together.  Drain the fat.  (it’s the half beef/half lamb option hereabouts)

Stir in 1 cup water, the carrots, salt, cumin, black pepper, coriander, cilantro, and parsley and simmer for about 30 minutes, or until the water evaporates.

If you’ve made your own dough (that’ll be the first step above), remove the dough from the fridge.  Cut it in half, then halve each piece until you have 32 pieces.  (at the Towers we’ve cut the recipe back to 3/4 – that’s a pound and a half of meat and pro-rata for everything else, so we may end up with a couple of dozen little rounds of dough, and twelve filled dumplings)  Roll out each piece into thin rounds about 2.5 to 3 inches in diameter.  Lay them out on a lightly floured surface.

Mound two large spoonfuls of the meat mixture in the centre of a dough circle.  Dip a finger in water and trace it round the edge.  Lay a second piece of dough on top and press round the edge to seal.  Roll up the edge.  Repeat until all the dough is gone.  You should have some meat mixture left over.  Steam the mantwo for 40 minutes.

In the meantime make the meat sauce:  Combine the remaining meat mixture, 2 tablespoons water, the tomato paste, and cayenne pepper.  Simmer for about ten minutes, or until the water has evaporated.

To serve, spread the yoghurt sauce on large serving plate.  Put the mantwo on top.  Pour the split pea sauce over the mantwo.  Top with the meat sauce.  Serve hot.  Enjoy.

But it won’t come with the memories that are evoked round the Badkhen table.  You know where to read of them.

And the verdict?  Well clean plates all round says it all really.  Rammed full of flavours, coming at you in waves through the various layers, and a big hit hereabouts.  But cut the volume in half and you’ll have more than enough for the average family.  It’s very filling.