Duncan Harley

This lockdown situation has involved lots of changes. Social distancing, millions furloughed or working from home and more millions immersed in some bizarre governmental inspired Churchillian rhetoric dating from the 1940’s. Hopefully this time around we shall not be fighting in France. Bright lights on the horizon such as Sturgeon suggest that there may be an opportunity here to re-purpose and re-focus and I hope she is both correct in this assumption and correctly listened to. Anyway, not only am I in lockdown, but as of last week I am in something termed shielded lockdown. What does this mean? Well, I am part of an alien group who should avoid all human contact whatsoever just in case. Not that I currently have the virus, although I suspect I may have already had it some weeks ago, but just that I may get it – but nobody knows. Hence the enhanced shielding. Plusses? An offer of a weekly food parcel and priority access to supermarket delivery slots. I may take the powers tha...

Boris got tough virus-wise on March 23, thirty days ago according to the Sun and same thirty days ago according to the Guardian. So that’s alright then. Thirty days to get used to lockdown and thirty days to find stuff to occupy the long days. No problem, I’ll write another book I thought. At maybe 2k words each day it should take at most forty days plus maybe another 10 days of formatting. Then add maybe ten editing days and ten more for subbing and more subbing. Trick with subbing of course is to spot grammar as well as spelling mistakes. Trick two – read it all backwards out loud from back to front. That’ll sort out the men from the buoys! Plus of course punctuation. Ok, make that eighty or so days. Or maybe 90 when you include proofing for accuracy, dates, timelines – we are talking non-fiction local history here! And, of course, the placing of images, creation of a cover plus some back-page. I could go on. Oh, and I need a willing graphic artist for that cover. The cover s...

I get sent the odd album along with a modicum of books to review. The books are easy. Dip in, test the flavour, form an opinion, make some comments and pen a few words. Over the years of course, I have reviewed everything from dire travelogues about Aberdonian suspension bridges – yes there are such things – to a quite splendid Dracula prequel with pretty much everything in between. And what a privilege. You never know what the postman will bring next though . A month or so ago, prior to all this virus stuff, I received a block-stream of music from Corrie @ Hanna Innes Communications. The likes of Hamish Napier was foremost amongst the mix alongside a recording of Time to Fly by David Foley and Jack Smedley. Hamish (review @: Aberdeen Voice.com ) I was a bit busy at the time and only got as far as Hamish. Today though, I had a wee listen to David and Jack. Glad I did. Alongside a welcome acoustic vibe, the album reeks of craftsmanship and reflects what the duo refer to...

I n March 2020 Aberdeen Performing Arts switched off the lights in its three iconic venues: His Majesty’s Theatre, Aberdeen Music Hall and the Lemon Tree amid the COVID-19 outbreak. Shows were cancelled and staff put on furlough. Lockdown was about to strike and the theatre doors slammed shut on 17 th  March ironically on the very eve of a week long run of A Monster Calls. You couldn’t really make it up. Cancellations of Buddy Holly, Once and Billionaire Boy swiftly followed and a Scottish Opera run of The Gondoliers described in glowing terms as "Sunny, funny and with more ‘tra la la las’ per square inch than any other opera in the canon" was swiftly consigned to the bottom of the Grand Canal. But, as they say, the show must go on and today Aberdeen Performing Arts has announced a set of stay-at-home projects and initiatives designed to keep the North-east connected and engaged in arts and culture during this strange pandemic era. Titled We’re here for you, the...

Underneath the atlas - which I found yesterday upon the beach, I discovered a sodden Tom Stoppard script dating from 1977 or thereabouts. I have no idea how or even why it turned up on this distant shore. Signed by none other than Andre Previn it bears the inscription:  ‘To Tom and thank you for the lovely wirds. Hope you liked my wee tunes - your pal Andre xx.' The script of course is long and quite tortuous. In fact, it bears a date-stamp from another age and if truth be told there are lines which even Stoppard might now cringe at. But no matter, even BBC Garnet was eventually made to eat his own words. But back to 1977. The script concerns a Soviet dissident, Alexander Ivanov, who is imprisoned in a mental hospital from which he will not be released until he admits that his statements against the government were caused by a non-existent mental disorder. It’s the ultimate in denial and he shares a cell with a genuinely disturbed schizophrenic also called Ivano...

My first instinct regarding Man March’s philosophical abilities was in fact accurate. He is indeed a dull and uneducated savage. I set him several more philosophical problems and each time he answered me 57. Finally, I realised that I had completely overestimated my skills as an English as a foreign language teacher. His native name is in fact Fifty-seven-mobunga-usaba the 3rd. His family seemingly owned an ice production plant in Norway prior to the Minoan takeover and his grandmother headed up the Mark Cadbury Committee as CEO for the Proposed Invasion of Mars. I mean, you couldn’t make it up! What a complete fool I am and must be in his eyes also. I have told him that my own given name is Alexander and I  now hope that he will still be my friend despite the confusion in sharing our respective nomenclatures. In comparison to Fifty-seven-mobunga-usaba the 3 rd , Alexander Selkirk the 1 st must seem such a bland and unpromising label. As an aside, a tattered internation...

I am happy to report that Man March is much improved today. His mistreatment by those savages has left mental scars no doubt but his physical wounds were in fact minor. In fact, other than a fractured septum and some facial scratches he is generally fine and has even managed to exhibit what I can only take to be a smile. I must now attend to his broader education and, having begun to address his linguistic skills via a crash course in English as a foreign language, have also decided to educate him more widely with a view to developing his skills in critical thinking, analysis, clear writing, and some sustained but vital reflection on important philosophical problems, both contemporary and perennial, concerned with ethics, metaphysics, epistemology, language, logic, the natural and core social sciences, politics, aesthetics, and religion to name but a very few. To start with, I have set him a philosophical problem which few, if indeed any, European thinkers have been able...

Following the unfortunate parrot shooting, Man March and I have this day made our way around the headland where the wreck of my ship, or what lies left of it, sits broken upon the reef. The captain’s lifeless body – once strapped firmly to the aft-mast, has long been consigned to the deep and even the soggy remnants of the ship’s dog have been consumed by that unforgiving Pacific Ocean. I think his name was Rufus – the dog, not the captain and certainly not the ocean, but I am not entirely sure. Shipwrecks naturally have a habit of emptying both the mind and - dare I say it, the bladder. But unless you once experience them first hand, most of you my good readers, might doubt this as a fact and attribute my scribbles to some delusion brought on by some pandemic panic or other. Nonetheless, Man March and I today combed the foreshore in the hope of finding more in the way of handy tools and provisions with which to enhance our chances of survival. Perhaps some oranges, even a grapef...

Words and images by Duncan Harley with additional reporting by April McGinty Some 43 years after his death, the studio once inhabited by Aberdeenshire artist James Cairns is at risk of collapse. The largely forgotten painter spent his later life transforming the old coastguard cottage at Buckie into a place of colour, scent and spiritual rebirth. He named the place Parody in the Sands and a local charity – The Cairns Poppies Initiative, has been tasked with preserving his heritage. Born in 1921, James’s artistic career was blighted by his association with both the scions of London gang life and an unfortunate alignment with an emerging National Socialist Party.   Having travelled to Austria in 1938 as part of a Friendship Through Strength international youth initiative funded by the Boy Scout Association of Silesia, he attended several Nazi youth rallies and was present at an early Nuremburg Rally where both Hitler and Goering addressed an admiring crowd. He was later t...

Molly the parrot finally and irretrievably signed her death warrant today with her rendering of yet another unwarranted and unwanted joke and I must warn you that this is quite the most terrible parrot joke I have ever had the displeasure to stumble across on this deserted and god forsaken island. Even my new companion Man March seemed pleased at my action despite the fact that - at least as far as I am aware, he understands little or nothing about either the English language or syntax: ‘Squawk. After more than 40 years of marriage, a woman’s husband suddenly dies. Squawk Squawk For several months she sat alone in her house with the shades pulled and the doors locked. Finally she decided she needed to do something about her situation. The loneliness was killing her. Squawk Squawk. Squawk Squawk. She remembered that her husband had a friend who owned a nice pet store — a pet might be good company. So, Squawk Squawk, she dropped in one afternoon to look over the pet selection. S...

The parrot has become something of a problem. I have now recognised that, alongside my grammatical failings regarding the fiendish flesh-eating heathens whom I misconstrued as cannonballs Molly has been – dare I say it, taking the piss!   I put my cannibal error down to both exhaustion and to long and crazily confusing over-complicated sentence structures replete with ungrammatical asides and convoluted syntax infused as often as not with unstructured paragraphs replete with made up spelling rules and excessive and unnecessary-instances of hyphenation.  On-land I had a challenging sub-editor who would, for a favour, correct my syntax and my often-unintended attacks on the English language. Here, on this god-forsaken island there is not even a copy of the Abridged Oxford English Dictionary with which to bolster my prose! But back to Molly. The parrot has what I can only describe as a somewhat offbeat sense of humour. Her suggestion that we name my injured heathen ...

It was only by luck that I managed to drive off the screaming savages. Outnumbered some eighteen to one I was at first fearful for my very life. However, my fearsome appearance, plus the fact that I brandished a loaded rifle, proved sufficient to ward them off and I had only to scream back at them in my native tongue to startle even the boldest of them. ‘Awa ye go ye nasty wee radgies! Awa wi ye before I take this wee sharp blade and cut ye a Glesga smile and maybe perchance a new bum! Am no kiddin an at’s a fact ya filthy bunch o’ heathens!! Plus, a've got a big gun and you've no got one between the whole lot of you!' At this, the largest of the savages - a sheer giant of a man,  raised his club as if to counter my threatening tone. So, I instantly shot him through the throat and followed up with several facial thrusts of my dagger. He grinned widely and dropped down dead at my feet with blood spewing furiously from his wounds. It was a classic case of gaining domin...

Mixed joy indeed! I have not only found a supply of potable water, but have by some strangeness of fate stumbled upon a dreadful sight.  I had, since early dawn, been heading inland via a narrow and quite steep wild animal trail when, just as the sun reached its zenith, I detected a familiar sound. I was at once paralysed with the fear that this was just some ghastly resurgence of those lurid and unwelcome hallucinations of yesterday. But as I approached the source of the noise my fears seemed without solid foundation. Before me lay a thin but quite stunning waterfall. A splendid stream of foaming water lay before me  and I immediately threw off my goat-stained apparel (remember the goat from day four of this pandemic?) and rendering some exited version of The Lord is My Shepherd  plunged into the foaming pool which lay beneath the thundering waterfall. My spirits were entirely lifted. I drank my fill from the tumbling waters and bathed completely naked in the clear...

I t is as I suspected. Today is almost certainly not Friday and yesterday was not Thursday. In fact, it was all a lurid dream brought on no doubt by remnants of that fever from which I am now mainly recovered. Or at least I think I am. And now of course, my priorities have changed. I am intent on taking to the sea again and am determined to return to my native Largo come what may. Meantime personal survival must be my focus. Alongside my need for potable water I will need a supply of meat to provide sustenance while I plan my escape from this island. And I now realise that the shooting of the feral goat was at best a jerk reaction and I now regret not having tamed and fattened the angry beast before firing that fatal shot. The corpse was at best thin and stringy. The meat was tough and my scurvy made chewing difficult. In short, the goat was not up to expectations. But since all now done and dusted, I cannot now make amends for my miscalculation other than to vow that next time...

When I awoke today at first light my fever had completely and miraculously vanished and, despite the rigours of the past few days, I felt able to eat and drink a little from my meagre store of salvaged provisions which consist mainly of a damaged water barrel and some soggy ships biscuits. The water however tasted brackish and even the parrot declined to take more than a beak full of wet biscuit. We must find more sustenance and soon! Also, in the cold light of day, I have decided that Gertrude is not a good name for a parrot and will henceforth address her, if indeed she is a she, as Molly. Quite what made me consider calling her Gertrude eludes me now that I am clearer in thought and I can only assume that it was down to my fevered state of mind. Mid-morning, I again scoured the beach for salvage and was pleasantly surprised to stumble upon an intact timber box containing what must surely be the first mates set of engraved pistols. Undamaged and complete with both flints and le...

It is now some three days since our ship ran onto that reef and I have become more accepting of the new situation. Later in the week I intend to visit the wreck in the hope of finding both victuals and perhaps a few more tools with which to secure my continuing survival. In short, I am feeling more positive - if such a thing is possible. And I feel much more hopeful regarding a return to some form of normality. That is, if such a thing is indeed possible given the quite extraordinary events of the past few days. The footprint in the sand continues to trouble me but I have, yet again, concluded that further investigation will have to wait at least until the back-end of the week. The hallucinations, which I thought had ended on day two, continue big-time and alongside shades of the Virgin Mary I am now seeing images of other long dead saints including the mysterious  Black Madonna. I obviously am quiet fevered and imagine that this may be the cause of this insanity. Soaked ...

Today I resisted the urge to return to the shipwreck, which still lies firmly on the reef just some hundred yards offshore. To say that I lacked the energy for the trip would not be completely accurate since in truth, the beach is littered with the washed-up remains of my fellow shipmates and through the lens of my telescope I was able to spot the shattered body of the ship’s captain still lashed to the foremast alongside the limp form of the ships dog. I confess I found this sight to be too much for my already overwhelmed senses and will hold off until the ghastly remains are claimed by the sea before venturing out to salvage what little remains on-board. In any case, there is ample treasure to salvage onshore. A washed-up wooden chest revealed a still dry supply of gun-powder and a tea-chest from the ships hold contained both an ample supply of flour and sufficient yeast to make a sourdough starter. Both items will I think aid my chances of survival. That is of course shoul...

This fending for oneself in a tropical paradise is one thing, but I now need to keep track of time before it runs out or indeed, I go utterly and completely bonkers. For this purpose, I have erected a driftwood timber cross at the north end of the island to record the date of my arrival on this foreign shore. I will, if I am able, cut a single notch each day so as to record the passing of time prior to my rescue from this ghastly place of solitude. Today, in the absence of both bread and meat, I feasted on fermented coconuts. There is an abundance of them on the foreshore. In fact, so many that if one were not careful, they might well prove fatal since if one was to suffer even a glancing blow from a falling fruit, death might well result. Oddly, there is a warning sign advising of the danger. I may have eaten too many of them however since I imagined in my sleep that the Virgin Mary had delivered me from both this place and that my original sins – the gathering of slaves, were...

Eager for slave labour I foolishly embarked on a slave gathering voyage and now find myself shipwrecked and alone on a deserted island off the coast of Trinidad. It seems that I am the sole survivor of the venture and I must now seek both sustenance and shelter in this strange and foreign land. The wreck has so far yielded both gunpowder and food plus some fragments of timber from which I have constructed a rudimentary shelter. There was also a rifle and some barrels of rum. Both of which I shall put to good use. The island is quite lush but deserted and providentially has both water and goats in abundance. Fortunately, my journal floated ashore amongst the wreckage and over the coming days of isolation I am intent on recording my lonely struggle. I may well have been hallucinating, but I swear I saw a parrot amongst the treetops … this must surely be a good omen. Duncan Harley is a writer and blogger living in the Garioch. His books are available from Amazon. Just ...

I’m conflicted. Official advice on the evolving global disaster involves self-isolation and much wringing of hands. But - and I am certainly a big fan of handwashing, self-isolation is pretty much what the digital age is all about anyway. Big-Bit-Corp such as Apple and Amazon – Facebook maybe not so much, WhatsApp certainly, feed on separating us from the herd already. Bring on some digital paranoia. Empty shelves of handwash and big bananas are the thing and the preppy paranoia includes survival gear ranging from assault rifles through to bendy fruit. Even the bananas! What kind of dumb-ass preppy weaponizes bananas? Suddenly everyone from my friendly local car-dealer to the likes of Cineworld wants to be my internet friend. Their reassurances are flooding my inbox with survival hints and assurances that once this is all over, all will be well in the land of car sales and ‘go to’ cinema. I don’t think so. I mean really? Who in Cineworld can even possibly imagine that even 12 m...

I am hugely relieved that the defamation action against Andy Wightman MSP brought by Wildcat Haven Enterprises has been settled in his favour. Mr Wightman had been pursued for damages of £750k following allegations that the conservation business had suffered loss due to his comments on social media and in his blogposts. Seemingly Lord Clark has ruled that none of Mr Wightman’s comments were defamatory and Mr Wightman has been quoted as saying that the action should have never have been brought against him. The Court of Session judge noted that Wildcat Haven was ‘engaged in a genuine scheme aimed at the conservation of wildcats run by well-intentioned and enthusiastic individuals. I have to wonder what all the fuss was about though - but I'm sure that all will eventually be revealed on Andy's blog @:   http://www.andywightman.com/ Here meantime, for what its worth, is an extract from chapter 11 of my recent book – The Little History of Aberdeenshire in which I...

Sharp rhythms aside, and despite the expansive title strapline, this is really a fairly bland biopic of Gloria Fajardo AKA Gloria Estefan. Thinly woven character development leaves husband/manager Emilio, played here by George Ioannides, lagging. Portrayed as caring and charming and occasionally absurdly comedic, that’s about all you get of the essence of the man who made the star. Gloria, a splendid Philippa Stefani, and her mum and her gran hold the plot strings and the show is really about the Estefan brand. Plot-wise, an attempt is made to set the bands rise against a mid-20 th century geo-socio-political scene in the aftermath of the Cuban Revolution. Havana born Gloria’s family flee to Miami following Castro’s takeover. Dad Jose – Elia Lo Tauro, participates in the disastrous Bay of Pigs CIA inspired invasion of Cuba and is later exposed to a toxic chemical defoliant whilst serving in Vietnam. He gets ill and dies. A later traffic accident leaves Gloria wheel-ch...