Duncan Harley

The brutal rape of young Hassan by sociopath Assef and his cohorts sets the tone of this touring stage adaptation of Khaled Hosseini’s best-selling novel. And the child-rape is not the only gut-wrenching scene from the book to be splashed all over the stage in front of the theatre audience. An execution by the Taliban, a bone-crunching beating or two and tales of death by landmine are intermingled with implicit references to paedophile driven child abduction and the stoning of adulterers. Not that the above events appeared gratuitous. Indeed, they are central to the telling of the tale. It’s just that they are shocking. The rape may well bear allegorical  significance in relation to the 1979 Soviet invasion and death by landmine is described as a good way for an Afghan to die. As for the stoning of adulterers and the abductions, well, these simply add to the overwhelming uneasiness which this production induces. Indeed, at the end one audience member was heard to comment th...

The writing of words is such a learning curve. And the publishing of words is at best fraught. I have said this before and will no doubt say it again, but that moment when the send button is pressed is such a bastard. Once the words have gone to wherever words go, the power and control has been given to another. An editor probably, and an overly pedantic editor might just be on the horizon. Or would it just be a friend intent on sorting out the mixed-up rhetoric. I have met both. Well, when I say met, I mean something much less. Since, some of the unmet editorial influences have been disastrous to say the least. And some of the met have been similar. Mind you, and on balance, those whom I have taken tea with have mainly excelled and taken good care of my words and intents. Leopard, Aberdeen Voice, Northern Scot are but to name but a few. Today, I was set to do battle with a new foe. Invited to review a Sondheim musical I was faced with a multitude of wordily issues via an unknown dig...

A loyal friend has subbed my work over the years. Alongside a good few splendid editors along the way, he has stuck by me for whatever reason and has often kindly suggested changes to my words. Banksy-like he is known only as PK, and has been kind enough to suggest changes to my recent book also. Sadly, and I say this smilingly, the book is almost sold-out and is on a fast-track to a re-print. February 8 is new publication day and Macmillan Distribution assure me that all outstanding orders will be fulfilled shortly afterwards. What a relief; and indeed, what an honour. And that’s great. Except, of course, the subbed text and the thankfully very occasional howlers will remain unchanged until the revised 3 rd edition which is due out sometime before summer. In the best possible taste and with a stereotypically familiar nod – whatever that may mean - to those, including Paul, who have pointed out the errors of my pen, here is a small selection of the corrections: ‘A-Z of Curious ...

Alongside the penning of books – and yes, there is yet another on the way – I have aspired to be a feature writer on occasion. As an avid reader of the weekend papers I have long admired the Observer Magazine’s ‘A Brush with Greatness’ column. Typical topics are ‘The day Van Morrison remembered me’, ‘The day Keith Richard joined us at the Test Match’ and ‘Back in my early 20s, I was a camera assistant for a photographer named Jeff Riedel.’ All good and all really interesting. I got to thinking that I too must have brushed against some greatness. I have briefly met some Royals, but not intimately, and can claim to have chatted with Russel Grant in the basement of an Aberdeen hotel. Then there was that day when Margaret Thatcher’s limo almost ran me off the road on a return trip from the Isle of Skye. Which to use? Then it hit me: I had met the Dalai Lama – or at least, I thought that I had met him. For reasons which completely escape me, the Observer Magazine have never used the pi...