None at the moment

Many Many moons ago I posted on CQN a wee rhyme of mine which some folk liked but others thought was a bit narrow minded.

In particular 'Chennaiseabird' commented that I should extend it a bit to demonstrate that essentially, irrespective of creed, we are in essence all the same.

Here is the result of my efforts.

The first four verses were the original version and admittedly as you will see, a pathetic attempt at one-upmanship humour.

The remainder is my attempt to make it more widely considered and acceptable.

I have to acknowledge Dickens’ novelette – a Christmas Carol - as inspiration the concept.



Though not yet oot o' nappies ah wis telt the folk next door,
Were no the sort tae mix wae, they were rotten tae the core,
Their songs came frae the devil, their souls were black as sin,
They ate their first-born wean, and dumped its bones intae the bin.

Their hame was like a midden, but it didnae smell sae nice,
On Sunday they ate jobbies, their hair ran thick wae lice,
They cursed, they swore, they boiled newts, and cast their spells o’ doom,
As midnight’s hour pressed doon on them, they’d rob a new filled tomb.

And with that corpse jist barely cauld, they’d conjure up auld nick,
And slake their thirst wae fresh tapped blood, and gorge on cups o’ sick,
They’d bow and laud their clove-hoofed boss and offer gifts of shite,
And orgy till their evil lust had melted into night.

But when the sun would crack the dawn, they’d scurry tae their lair,
For fear of turning into dust and lose their palms o’ hair,
‘And where’s that lair?’ o’ them ah’d ask, ‘where hides that evil coven?’
“It’s a place of putrid fetid hate… a fitba’ grun’ near Govan!”

Then wance ma towellin’ wis cast aff, an ah could staun tae pee,
I learnt that heaven wis reserved fur those who had like me,
Had water sprinkled on their heid, their soul wance mair brand new,
Selected by the hand of God, wan o’ the chosen few!

So wae each rising o’ the sun, I navigated life,
An’ preached my righteous credo, ma tongue honed as a knife,
Ah’d point a finger at yon folk and scream ‘Yer wrang!…. Ah’m right!’
Then PUNCH!... and KICK!…. wae humble heart!…. then go tae Mass that night.

And as I knelt on weel scuffed knees, sae Pharisaic humble,
With prayers entreating Heaven’s praise, as wae ma beads ah’d fumble,
‘How can they be sae blind oh Lord, and deif tae all yer glories,
Ah fear that they are lost tae you, they’re worse than Thatcher’s Tories’!

So when the time came tae depart and the candles wir snuffed oot,
Ah’d cross masel wae gratitude sae glad that ah’d been put
Upon this world of heathen hordes tae haud ma grun’ an’ fight,
For the ways of man, decreed by God, for whit wis just and right!

Wan night however traipsin’ hame, rapt smug in selfish wonder,
Frae darkened clouds that frowned on me a clap rang oot like thunder,
A spectre blocked ma homeward path, wis it the bogie man?
To claim ma soul for hellish fire frae oot the frying pan!

Wae icy haund it grasped ma heart, then wae a roar of doom
We soared back through the sands o’ time, tae someone’s living room
A room ah knew frae childhood years where by the coal-fire light,
Next door tae me, sat Billy boy being spooned ‘their’ view of right!,

‘Yon papists eat big scabbie dugs, they feed their kids wae maggots,
An’ aw their wumin live like sluts, an’ aw their men are faggots’!
They live in holes wae mice an’ rats; they dine on cows’ entrails
They paint their walls wae faeces, an’ a’ their weans huv tails!

I tried tae shout tae Billy boy, tae make him realise
Whit he wis telt tae turn his heid were nuthin mair than lies,
But the phantom grabbed me by the scruff and at the speed o’ light,
We landed by Hadean gates, an’ whit an awfy sight!

As though within a night-times dream, ah witnessed lines tae hell,
Each row jist like yon days at school, as we filed afore the bell,
But now in chains they shuffled by to suffer Satan’s fire
To scream for all eternity on that white-hot blazing pyre.

But as ah took a closer keek tae see the huns cast doon,
Ah wis fair amazed tae find that there were ithers hingin roon,
Agin the things that ah hud learned, there standin’ in that queue
Wis Cafflick, Mormon, Muslim, Prod, Agnostic, Pagan, Jew.

Ah looked around a bit confused, why wur ma ain folk there?
There! In among those hellish huns, it a’ seemed sae unfair,
Cos efter a’ we’d never strayed from a’ that we’d been taught,
We’d never stained our holy souls,..well at least we’d no’ been caught!

I tried to warn them o’ their fate, at least the wans ah knew,
But the spirit grabbed we wance again and frae the fires we flew,
This time we looked down frae on high as oot a courthouse came
A lad in chains, his head obscured, Ah asked the ghost his name

‘That’s in your hands’ his eyes explained, ‘yer future’s not been set’,
‘If you have learned by what you’ve seen, there’s hope for your soul yet’
‘There’s many gifts bestowed upon the folk who walk this realm,
‘But some are blind and some are deaf until I come an’ tell’m’

He whisked us back through time that’d passed and in the pouring rain
He left me wae ma thoughts confused tae gauge ma life again.
And as ma mind began to grow, I questioned youthful mores,
Yon stories ah’d been telt as facts were bigot’s weeping sores

I found that truth wis nurtured by a parent’s guiding hands
That virtue bloomed frae seeds being sown in multi-cultured lands,
That black and white, and left and right, and tall and short lost sense,
When the map of life confined us tae the wan side o’ the fence!

For narrow minds and narrow hearts are nowt to celebrate,
They’re outlaws from that bitter past where birth-right set our fate,
We may not choose our start in life or pick our kith and kin,
But free will in our hearts can cleanse us of such stunted sin.


Hail Hail


Estadio

Ye Jist widnae listen

Especially for those heroes and champions of dictatorship a return to the dark ages – George Dubya and Tory Blair

Awa’ ye go an’ bile yer heids, ye huvnae got a clue,
Ye’ve gone an’ bombed Iraq ye mugs, ye’ve worked them black and blue,
Ye’ve murdered aw they new born weans, an’ mithers, faithers too,
Ye’ve dogged the steps that once were trod by Herod and his crew!

Up there upon yer lectern high, ye judge us less than daft,
But the stench of insincerity reeks fetidly of graft,
Ye’d sell yer granny fur a vote and wallow in yer craft,
An’ hide behind the cowardice of those who’re jist as saft.

Fur Cheney, Brown, Hoon, Straw, and Reid, Rumsfield and Condoleeze,
A hundred thousand lives…no more, just vapour on the breeze,
And Prescott, Powell, and Duncan-Smith, get down upon your knees,
And pray there is no place like hell for evil acts like these.

But one man’s words we should have known were nought but quisling’s tale,
His kin had wreaked a massacre in Glencoe’s friendly vale,
McDonald’s clan had sheltered them from winter’s freezing gale,
But Campbells’ thanks was carnage wrought; humanity for sale!

So sat within your padded cells, sae deif tae aw our cries,
Ye closed your minds, and zipped yer souls, ye turnt awa’ yer eyes,
Ten million hearts held banners high a challenge tae yer lies,
Against the world of mammon’s oil, we took up cause tae rise.

But banners are like paper walls when smart bombs rend the air,
And cries of truth like whispered doubts, when hatred’s screams lay bare
A soulless void of bloody lust, within your hell built lair,
And the loving reach of the new born babe finds the cold of no one there.

And now you’ve cleansed those eastern folk, the wans who can’t fight back,
Not Israel, not Pakistan, not Saudi, but Iraq,
Bold heroes every wan of you! Wae yer unseen stealth attack,
Wae “shock an’ awe”, the tears of blood have stained yer souls tae black.

But where collateral damage lies strewn over Eden’s lawns,
It nurtures anger’s righteous seeds and the flower of vengeance dawns,
It sees a game of chess being played where common folk are pawns
Ten million innocents will pay for all that you have spawned!

The Welsh Whinger

Written on a beer mat in The Oyster Catcher pub in Swansea in 1976 and sent to a Vision of Beauty (that is a ten pints of lager Vision of Beauty) at a table opposite Her whole conversation consisted of ‘moan, moan, moan’.

In a bar where conversation is framed by smoky coughs,
Where phlegm racked laughs and beery spit fill up the urine troughs,
Where violence sits on every tongue and the blokes are rutting stags,
Twas there I fell in love with the Queen of whines and nags.

She lulled me with her B&H, twas a worldly fag indeed,
She hooked me with her pints of stout, no quarter to her breed,
She filled my mind with earthy curse, she grabbed me by the stones,
What more could man ask of a mate, with itchy erogenous zones!

Stefan and Aaron come to Glasgow

Written for two of my Grandsons (Aston Villa fans as it happens) when they first came up from Wales to visit Glasgow


Friday Evening

Mammy shouts ‘we're running late, we’ve got to catch our flight,
Shift yourselves and pack your bags, or we’ll miss the plane tonight’!
‘Where the blinking heck is Dad, we need him with his car,
He phoned just half an hour ago and said he wasn’t far.’

‘Ah here he is’, no time to spare, make sure you’ve locked the door,
Count the cases, count the heads, make sure they number four,
Worry if you’ve fed the fish or the heating’s been turned down,
Too late for that, you’re on the road, relax and settle down.

And soon you’re soaring in the sky, the clouds like drifting snow,
And in the gaps, the twinkling lights of cars and homes below,
But then the seatbelt sign comes on, to say you’re landing soon,
Watched over by ‘wee Jimmy’ – The ScotsMan-in-the-moon.

Saturday Morning and afternoon

And now that you’re in Glasgow with Granddad, Mam and Dad,
In Scotland’s greatest city, where no ones ever sad,
You’ll see the sights, You’ll hear the sounds, You’ll feel its heart and soul,
So let’s cross the bridge and hit the town, its time to ‘Rock and Roll’.

At Paddy’s Market for a start we saw the poorest folk,
With all they owned for all to see, and sell to ease life’s yoke,
We wandered up the Gallowgate, in Glasgow’s hard east end,
Where laughter, shouts, and songs, and cries rang out on every bend.

We strolled into the Barras, a land of endless stalls,
Where everything you’d want to buy filled shelves, and drawers, and halls!
We doddled down Argyll street, we stuffed ourselves with chips,
Used every bridge that crossed the Clyde and dreamt of sailing ships.

But then we heard some music as some buskers set their pitch,
We stood, and listened, smiled, and laughed at a voice so full and rich,
And she sang songs that eased our hearts and soothed each troubled mind,
A gift that God had given her, to make up for being blind!

A thousand shops we visited, each one with a moving stair,
Or better still a soaring lift, that would shoot into the air,
Oh how you laughed as up we went, it gave you quite a kick,
But best of all when Mammy said ‘I think I’m feeling sick’

As the sun dipped in the sky and the moon’s shift just begun,
We chased the shadows out of town with Stefan’s mighty gun,
And Aaron still with ringing hat and bells upon his head,
Wished your Mam and Dad goodnight and drifted off to bed.!

Sunday Morning Afternoon and Evening

As Sunday morning broke the night, and from your bunks you fell,
'Twas Swimming time and splashing fun with Dad and Mum as well,
And then we got into a boat and sailed upon the Clyde,
Passed places where great ships were built on this river deep and wide.

And to Braehead and what is this, a fairground full of rides,
We went on dodgems, flying cars, castles, swings and slides,
But then the icing on the cake for in the hall we found,
A skating rink, with boots for hire where we went round and round.

At least I thought that’s what you’d do, but things appeared quite glum,
Cos everytime you tried to glide you skidded on your bum,
But like a deer who finds its feet, you started then to skate,
With leaps and jumps and pirouettes, the Olympics now await.

But seconds, minutes, hours and days, they fizzle then they’re gone,
But like the best of all the times the memories live on,
And though my home is now so quiet and you’ve returned to Wales,
I keep a smile within my heart in a way that never fails.

Since the Monday

I look around each room and check whose hiding behind the door,
I chase my shadow down the street and laugh until I’m sore,
Instead of walking down the stairs, I slide on my behind,
I put my hands in dusty places not knowing what I’ll find.

So thanks to you I’m young again, I think I’ll dye my hair,
I’ll get myself some Reeboks or Nike daps to wear,
I’ll wear some baggy trousers, and coat my locks with Gel
I’ll stuff my face with burgers until I don’t feel well.

I’ll throw myself from chair to floor, I’ll roll around in muck
I’ll turn my nose at brussels sprouts, and cabbage, turnips…yuck!
And just for me I’d like to think, as your head sinks in the pilla, (sorry about that one)
You’d dream the score was Celtic 4, and Nothing to Aston Villa!

Mick

The furrowed tungsten drills the air
The sixty’s missed but by a hair
The next one wires and falls to ground
The third ones there, you feel the sound
And what you’ve left is thirty one
Fifteen then eights and then you’ve won.

Your lips are dry you take some sips,
You pray you never get the yips,
The first is true, no time to smile
The second misses by a mile
You take a breath and aim that dart
It’s there! A Game? No a feckin art!!

Invasion

Written on the event of the CelticQuickNews website being infiltrated by the dreaded Bosch from down Ibrox way.


And as I read with wandering thoughts of what the coming years would hold,
Lost in dreams of CQN as ambitious visions did unfold,
Like me I’m sure that most of you who post our inner hopes and prayers
Ignore those sad and stunted folk whose lives seem lost in woes and cares
who hope that ill befall each one who states our wishes on this site
instead of joining in the fun they sadly spout their verbal (I wonder what rhymes with site).
So behind me get, you evil hordes who hide your cloven foot with shoe,
Go mix some toads and frogs with spit, get up the close and sniff your glue,
Then pray to him who owns your souls who’s made your brains turn into slurry,
From Beelzebub, you’re Satan’s spawn, so say Seig-heil to Mr Murray.

Helen Suzanne

When in that dank, dark cave of fear I dwell
When haunting demons try to seize my mind,
When my heart burns in the fires of hell,
MY Soul , my love, my dreams were thine

When lost within the labarynth of care
When spectres loom and block egress
When darkness falls and strips strength bare
I hold your smile and worry less

To Helen

What soothes my mind when darkness falls and silence fills the air,
when stars that sparkled once on high, are dimmed and full of care,
when laughter fades and tears are near, and longing wells in me,
when nought but dreams regale my soul, and you I cannot see!

I close my eyes and feel your touch, I taste your lips so sweet,
I hear your words, I hear your heart, our bodies move to meet,
I drift towards a slumber, on sheets where once you laid,
Oh damn the night, and damn all fears, my love will never fade!

Me and Gerry McNee

(To the tune of ‘Me and Bobby McGee’)


Singin’ flat in Sharkey’s bar, fermentin’ half ma brain,
Dancin like Travolta in tight jeans,
Isa said I looked a clown, then I farted like a drain,
I knew I’d eaten far too many beans.
I took my harpoon out, it looked a ripe banana,
It was mottled yellow, green and smellin’ off,
With the pints and vodka’s flowin’ doon
And the ceilin’ goin’ roon and roon,
In walked the ‘hack’ that thought he wis a toff!


1st Chorus:

Truthful news is jist absurd when Gerry lifts his pen,
’Cos honesty won’t sell his sordid rag,
In the ‘Screws’ you’ll find this turd, who passes off duff ‘gen’,
Our big fat egotistical windbag!


From the Holy Ground of Celtic, to the Brazen’s muralled walls,
Gerry’s slagged each Tim in green and white,
Boakin’ words of venom, and spewin’ total balls,
He’s got himself a P H D in shite;
He thinks that he’s a wit, but he’s just a sad old traitor,
Who knows his soul is headin’ down to hell,
With Traynor, Leckie, Keevins too,
He’ll join his hunnish mates in blue,
And rid this earth of a feckin awful smell.

2nd Chorus:

Writing ‘truth’ is not a word that quickly springs to mind
But numbing, clichéd, rank indifference,
In the ‘Screws’ you’ll find this turd, who spouts from his behind,
Aye, wind and crap and rancid turgid ‘mince’!

Martin Farewell

I will do what’s in my gift
I’ll do what’s in my power
To bring some glory to our club
Cometh the man when cometh the hour.

Remember night-time’s shadows fleeing from the light,
Remember worn and hooded eyes given back their sight,
Remember hearts that craved a time of dreams that might come true,
Remember when our MON arrived and spoke to me and you.

Remember Petta seeing off Fernando’s flailing kicks,
Remember Sutton’s piercing strikes and Petrov’s box of tricks,
Remember Henrik’s goals of gold and vanquished foreign foes,
Remember Thommo, Hartson too as they dealt their stinging blows.

Remember Basle’s ashes from which our Phoenix flew,
Remember Blackburn, Vigo, and Stuttgart holding true,
Remember down in Scouseland when glory fed our soul,
Remember Boavista and that startling winning goal!

But most of all remember, a man of iron will
A man who gave us with our team that vision called Seville,
A man who bent for no-one, who raised our name in lights,
Our man, our Mon, our manager, with you we scaled the heights!

I will do what’s in my gift
I’ll do what’s in my power
To bring some glory to our club
Cometh the man when cometh the hour.

2003 - A Spain Odyssey

From north and south, from east and west, by boat and train and plane,
By car and foot, by barge and bike, we made our way to Spain,
We moved by day, we moved by night, by land and sea and air,
We hitched, we hiked, we thumbed, we stowed, somehow we all got there.

Flight after flight descended in the blazing Spanish sun,
Not one or two or three or four, but thousands on each run,
A tidal wave of Bhoys and Ghirls, a flush of living green,
Coursed through the streets like streams in spate to flood the sun drenched scene.

As every train sped on each track, its whistle blown on high,
It warned the world the Tim Malloys had drunk the buffets dry,
We came from every sovereign land and every nation state,
We came with Celtic in our hearts, we came to face our fate.

From Hong Kong, Hobart, New York too, Karachi, and Lahore,
From Melbourne, Perth, Johannesburg, from north to southern shore,
We came from right we came from left we came from up and down,
From every street and every lane we filled the whole damn town,

From ‘Catedral y Giralda’ to Rio Guadalquivir,
We drank the red, we drank the white, sambuca, stout, and beer,
From Santa Juste to Santa Cruz through to Real Alcazar,
Appeared just like the Gallowgate, each inn a Celtic bar.

What of the game? Well such is life, the facts for all to see
Were that The Celts scored only two, and those cheating bastards ..Three!
But though we lost, each Bhoy in green - a hero every one,
Proved once again that when in Hoops, these colours never run!

A flood of tears I saw that night, from wean to OAP,
But tears that sprung from bursting pride, I know ’cos one was me,
And singing voices once again resounded till the sun
Arose and seen our Spanish hosts who thought ‘What if they’d won!’

We came, we saw, we conquered hearts, we left without the prize,
But left with something dearer still, with smiles and sparkling eyes,
And though we lost the final there, ‘twas not a bitter pill,
We’ll ne’er forget that shining jewel, we’ll ne’er forget Seville.

The final whistle

Written on 10th September 1985,when Celtic's greatest ever Manager Jock Stein, then currently Manager of Scotland, died in Cardiff's Ninian Park,at the end of a Wales against Scotland World cup qualifying match.

The final whistle’s blown its blast, the Man walks silently away,
The crowd stare where he breathed his last, their eyes all misty grey,
The goals, the cheers, the heartaches too, flash by as on a screen,
We watch in awe as Lisbon’s Lord departs the final scene.

The rock hard jaw, the ready smile, the care, the love, the Man,
From Wales to Glasgow he spun his web of football’s simple plan,
And at each stop along the way, where folk will reminisce
They’ll raise their thumb and thank you John for days of sporting bliss

And then we all will realise that no-one comes by chance,
Those stunted teachings of your youth discarded like a glance,
For gruff and surly though you seemed, you’d stand your ground and fight,
For what you knew deserved your faith, for what you knew was right.

And now for all that you have done, dispelling bigots' lies,
You’ve ascended from the holy ground to the original Paradise,
And up on Heaven’s hallowed turf, you’ve picked an angels’ side,
At last with you to organise..... the devil’s on the slide!

Echoes of Famine

In 1845/6, there was a famine in Ireland which caused millions of deaths. Those who survived had an almost equally treacherous voyage to make to America, England and Scotland. When they arrived they were treated by their so called betters as almost sub-human and were made to live work, and raise their children in conditions which shamed even third-world countries all those years ago. Against great odds they survived and thrived, but even now some people still view those of Irish descent with great contempt!

The following was based upon the stories I was told.

Through mists of sleep my mind’s eye wanders, and forms a shadow of a glorious past,
I surge through clouds that veil my vision, to take my place in the supporting cast!
In hovels dark and damp with ills, where the coin of life had the face of death,
We sought not comforts, gold nor wealth, our only wish…. a coughless breath.
But hopes and dreams are nought but tears, when no-one ventures to wipe them dry
And let us see that land of promise, where a smile replaces the forlorn cry.

And you …Yes you…You ‘landed gentry’, your wealth built on the East-end dead,
With barbed wire souls, repelling conscience, you closed your eyes and went to bed!

And did you dream your evil burdens, would stoke the flames of tyrranic fire,
And keep us humbled ‘neath your heels, fearing ambition to aspire?
Did you really think your wells of money, could douse the raging thirst of slaves,
Were you so blind you couldn’t see, the unity built on mounting graves?
Or did you think your ways were just, bestowed on you by an enlightened God,
Chosen by the spoon of birth, to be our betters and spare no rod?

And you …Yes you…You ‘landed gentry’, your wealth built on the East-end dead,
With barbed wire souls, repelling conscience, you closed your eyes and went to bed!

And when you strolled to church on Sunday, Catholics, Protestants, Mormons, Jews,
Whose ten commandments formed your bible, which god endowed your bitter views?
Love thy neighbour (if he has money), thou shalt not steal (unless needs must),
Bear no false witness (but in mammon’s service), thou shalt not covet (except in lust),
Did you pray for those that wanted or salve your conscience of satanic greed,
False use of power enriches power, true use of power leads those who need!

And you …Yes you…You ‘landed gentry’, your wealth built on the East-end dead,
With barbed wire souls, repelling conscience, you closed your eyes and went to bed!

But in those middens, fed by honour, the flower of justice spread its roots,
As winters’ frosts and black snow melted, the springtime nurtured rebellion’s shoots,
Despairing chains cast off forever, those prison walls were laid to waste,
Restored to us our fruits of labour, no more again we’ll have to taste,
Those bitter salts of hopeless weeping, those cast off crumbs of mocking bread,
Subserviance’s grime washed from our labours, on dignity we dine instead.

And you …Yes you…You ‘landed gentry’, your wealth built on the East-end dead,
With barbed wire souls, repelling conscience, you closed your eyes and went to bed!

Shades of Alba

You can keep your toon to wander roon, you can keep your cities fair,
you can keep your land-locked lakes and lochs, cos the place to stand and stare,
is where the sand and rock strewn shore, meet the pools of foam filled life,
where the breakers beat and the seagulls scream and the wind cuts like a knife.

Aff ye go ye romantic lud, yer winds are full of pain,
for colours on the hills abound and life comes wae the rain,
where the heather's green, the bracken's brown and the mosses every hue,
where the land beneath my feet is sod and the earth is rich and true.

Yer both of ye well aff the mark, ye've held our country down,
the place tae see the heart of man is the city and the town,
where brick and mortar fashioned lives, where the smiddies' hammer's call,
formed ships of steel from caloused hands that made this world so small.

Whit's a' this row yer spouting forth, wae selfish ignorance,
Yer senses miss the subtleties of nature’s simple dance,
Each step and twirl, each bow and spin, each partner on the floor,
Is touched by music's haunting spell and the sum of parts is more.

For no wan colour shades the map, no wan contour its height,
No wan sound and no wan voice has a stranglehold on right,
We're like a friggin' jig-saw, in a state that's been confused,
The task's to find the place to put those bits we huvnae used.