#glesca

[neevedicampelli]

Early mornings in Glasgow

[queer-cinephile]

30 Days of Classic Queer Hollywood

Day 10: Alla Nazimova (1875 - 1945)

Once the highest paid film actress in the world, Alla Nazimova has also been dubbed "The Founding Mother of Sapphic Hollywood". This is due to her coinage of the term "sewing circle" as a discreet code for queer women in Hollywood.

Nazimova is confirmed to have had romantic relationships with many women, including: longtime companion Glesca Marshall, actresses Jean Acker and Eva Le Gallienne, director Dorothy Arzner, writer Mercedes de Acosta, and Oscar Wilde's niece Dolly Wilde.

Nazimova was in a 13 year long "lavender marriage" with actor Charles Bryant. Bryant surprised Nazimova and the public when he announced he was marrying a woman 20 years his junior, thus revealing their marriage to be a sham. The ensuing scandal damaged Nazimova's acting career.

[scotianostra]

On June 27th 1937, Robin Hall, folk singer and musician, was born in Edinburgh.

Robin, had to overcome polio as a child inspent most of his early years in Glasgow and was a direct descendant of Rob Roy Macgregor, and of Mungo Park, the explorer. His mother had been an opera singer and Robin was nurtured on a generous diet of classical music and music hall songs. During his lengthy convalescence from polio his interest in all types of music flourished.

As a teenager, he played with a traditional jazz group, studied the piano, and spent his spare time digging up American folk songs and investigating the folk material of his native Scotland. Hall studied at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Dramatic Art, and worked briefly as in actor in repertory theatres. Robin went to London in 1957, armed with a large repertoire of folk songs and a guitar. While in England he recorded a series of EP's for "Collector Records", which are now very hard to find and highly priced. In the 60's, Robin became a bit notorious and controversial for insisting on wearing his Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament badge on the BBC's Tonight Show, for which he was widely criticized.

After Robin left the duo in 1981, he enjoyed a successful career in broadcasting—winning two national radio awards, for best presenter and best documentary, for Radio Clyde's The Sing Song Streets, a program about Glasgow told through songs, stories and children's games.

Sadly, Robin died on November 18, 1998, at the age of 61. Another great folk singer that lived life to excess, lost at an early age. Robin married and divorced twice and was survived by three children.

There's not many Robin Hall solo songs out there, Fitba Crazy, Coulter's Candy, Mingulay Boat Song and the likes are all with his long time singing partner Jimmy, but I did manage to find one song!

Dundee Weaver is a famous bawdy Glasgow street song

Oh, A'm a Dundee weaver

An A come fae bonnie Dundee

I met a Glesca fellae

An he gaed courtin me

He tuik me out a-walkin

Doun by the Kelvin Haa

An thair the dirty wee rascal stole

Ma thingumijig awa

An thair the dirty wee rascal stole

Ma thingumijig awa

He tuik me oot a-walkin

Doun by the Roukin Glen

He showed tae me a bonnie wee bird

An he showed me a bonnie wee hen

He showed tae me the bonnie wee birds

Fae a linnet tae a craw

An he showed tae me the bird that stole

Ma thingumijig awa

An he showed tae me the bird that stole

Ma thingumijig awa

Noo A'll ging back tae Dundee luikin

Bonnie, young an fair

A'll pit oan ma buckle an shune

An tie back ma bonnie broun hair

A'll pit oan ma corsets tight

Tae mak ma middle luik smaa

An wha wad ken fae ma rosie cheeks

That ma thingumijig's awa?

An wha wad ken fae ma rosie cheeks

That ma thingumijig's awa?

Come aa ye Dundee weavers an

Tak this advise fae me

Never let a fellae

An inch abune yer knee

Never staun at the back o a close

Or up agin a waa

For if ye dae ye can safely say

Yer thingumijig's awa

For if ye dae ye can safely say

Yer thingumijig's awa

[instantpansies]

adhd ramble time!!!

so i'm researching significant films from queer history right, bc i already have an interest in that and also bc of this queer media archive nick and i are working on (see my pinned post)

anyways i found the silent film Salomé (1922), which stars Alla Nazimova (generally went by just Nazimova), a Russian Jewish sapphic silent film star. several of the female characters are played by men in drag and there were supposedly several gay cast members but yk. altogether the film is not extremely canonically queer but is definitely one of those queercoded fun experimental things from the silent era. it's impressive though, and a very expensive and cool-looking production (watch here)

so i decided to research nazimova who as it turns out was in a lavender marriage for a while and had several relationships with women. her most steady girlfriend was Glesca Marshall, another actress, who lived with her in the hotel nazimova established and then sold off, the legendary Garden of Allah Hotel. marshall was later buried with another girlfriend, Emily Woodruff. interestingly, nazimova's goddaughter was Nancy Davis, who would eventually marry Ronald Reagan. yeah.

another of nazimova's girlfriends was the surrealist/magical realist painter Bridget Bate Tichenor, who was at one point the editor of Vogue, was influenced by and in turn influenced several huge names in the surrealist movement, and. wow. check out her paintings!!! that's so cool!!!

there are so many! here's the link where i found all of these.

in conclusion this is your sign to go wikipedia surfing about a random topic!! these paintings weren't even on wikipedia i had to do extra research but it was so fun! so yeah check out all these people bc they're so cool. thanks bye ok

[ukdamo]

Today's poem:

A Glesca Party, by Chrissie Barr

[scavengedluxury]

Embra is deepest Glesca.

Malcolm Dunbar. Glasgow, 1955

[obscureoldscotspoems]

Traivellin Man:  X The Hert o the City

“In Glasgow, that damned sprawling evil town,”

  - G.S. Fraser

I’m juist passin through

late at nicht. I risk a walk doun

through the gloomy tiled tunnel o Central Station

to Argyle Street and the Hielantman’s Umbrella

for auld time’s sake.

I see them at aince. Three girls and a wee fella

wi a bleedin heid. He’s shakin wi laughter

and the bluid’s splatterin on the shop windae.

I’m juist about awa back up the stairs when they’re

aa round me. “On your ain?” “It’s awfu cauld!”

“Ye shouldna be here by yersel!”

I canna help but notice a smell o drink and dirt.

His heid’s a terrible sicht.

I look round but I am on my ain.

“Whaur are you from?” “Preston?” “You’ll know Blackpool?”

Soon he’ll hae my haill life story out o me.

“You maun be cauld” and

“Ye shouldna be here yersel.”

I offer them some money to get in out o the cauld

but they laugh at the idea. They’re no hungry

and there’s plenty wine left.

They’ll get fixed up themorrow.

It’s warm enough under the brig.

They’d walk me back safe to my pletform

but the polis’ll be in the station.

“Ye shouldna be here by yersel!”

By Duncan Glen

[yourdailyqueer]

Glesca Marshall (deceased)

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Bisexual

DOB: 19 September 1906  

RIP: 21 August 1987

Ethnicity: White

Occupation: Actress

[scavengedluxury]

Glesca froge

[lemonsharks]

sometimes I think about cho chang

I need to be working at work, not writing an entire essay (too late) about How To Introduce Cho Chang (for starters, not with that name) And Not Have Her Entire Character Arc Be A Massive Fail

And, well, it would build out into a large not!fic that I am not starting because: I am also working on a queer/ish regency romance series set in magical england (still figuring out what bits of 'worldbuilding' to keep/toss, as "adding magic" means keeping sexism etc is now a deliberate choice)

1) introduce important characters for later as soon as you can

2) portray them through a lens other than the pov character's thirst, ie, people go for "friends to lovers" way more than they go for "she's hot to lovers"

3) portray characters through their actions, not their stated traits

4) if you're pulling a late- or mid-game love interest switcheroo, and you want audience sympathy, you really need to do it with a character for whom you've already built some sympathy.

Anyway. if I WERE writing the Cho Character Redemption Fic (because I'm already writing the not!fic apparently...)

fix Cho's backstory:

She'd be chinese-korean, for one: two muggle-born parents, bonded over being asian at the most anglo school in the universe. ("My English name is X. My Chinese name is Y. My Korean name is Z. I answer to all 3 of them so pick the one you can pronounce without extra coaching and do not call me [Offensive mispronunciation Q].)

Cho's grandparents are the expected amount of disapproving that their kids (1) did not follow their plans for their educations and (2) married outside of their nationalities but (3) ADORE their granddaughter enough to (begrudgingly?) follow their kids rules about grandparenting (most of the time).

Cho herself appears periodically throughout books 1-3 as a peripheral friend of Harry and Hermione who is sometimes called upon when they new eyes on a problem

She still sorts into Ravenclaw, but it's as much for her common sense as her book smarts. She's seen around campus as a friend to Luna in books 2-3.

Introduce Cho earlier, via not cancelling quidditch in book 3.

an overheard/witnessed conversation in ... book 1 or 2: Some Tool: "Where are you from" Cho: "Glasgow" S.T.: "No I mean where are you REALLY--" Cho: "Whin ah say a'm fae glescae ah mean a'm fae (*&^%!) glescae "

at which point Harry realizes that that wow, 1) wizards have some of the same prejudices muggles have, and 2) he'd like to get to know this girl better, because she has a firecracker personality. ie, make her More Scottish.

Book 2 or 3 sees Cho become Harry's Quidditch Friend.

Book 3 sees Cho become Hermione's Study Friend/

Cho catches the snitch but Gryffindor wins the match; Harry is gracious about it and Cho responds, cheerfully, in defense of both her teammates and the Gryffindor team's skills. They have some time so they get into an interesting conversation about snitch-catch "end with points" vs "simple end" rules (does catching the snitch end the match and earn 150 points or does it simply end the match? this is a matter of DEEP IMPORTANCE and MANY impassioned letters to the editor.) At some point we find out that Cho reads The Quibbler, which gives her some unexpected depth. "Only under the covers with alohamora ;) "

Re-arrange the trio, Hermione's backstory, GOF dynamic:

Ron and Harry are already fighting, but this time Hermione firmly takes Ron's side.

Because Hermione's parents are dentists, but they're also dentists in the 80s and living anywhere from just to oh shit above their means. Plus, the GBP to Wizard exchange rate skews heavily in favor of Wizard, and Hogwarts tuition, which richer than god Harry doesn't have to worry about, is expensive. Books and tools are expensive. Even cat food (you think Crookshanks tolerates anything but the bougiest of magical cat food?) is expensive.

Hermione Understands Poverty, and while it's not like Ron understands poverty, it is in her own way. She has talked her parents into telling her more about their finances than she has any right to know. ("Nothing that's actually happening could possibly be worse than what I've come up with in my own head.")

Hermione was a scholarship kid at her primary school but she's not one at Hogwarts (something about )

She has significantly less patience for Harry's empty-headed "it's just money, it's not important"ing

Because this Hermione? has come home to find the lights turned off because Dad paid the credit cards and not the electricity, then forgot to call the electric company and arrange a payment plan), but she's never woken up hungry the week before payday because Mum magicked extra food into the family dinner.

She's not Rich like Harry and her parents would NEVER self-identify as working class and probably don't vote labour, despite it being against their best interests and she's absolutely listened to her parents argue about whether paying their own mortgage or their employees' salaries is more pressing, because one too many patients wrote them a hot check this past fortnight.

(the answer is your employees. you pay your employees before you pay yourself. then the business bills. then your own household bills.)

So you get a secondary trio for GOF:

Harry, Cedric, and Cho

Harry approaches Cedric early on and goes: I swear I didn't put my name in the cup. You're the real champion and I'm going to stay out of your way so you can *be* champion.

Harry deliberately loses all of the Triwizard events, because he didn't sign up and he's not supposed to be there and they can force him to participate but they can't force him to try.

Cedric and Cho are not dating, but they are very dear friends (Cedric having been Cho's Dad Friend during books 1-3, as she also had a lot of Hufflepuff friends.)

They activate the room of requirement without realizing they've activated the room of requirement, because Gryffindor is being shitty to Harry about not trying to win and Hufflepuff is being "???????" to Cedric for befriending Harry.

Cho asks Harry to the yule ball, because all the boys are too intimidated by her to ask for themselves. Harry accepts. It's weird but not bad-weird but still weird-weird. They decide to keep being just friends for now.

They (Cedric and Cho particularly) have suspicions about "Mad-Eye" that none of them can substantiate, which is DEEPLY FRUSTRATING.

"Mad-Eye" keeps creeping on Harry, which causes Yet More Conflict with Ron and Hermione ("special treatment, ugh") but which Cedric and Cho find fucking creepy because it's fucking creepy

Harry comes to rely on Cedric and Cho for reality checks--and more importantly, learns how to ask for a reality check when he needs one.

At some point Harry gives up his conviction that Something Is Up With Snape, to be turned upside-down and sideways in book 5-6-7.

Someone, probably Cedric, spells it out in small words money makes people weird. It's a pride thing, and it's stupid, but when you don't have any money you have to cling to what you do have, and so very often that's pride, therefore setting up his reconciliation with Ron and Hermione at the beginning of book 5.

Harry actually puts in some effort in the maze, but only once he realizes that Cedric and Cho are in danger.

Ending is roughly the same as canon book 5.

[internationalsadhits]

Nazimova as Salomé (1923), and the wig she wore discovered in a trunk left at her lover Glesca Marshall’s last home, Columbus GA (2014).

Silent film was of course not known by that name in its own time - it could only be considered “silent” in contrast to the later “talkies.” Their salient characteristic was not a lack of synch sound, but the amazing fact that they were “moving pictures.” Salomé’s wig sparkles as Nazimova shakes her head, pouts, scowls, and dances. No one is waiting for her to speak, particularly - we already know her most important line. But we’re all, like Herod, watching her every move.

It can be easy to lose that sense of movement - of life - in a work from the past. Salomé’s wig, in the present, is a strange but rather lifeless artifact. The film could feel that way, too - just a curious piece of history - if we fail to animate it with our attention, our imagination, our participation. If we don’t put the wig on and give it a shake.

Haley Fohr of Circuit des Yeux does exactly that with a live soundtrack she’s written to perform alongside Salomé. She gives that wig a run for its shimmy, sampling her low singing voice through a synthesizer, using live strings and a muted trap drum kit to animate the drama she sees in the film. Her score is a pulsing, breathing - literally, her voice technique is like a very complete exhale - frightening set of gestures that fluctuate alongside the emotions of the film. Nazimova moves constantly through it, but always slowly. And Haley Fohr’s composition mirrors the teetering, collapsing quality to her movements. I was on the edge of my seat.

[drew61bhoy]

A GLESCA WEAN by Cathleen Sweeney Ah wis born an bred in Glesca, Aye, Glesca is ma hame, Bein' brought up in a tenement Made me a typical wean. We didnae hiv much money So ma mammy went oot tae work An' when Ah hid oan ma Sunday claes Ah dareny play in the durt. Ah didnae hiv very many toys Like the weans a, hiv the day, Ma pals were happy girls an, boys Wi lots o' games tae play. We played at ,cowboys an, indians, We played at ,hide an, seek, , When we counted tae 100 nice an, fast An' ye wirnae allowed tae peek. Then we,d tie some string through two tin cans An' we,d put them oan oor feet An' stomp like something frae outer space Right up an, doon oor street. There wis ,doublers, ,ropes, an kick the can, We played 'rounders, roon the back Then we'd sit oan toap o' the midden Tellin' ghost stories till it goat dark. We'd walk tae the Pictures Matinee Oan a Setterday afternoon, Where a man came oot tae make us a'sing An wave hankies in time tae the tune. We booed an, cheered at the Westerns, The Three Stoogies made us a, laugh, Then came the cartoons - Mickey Mouse an, Popeye - Tae make up the hours an, a half We ate toffee apples an,candy cakes An chewed oan liquorice sticks, Soor plooms that pul't yir jaws right in, Dry wafers - a penny for six. We read the Beano an, Dandy, Oor Wullie an' The Broons, We even hid back court concerts, Tap dancin, tae popular tunes. In this rhyme Ah,ve tried tae turn back the clock Tae aboot forty-odd years ago, Tae paint a picture o, whit life wis like For a wean in old Glasgow. When there wisnae a word like junkie An naebody that Ah knew sniffed glue, Today Ah jist cannae help thinkin,- Whit,s happenin,tae Glesca weans noo?🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

[scotianostra]

On  30 November 1923 John MacLean,  the revolutionary socialist politician passed away.

John Maclean was born to a Highland family, but they were forced to move and they settled in Pollokshaws near Glasgow. After his father’s death, in order to support the family, Maclean’s mother went back to her old profession as a weaver and took in lodgers.

Mclean became determined that to repay his mother’s sacrifices for the sake of his education by putting his intellect at the service of the working class. Mclean trained as a school teacher but his Socialist beliefs led to friction and in 1915 he was sacked from his post at Lorne Street Primary School.  His vision of an independent Scottish Socialist Republic disagreed strongly with Lenin and with Gallacher and other leading Scots Communists of the time as he was opposed to the integration of the Scots within the British Communist Party.

He was a fierce opponent of the First World War. He argued that what was at stake was a struggle between Imperial nations for a share of the world’s resources - and not worth shedding a drop of workers’ blood for,

In 1918, against the backdrop of the Russian Revolution, Mcalean was arrested and put on trial for sedition. Despite an eloquent, seventy five minute speech in which Maclean said “ being on the face of the earth, no government is going to take away from me my right to speak, my right to protest against wrong. I am not here, then, as the accused; I am here as the accuser of capitalism dripping with blood from head to foot." ”, he was found guilty and imprisoned for five years in Peterhead Prison.

No sooner was he imprisoned than he embarked on a five month hunger strike, gravely weakening him mentally and physically.

The Labour movement on Clydeside mobilised a campaign to have Maclean released, a campaign which gathered strength throughout 1918. The increasing confidence of the Labour movement, in tandem with the government’s fear of revolution, forced the government of the day to make concessions. One of the key concessions was the release of Maclean and he emerged from Peterhead Prison in December 1918.

John Maclean died on 30 November 1923 at his home in Pollokshaws, aged 44. His health had been ruined by his constant political activity, his time in prison, period on hunger strike and subsequent force feeding by prison authorities. John Maclean's funeral march, led by the Clyde Workers' Band, was followed by upwards of 20,000 people on its way through the south side of Glasgow to Maclean's final resting place in Eastwood cemetery.

Ballad Of John MacLean

Words & Music : Matt McGinn

Tell me whaur ye're gaun, lad, An who ye're gaun tae meet A'm headed for the station That's in Buchanan Street, A'll join 200,000  That's there tae meet the train That's bringing back tae Glesca  Our ain dear John MacLean

Dominie,  Dominie There was nane like John MacLean, The fightin Dominie

Tell me whaur he's been, lad,  An why has he been there? They've had him in the prison  For preachin in the Square, For Johnny held a finger up Tae aa the ills he saw, He was right side o the people, But the wrang side o the law

Johnny was a teacher  In one o Glasgow's schools The golden law was silence  But Johnny broke the rules, For a world o social justice  Young Johnny couldnae wait, He took his chalk an easel  Tae the men at the shipyard gate

The leaders o the nation  Made money hand ower fist By grindin doun the people  By the fiddle an the twist, Aided an abetted  By the preacher an the Press John caad for revolution  An he caad for nothin less

The bosses an the judges United as one man For Johnny was a danger  Tae their '14-'18 plan, They wanted men for slaughter  In the fields o Armentiers, John caad upon the people  Tae smash the profiteers

They brought him to the courtroom  In Edinburgh toun, But still he didnae cower,  He firmly held his ground, An stoutly he defended  His every word an deed, Five years it was his sentence In the jail at Peterheid

Seven months he lingered In prison misery Till the people rose in fury,  In Glesca an Dundee, Lloyd George an aa his cronies  Were shaken tae the core, The prison gates were opened, An John was free once more

[letthestormrajohn]

There’s Hamish Imlach (1940-1996) , a folk singer who represented the Glesca patter in his songs.

The Corries? Would not recommend! Simply on the basis of their racist cover of Scotland the Brave. Seriously, fuck them for that. “Oh! The absurd indignity of having to share our once-proud country with funny foreigners in turbans and ‘wee fat Jews (sic)’ — but when we get independence we’ll sort all that shite out! Wha’s like us, eh? Ho-ho!”— The whole sentiment in that song really goes to something smug and rotten in the historic and ongoing Scottish national character that we’re needing to take a long, hard look at. Okay, so, that was a rant.

And of course there’s the Proclaimers, you’ll know about them. Their song Scotland’s Story is pretty much the opposite of the song I mentioned above.

Also, not a song, but look for Liz Lochhead’s short poem Kidspoem/Bairnsang. YouTube is your friend here.

Hello! I really want to learn Scots, but ugh, life. So, for now I’m collecting songs in Scots, especially with different dialects and accents, in the hopes that it’ll at least help me get past the “my ears hate my brain” issue. If you find yourself with time and energy, do you happen to have any music recs, of literally any genre? (I like to ask people, bc I end up with a lot of cool stuff I’d never find on my own.)

If you don’t mind I’ll open the floor to everyone, I’m sure there will be some great suggestions.

[reekierevelator]

The Coding Ace

a short story by Brian Bourner

My Dad had been an insurance salesman in Edinburgh for a long time, one of the best. Indeed, he was known to his colleagues as someone who could ‘sell snow to the eskimos’ (though they were probably thinking of ‘The Glesca Eskimos’). He was a good man and had looked after me since my Mum died. But the world was changing, financial products of all kinds were proliferating, and insurance was becoming a much harder sell.

Dad used to tell me I was so pretty I was sure to find a career in modelling or the movies. But after I went to college and achieved a diploma in computing he started talking about going into business, and not just for himself. His idea was that the two of us would set up as an independent IT consultancy business.  He reckoned there was big money in it. So eventually I agreed.  I’d do the programming and he’d do the marketing.

Being full of confidence in his sales skills Dad decided to start at the top. He contacted one his old company’s biggest customers, Joe Kerr, a Glaswegian second hand car dealer with car sale lots everywhere, a weird sense of humour, and a highly dubious reputation. It was rumoured he invested heavily in insurance for his car lots because they were known to lose money, really only operating as a front for more nefarious activities. There was always the chance that they might ‘accidentally’ burn down if he felt the need for more liquidity. It was said Joe’s real money came from being the power behind Mental Rental, a big property agency widely regarded as slum landlords.

Dad sold Joe on the idea of a new software database system that would revolutionise his car trading business making it genuinely profitable. But being the gangster he was Joe was up to all the tricks. He told Dad he liked the idea a lot but that he’d take the software for free thank you very much. If it worked properly he’d let Dad use his car business as a reference site. Joe said it would be like free advertising for his new company. Dad was too proud or too scared to refuse. And Joe also insisted that I had to do the work on-site, in his premises. If the project failed then part of the deal was he could hold me there, because time is money after all, and until I’d worked enough to pay off the cost of all the time he was putting in to it, I’d in effect be his hostage.  But his disgusting smirk when he looked at me told me that just hostage-taking wasn’t all that was on his mind as regards compensation for failure.

To be honest, it was a heinous, appalling arrangement but my boastful Dad found he couldn’t back down. Anyway, he said he had complete faith in me.  

So I ended up in the grotty old backroom of a car repair workshop with my cold fingers tapping out code on a computer.  It was my first job in the real world and it didn’t take long to discover not only that I didn’t like it but that the job was much bigger than I was capable of handling. The basic skills I’d learned at college could never cope with it.  Instead I indulged in the usual displacement activities, browsing the internet and chatting on social media, to avoid struggling with the impossible job.  

And one day I found myself in a Skype conversation with a man whose tiny eyes were set in deeply recessed sockets in his narrow, brown, sad and wrinkled face. He worked under the name CodingAce. He had an unusual foreign accent but he claimed to have expertise in just the kind of job that had me beat.  When he noticed the gold necklace I was wearing he said he’d write the necessary code if I’d give him the necklace. So I agreed. A day later he transferred the program. It worked brilliantly. I asked where I should send the necklace but, like some kind of spy, he told me where I could find a dead letter box, a space behind a loose brick in a wall not far from Joe’s second hand car Edinburgh emporium where I was based, and said to leave it there.  Being an internet contact I had thought CodingAce might live hundreds or thousands of miles away but apparently he actually lived in the same town. So I did as he said.  My Dad and Joe were both well pleased.

But this only encouraged Joe to insist my Dad prepare a full accounting system for him.  And Dad couldn’t refuse. Same deal as before.  But this job was far and away beyond my capabilities.  I Skyped CodingAce again.  Yes, he said he could do the job and he liked the look of the gold ring I was wearing. He would do the accounting system if I gave him the ring. Of course, I agreed. The code arrived on my computer a couple of days later. It worked amazingly well, with no bugs to iron out.  I left the ring in the dead letter box.  My Dad and Joe were immensely pleased, so much so that Joe then demanded a complete integrated management system.

Under pressure, my Dad agreed that I’d do the work, but that this had to be the last thing.  Joe couldn’t think of any more programming jobs he needed so he agreed.  Same deal as before.  Of course, I immediately Skyped CodingAce.   Yes, he said he could write a complete management system.  But he thought he ought to advise me that he actually had no professional qualifications and was completely self-taught. He’d worked on his software skills ever since arriving in this country. But he could see I had nothing left to pay him with. I thought about asking Dad but he’d been out of work for a while, Joe was only paying him by letting me go, and he had put the last of his money into setting up our little company.  

CodingAce said, ‘Ok, how about I do the job and you agree to pay me whatever I ask for afterwards?’  This credit arrangement ideally suited me and I readily agreed. In a couple of days the new suite of programs duly arrived. They worked fantastically well.  Dad was relieved and Joe was extremely well pleased.

I was getting ready to leave Joe’s horrible premises when CodingAce Skyped me. He told me he’d had a very hard life. He was very lonely and had no children. He explained that he was an illegal immigrant. Being an illegal was the reason he had to do business in such a devious way. His family had all died trying to reach this country. He added that the hardships he had endured to get here meant his own body was badly misshapen. He said that, where he came from, transferring responsibility for children to friends and relations was quite common. Then he lowered his voice and whispered ‘So I’m afraid the price of that management program suite is going to be quite expensive – it’s your first born child.’  

It seemed such a ludicrous idea that I laughed out loud. But when his little wizened face stared at me in deadly seriousness I was totally horrified.  It seemed I had escaped the clutches of Joe King only to fall into a terrible trap set by CodingAce. All the same, I thought, surely all this will be long forgotten before I ever get round to having children.  Anyway, I protested as strongly as I could and eventually he relented a little and, as a sop, threw me a tiny grain of hope. ‘Ok, I’m a fair man,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a chance. I’ll forgo the child if you can tell me my real name. The thing is though, being foreign, my name is very peculiar. And being an illegal there are no official records for me in this country.’  So, in the end I had to agree. He said ‘I’ll give you this one last chance, guessing my name, when I come to collect the payment.’ Then his face vanished from the screen and I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Later I tried to forget all about him and his bizarre contract. I thought if it ever came to it, surely finding his real name couldn’t prove all that difficult.  

It was a year afterwards that I unexpectedly became pregnant.  The day before I was due to give birth I was haunted by the memory of the pledge I’d given to CodingAce.  Unfortunately, search as I might through all the internet’s resources and all the country’s official records I couldn’t turn up any clue as to his real name.  Then I had an idea.  The dead letter box had clearly existed for some time.  Almost certainly I wasn’t the only one being asked to use it to transfer money or items of value. It had seemed to be in regular use. So CodingAce was probably still regularly collecting his ‘donations’ from it.  I decided that two could play at hole-in-corner espionage games. I picked up binoculars and made up my mind to spy on CodingAce.

I was quite big by this time but managed to hide myself not far away from the wall containing the dead letter box and settled down to keep watch.  I observed a stranger furtively depositing something. An hour or so later a little thin man with spindly legs and a bent back appeared. The moment I glimpsed his face there could be no doubt. It was the wizened little man who called himself CodingAce. He surreptitiously removed the brick to pick up whatever lay behind.  I followed him as he turned away and scuttled through several streets before disappearing down a set of stairs.

A light came on in the window of a basement flat. I crept as near as I dared to look through the window and saw him gleefully throw a gold bracelet into a drawer gleaming with the stuff. Then he danced for joy around his table. A ventilator in the window was open and I realised it wasn’t so much the gold that was feeding his euphoria. He must have been keeping an eye on me all this time because I could hear him talking to himself: ‘Tonight I’ll plan my trip to her house and tomorrow I’ll have a baby to take home with me.’ He was happier than I’d ever imagined he could be. Then his expression became suddenly solemn as, glancing at his table, he picked up a sheet of paper.

I focussed my binoculars on the paper. It was a letter. Mental Rental was embossed across the top in large type. I focussed hard on the smaller writing. It was a notification that his rent would be increasing to an incredible thousand pounds a month. It dawned on me that even with all his gold he would still struggle to prove it was legitimately earned, making it impossible for him to buy his own property and even very difficult for him to rent one.  Then beneath the letterhead I noticed the communication was formally addressed. I held the binoculars steady on those words and managed to read: “For The Attention Of, Aditya Melchior, Flat 2, Evergreen Road, Edinburgh.” As CodingAce tossed the paper back down on the table in disgust I turned and hurried home.

The next day I’d begun to feel contractions when there was a knock at my door. Sure enough it was wizened old CodingAce.  He seemed much smaller, a shabby brown jacket hanging loosely around a body seeming more crooked than ever. He said ‘You know the deal we made, dear. I’ll wait near here for a while until events take their course and then I’ll come and take the baby away with me.’

‘Ah’, I said, ‘but you’ll remember we agreed that would only happen if I couldn’t tell you your real name. You said I could have a guess.’

‘But you don’t know my name, do you.’

‘As it happens, I do – it’s Aditya Melchior isn’t it?’

A look of desolation suddenly overcame him. His feet seemed rooted to the spot.  He was utterly crestfallen and made no attempt to deny it. I’ve never seen anyone look so disappointed, distraught, and despairing.  His tiny eyes closed and his wrinkly head lolled over to one side. Eventually he turned and trudged silently away, his spindly legs nearly buckling beneath him.

The next day I was listening to the radio in hospital with my new-born son thinking that maybe I had made a mistake.  My Dad’s IT consultancy had of course failed miserably. He was penniless and in debt.  Indeed he was mad keen for me to get married to a man who would support me. Unfortunately, my own boyfriend had deserted as soon as he heard I was pregnant. I have to say life as a single mum on benefits was not particularly appealing.  Yet Aditya Melchior, although he’d had a hard life, was obviously earning lots of money now and he did seem a very caring man, even if his way of going about getting children was somewhat unorthodox.  And he was so good at programming that he would be an ideal teacher for me, to help develop my own obviously insufficient skills. I felt pretty sure that if I smiled sweetly and suggested that all he had to do was to take on me as well as my baby that we could resolve the whole situation quite amicably.  We could even marry, meaning he could live here quite legally.  I resolved to go and knock on his door as soon as I was out of hospital.

Just then the radio news introduced an item about a very thin brown-skinned man with a damaged backbone and a remarkably wrinkled face. No-one had been found who could actually name him. But various people had reluctantly come forward to claim he had done expert programming jobs for them. Apparently he had just been fished out of the Water of Leith that morning.

[obscureoldscotspoems]

Skyscraper Wean (The Jeely Piece Song)

I'm a skyscraper wean; I live on the nineteenth flair,

But I'm no gaun oot tae play ony mair,

‘Cause since we moved to Castlemilk, I'm wastin away 

‘Cause I'm getting wan meal less every day,

Oh ye cannae fling pieces oot a twenty storey flat,

Seven hundred hungry weans'll testify to that.

If it's butter, cheese or jeely, if the breid is pan or plain,

The odds against it reaching earth are ninety-nine tae wan.

On the first day ma maw flung oot a daud o' Hovis broon;

It came skytin oot the windae and went up insteid o doon.

Noo every twenty- seven hoors it comes back intae sight

'Cause ma piece went intae orbit and became a satellite.

Oh ye cannae fling pieces oot a twenty storey flat,

Seven hundred hungry weans'll testify to that.

If it's butter, cheese or jeely, if the breid is pan or plain,

The odds against it reaching earth are ninety-nine tae wan.

On the second day ma maw flung me a piece oot wance again,

It went and hut the pilot in a fast low-flying plane.

He scraped it aff his goggles, shouting though the intercom,

"The SNP huv goat me wi a breid-an-jeely bomb."

Oh ye cannae fling pieces oot a twenty storey flat,

Seven hundred hungry weans'll testify to that.

If it's butter, cheese or jeely, if the breid is pan or plain,

The odds against it reaching earth are ninety-nine tae wan.

On the third day ma maw thought she would try another throw

The Salvation Army band was staunin doon below.

"Onward, Christian Soldiers" was the piece they should've played

But the oompah man was playing a piece an marmalade.

Oh ye cannae fling pieces oot a twenty storey flat,

Seven hundred hungry weans'll testify to that.

If it's butter, cheese or jeely, if the breid is pan or plain,

The odds against it reaching earth are ninety-nine tae wan.

We've wrote away to Oxfam to try an' get some aid,

An' a' the weans in Castlemilk have formed a "Piece brigade.

We're gonnae march to George's Square demanding civil rights

Like, nae mair hooses ower piece-flinging height.

Oh ye cannae fling pieces oot a twenty storey flat,

Seven hundred hungry weans'll testify to that.

If it's butter, cheese or jeely, if the breid is pan or plain,

The odds against it reaching earth are ninety-nine tae wan.

by Adam McNaughton