Duncan Harley

For the first time in nearly two years, the kitchen table is clear of books. The ‘writers box’ full of assorted press-cuttings has been consigned to the archive in the loft and the marking pens have been put away. All that remains is to edit and re-draft the next tome. And that is a milestone indeed. The folk at Inverurie library-central were not that surprised when I returned a shed-load of books and cleared my borrowing account and I am hoping that was a good sign. Mind you, given that it was 23 degrees in the Shire today and an early closing 2pm finish for the library operatives I am also not that surprised that my lorry-load addition to their stock – I am permitted to borrow a privileged number of local history books – went largely unnoticed. And that brings me neatly to the topic of the evening. The next book is yet another Aberdeenshire volume. As yet untitled, it encompasses the Shire from the year zero-dot to the present. Beaker people and pesky Romans feature alongside loc...

One can almost imagine the frantic conversation as the Foreign Secretary advised his minions that he was not after all planning to put his head on the chopping block in a last-ditch effort to stop the Heathrow third runway extension: “Don’t be silly. Is my middle name Goering? Or Meyer? I mean come on, it’s not as though a single bulldozer has actually been dropped on the bloody place.” “But sir, you made a pledge to the electorate” “Well perhaps, but that was yesterday; or at the very least a long long time ago. And I can do whatever I want and you can’t stop me.” “Well, erm, what would you like us to do? You obviously can’t attend the Common’s vote on the matter. You would have to resign in protest after all.” “Just get me out of here for a bit for god’s sake. What about India, or maybe somewhere important like Borneo or Greenland. I’ve got it! Send me to Kabul, that should bloody well do it.” “But there’s nothing much happening in Kabul at the moment sir. Perhaps you...

Alongside the usual kettles, teabags, coffee filters and coffee makers my George Square kitchen is littered with pictures. On the upper left resides an image from Lake Garda alongside a redundant flat-screen TV which hides a hole in the wall made by a previous incumbent of the property. We are talking lath and plaster here, not plaster-board, and the fragile lath option is less than forgiving. On the far bottom right is an illustration an artist- son Ben penned for some long-forgotten illustrator who had, at one time worked as a cover- artist for a latter-day Pink-Floyd. Above the redundant flat-screen, is an illustration for a 2017 Leopard article. Oldmeldrum was the theme as I recall and for some unknown reason the line-drawn graphic, in all its magnificence, failed to make it into print. But, it did make my kitchen wall. As for Bob, well, he was a fictional character in a short story competition. I don’t often enter such things, after all most entrants are pretty much bo...

A blast from the past about the 2007 child-murder of eleven-year old Rhys Jones inhabits the back pages of a national rag today. Penned by Carol Midgley, the odd piece includes the notion that policepersons are always heroes and should not be challenged. Be that as it may, the Jones investigators did a good job and secured 22 years-worth of convictions. Shot dead as he walked home from football, the tale of the unfortunate Rhys is indeed tragic but, as a keen fan of the likes of Interceptors and Judge Judy, one has to wonder if the reportage has much, if any, real relevance. I recall that in my far-off days in Glasgow, policemen were called hurry-hurry up men in reference to their predisposition for banging the heads of suspects against the door-frames of police-vans following Saturday evening street arrests. Additionally, in those admittedly far off days, street police-boxes – nowadays better known as Dr Who Tardis’s – came complete with a local gangster stocked bar and, on oc...

That’s around 50k of the words written for the next Aberdeenshire tome. It’s taken much less time than I thought but at least the few weeks left prior the publisher’s deadline can be used to good effect. Ice-cream on a distant beach with a brown-eyed lover beckons at the very least. I have still to pen a second draft. And an index. And some final structure. And a third draft. But hey, it’s all looking good. Apart from the reviews. Yes, the reviews. They can make or break the budding author and in the big scheme of things can murder even the best-planned marketing strategy. I well recall being asked on occasion to review other people’s books. Most submissions were fine and even if I knew nothing about Highland bothies or Harper’s cast-iron Aberdonian fenceposts I soon got to grips with the authors mindset and produced a fair and balanced review. The only one I was unable to get my head around was a novel by a man called Bill. Rarely, aside from Joyce’s’ Ulysses, have I read such a ...

Along with perhaps a few million other folk, I can fairly claim to have visited the MacIntosh Building at Glasgow Art School, albeit a few decades ago. It was a fleeting visit. A school friend was studying at the place and I called round to help carry some paintings to a venue at the top of Sauchiehall street where said paintings were due to be exhibited. I have completely forgotten the name of the gallery, but I do recall being somewhat awed by the MacIntosh Building. Of course, in those days, and we are talking 1970’s here, I had no real idea of the extant heritage. In fact, I had never even heard of Rennie MacIntosh and I suppose that I was not alone since not once in my decade living and working in Mungo’s fair city did I hear even a breath of civic pride regarding the man’s humongous legacy. I suppose it was all down to the grinding cultural poverty of the day and perhaps a fixation by the the city fathers on the precariously coupling lines: Here's the bird that never flew...

Seemingly supermarket giants are piloting a dementia friendly ‘relaxed’ checkout lane for customers who need to complete their shopping in a less pressured space.  Alzheimers Scotland hope that the initiative will aid folk who find the normal cut and thrust of supermarket checkout lines difficult. Pilot schemes are in place in Newcastle and at Ayr and store-staff have been provided with special training to allow sufferers to pay for their shopping at a slower pace. Laudable and welcome of course. But can you imagine the queues? Retailers could maybe take a leaf out of APA’s book. Theatre has long pioneered the concept of a relaxed immersive experience where instead of the ‘relaxed’ label, the tag ‘calm’ predominates. Aimed at the 700,000 members of the UK population on the autistic spectrum, the calm performance initiative represents a positive cultural shift in attitude towards inclusion of an audience group sometimes marginalised by the performing arts. Dick McWhitti...

Been a windy day. Some Storm Frank or other passed overhead and blew horizontal rain all over the shire. The man in the paper-shop commented that it had all started out so well but that after he arrived at work at 6am, all hell had taken over. I assumed he was discussing the weather and made an attempt at a nod. “Yes, I hate the wind but love the rain” I told him. Not impressed he asked if I needed a receipt, to which I said “no”. The new book, of course, pounds on and I just need to add some seven thousand more words plus a good few wee edits. A chapter entitled Bravehearts  now includes the story of shop-window mannequin Helena Torry. Interviewed on the Andrew Neil Daily Politics show some years ago Helena’s political agent Renee Slater revealed that she - Renee, not the dummy - had in fact spent time in custody after being charged with electoral fraud. “I was in a police cell for around 6 hours and they wouldn’t let me out until I handed in Helena. It was a sort of priso...

Michael Marra came into my head today. Described variously as Scotland’s Tom Waits and as the Dylan of Dundee, the man passed aged 60 in the October of 2012. He left a legacy of immortality and also, or so I am told, a splendid boat which he constructed from redundant pallets in the back garden of his Dundee council house. Bands such as Hens Teeth and Skeets Bolivar were his stamping grounds and his solo performances were legendary. Lyrics such as: ' If Dundee was Africa and Fife was Antarctica; if Arbroath was India and Perth was Peru' led me to search my image collection for a shot of the SS Yavari. Made famous by Michael Palin in some distant travelogue or other the diesel driven boat was carted over the Andes on lamma-back in some forgotten year or other before being re-assembled on the shores of Lake Titicaca. Imagine my surprise when the, then semi-restored, cargo ship popped up just outside my hotel window in far off Peru. Here, for what it’s worth, is Ma...

Bit of a departure tonight. Instead of self-aggrandising my own writing, I thought it might be nice to publicise a fellow author’s work. Famedram's popular tourist titles usually cover the likes of whisky and haggis, the Vital Spark and great Scottish inventions plus of course the lighter side of Highland life. A Scottish through and through publishing house - god knows we need them now more than ever – the Famedram brand has now ventured bravely into the realm of the railway buff in the form of Scotland’s Stations – A Traveller’s Guide. And a good thing too! This splendid publication reveals the largely unknown history of the stations which serve our Scottish national rail network. Superbly illustrated throughout, the book sets out on a modern-day Bradshaw style journey around these, largely Victorian, historical sites. Around 150 of Scotland’s platforms are featured and alongside an image or two, each entry records the unique history of the station plus a general desc...

Seemingly the march of the robots is upon us. Not only can the digital servants cut the lawn and provide endless fun for the family pet as it – the robot and not the dog – bruises around the living-room sucking up dust, but the NHS is seemingly considering employing artificial intelligence to carry out everyday tasks around the average ward. Called Carebots, the plastic nurses will no doubt race around the wards emptying bedpans and deliverooing pizza’s thus freeing up valuable clinical resources. According to Former health minister Lord Darzi, a leading surgeon, nearly a third of care staff tasks could be handed over to robots in a bid to save £13bn a year. Indeed, the Telegraph goes so far as to suggest that he is calling for ‘Full automation’ of health and social services. All well and good then from the man whom the London Journal of Primary Care says is ‘ a great believer in bottom-up’ . Indeed, one can almost smell the robotic nurse advising the patient in bed four t...

We had a wee gander around Lewis Grassic Gibbon territory at the weekend. At the Kirk of St Ternan, we duly signed the visitors book before setting off to Fowlsheugh in search of puffins. Fowlsheugh is aptly named since the stench of bird-droppings is quite overpowering although some folk prefer to call the place Crawton. There are around 200k breeding seabirds on and around the sea cliffs at this time of year but there were only a very few puffins - perhaps seven in all -  and I now am wondering if the RSPB have plaster mock-ups stapled onto the seaside cliffs. Seemingly if you sign up to a public walk they will show you more at a cost of £8 for members and £14 for so-called 'Non -members'.  I prefer to be an outsider and, given the lack of facilities on-site, am quite prepared to stick to my principles. Seven puffins will do me for a lifetime methinks. Confusingly, the interpretation boards along the way sometimes refer to fish as opposed to birds and the way-mark...

A splendidly scurrilous piece in yesterdays The Times in Scotland reminded me of a roller-coaster journey made many years ago. Seemingly Glasgow Lord Provost Eva Bolander - yes, you couldn’t really make that name up – is to be chauffeured around the city in a newish Rolls Royce. Donated by some as-yet unnamed philanthropist, said Roller has the word “Go” emblazoned on it’s registration plate and is reputedly valued at a cool £200k. Not cheap then but seemingly not a donation which should concern the powers that be. A quick search on the DVLA website reveals nothing. Seemingly I must input the registration data in a valid format. Singer Tom Jones famously owned a similar Roller with the registration plate “T J BIG” so it’s defo not him. I tried googling The Big Yin, but I’m guessing he drives a sensible Skoda or perhaps even a custom trike. Now, Abu Dhabi businessman Saeed Abdul Ghaffar Khouri paid a cool £7.25million for the worlds most expensive plate in far off 2008. But his ...

Yes. I know it’s Thursday already, but I never quite got around to reading the Sunday papers. Alongside a good few splendid pieces about the new - yawn - Jeremy Thorpe revelations there is a quite splendid article by Laura Pullman regarding the end-tale of that churchman Jonathan Aitken. Seemingly Mr Aitken, a former jailbird, is off to buy his cassocks prior to some investment or other in St Pauls. At 75, the former Conservative cabinet minister, and perjurer, has finally found God just in time no doubt to be welcomed at the pearly gates. Then of course there is the ongoing Jeremy Thorpe affair. Lambasted to the grave - he died from Parkinson’s in 2014 -  not for being gay but for being a well-defended establishment icon. Jeremy, or ‘bunny’ as he preferred to be called, made a complete mockery of both British justice and the then, quite respected, Liberal Party. Heath, the penile wanderer, and his sad cronies were at least denied a coalition as a result. In a follow-u...

It's BBQ time and a neighbour has not only roasted a few cows but has now started on the fish. Not ordinary fish you understand. These smell very much like kippers and Janice has been forced to take the washing in because of the backyard odour. Not that there's anything wrong with kippers you understand. Sublime and full of good fishy  protein and splendidly sumptuous maritime fat the health benefits are well publicised but the smell lingers for days and I really don't relish sharing a drink or two with fellow hacks in the theatre bar tomorrow wearing a kipper-strewn shirt. It's the same with bread. A quite splendid piece by Felicity Lawrence graces page 34 of today's Observer. After highlighting the fashionable obesity crisis, she bashes the 45p supermarket white-loaf. Again, I am not against the white loaf - how after all can you achieve decent toast except by the use of thick-sliced white bread. In my youth we relished the plain-loaf. A factory produced ...

We were at HM Theatre Aberdeen reviewing Sunshine on Leith last night. It’s a splendid show, perhaps the best I've seen in a good many years,  and I recall first seeing it in around 2008 although it may have been a wee bit earlier and maybe even in Dundee.  To be honest, it’s not really any better – how after all could you improve on such perfection.   The musical first saw light at Dundee Rep in far off 2003 following a review of the back catalogues of several Scottish bands by playwright Stephen Greenhorn. Awaking from some whisky-fuelled review session, Stephen found a post-it note, written in his own hand from the night before, with the words  “Proclaimers musical?”  written on it. Sunshine on Leith was born. Since then Sunshine has morphed into film then back to stage again and now features around eighteen original Proclaimers songs from the day. It’s quite a splendid production but then, as a reviewer I would say that wouldn’t I? Well no actual...

It’s been yet another sweltering day in the Shire and the dust storms are gathering. Folk down south in England-shire have been  blessed with the odd thunder clap along with some marginally lower temperatures. But us folks, up in these north-eastern realms, have been denied even a modicum of drizzle. My neighbours are complaining. Not about the weather – they are in the main soaking in the hot sun – but about the dust. Folks in the likes of Cairo are used to such troubles as each year a few inevitable sand storms envelope the city. The temperature drops to a balmy 5 degrees C or so and both the pyramids on the Giza plateau and the door to your flat are sand blasted almost to oblivion. Masking tape and tightly closed windows are to no avail as the inevitable detritus of the desert storms march through the gaps. It’s the same in Inverurie. A new secondary school is under construction just at the foot of my long garden and the sand dunes will no doubt form a part of it. T...

According to last Sundays Observer Magazine the very-third-time-ever that the word fuck was broadcast live on the UK airwaves was on 1 December 1976. How do they know this? Well, seemingly the Sex Pistols appeared on the Bill Grundy Show and uttered the immortal words “Bill Grundy is a fuckin’ rotter”. That’s probably on record somewhere in the depths of the BBC archives but what about the first two utterances, of which writer Juliana Piskorz makes no mention whatsoever. I may have an answer . The art of swearing upon the airwaves goes back a fair wee bit beyond those heady seventies. Broadcaster Richard Dimbleby was a close friend and colleague of Robin Duff, the 32nd and last laird of Oldmeldrum. Aberdeenshire-born Duff inherited both his lairdship and Meldrum House, the family ancestral home, from his uncle in 1954. A Cambridge graduate, he worked as a presenter then as a radio journalist for the BBC. During World War 2 Robin famously stood on London rooftops during the Blitz de...

Got a lovely surprise today when in amongst my snail-mail a beautifully handwritten envelope revealed a couple of press passes for the annual Bon Accord Steam Fair at Castle Fraser. Its an event which I have long loved and often written about and I am looking forward immensely to attending what must surely be Scotland’s largest steam fair. Now well into its 48 th year, the 45 th anniversary was celebrated in 2015, the event simply goes from strength to strength.  A wee weather blip in 2016 saw the cancellation of the event – a decision taken by the organisers with safety in mind. Hauling a few tons of steam-engine out of the mud is not an experience for the faint hearted after all. In 2017 all was fine and a good few thousand folk from all around Aberdeenshire and beyond bathed in bright sunshine as the steam engines strutted their stuff. Hosted by the Scottish National Trust’s flagship Castle Fraser, the Bon Accord Steam Fair is truly a flagship event. With over 50 thou...

The blogosphere is a funny old world really. An article in today’s Guardian set off a train of thought about a long dead pal. Nigel was his name if you must know, and he picked up road kill on a whim to feed his many cats. There were at one point thirteen of the feline buggers living and shitting in his living space and the sheer cost of Felix must have strained his resources to the hilt. Hence the feeding of rabbits, pheasants and the occasional flattened fox to his co-habitants. He lived in a series of variously run-down country cottages of the type commonly available in those splendidly hippie days that were the 70’s, then the 80’s and perhaps the early 90’s. His last place was a well-used caravan over at Monymusk at the back of an old mill. The kind landowner had agreed on a peppercorn rent on the basis that the mill and its adjoining miller’s house would be his for a few decades, providing he agreed to renovate it to a habitable standard. Well, Nigel was no easy tenant. An...