The jury system is something exceptional in the representitive democracies of present day capitalism, the only time when institutionally ordinary people have real power.
All that happened with the Angry Brigade was that it cheered up the relatively powerless for a while.
both from John Barker in a review of 'Anarchy in the UK: The Angry Brigade' by Tom Vague, AK Press
In the traditional account of the Buddha, when he realised the extreme pointlessness of asceticism, he accepted a reasonable meal and sat down to look for another path. In effect, the Buddha accepted a still relatively disciplined asceticism, but one which supplied him with the correct balance of minerals, nutrients and vitamins to reach the required nirvanic heights.
The Buddha was soon to designate this more measured asceticism "The Middle Path", for it was a route which avoided the heights of sensual indulgence and the self-mortification he had realised as harmful, and one which also provided him with a balanced mental pleasure. All of this, the Buddha found under a tree, and within a bowl of soup - and although the tree is long dead, the soup is just the same today as it was 2500 years ago.
Campbell's Cream of Buddha™ is a richly meditative soup which can help you resolve the contradictions of daily life. While providing the healthy and balanced nutrition that your body needs, Cream of Buddha also tastes as delicious as undelimited space.
Try a bowl of Campbell's and you'll feel ready to extinguish your soul. "Thirst and craving," said the Buddha Gotama, "is that which drives the whole mass of suffering forward," - so drive yourself home tonight, and drown away the tanhã by seeking the Noble Path to Campbell's Cream of Buddha.™
The story is that the original planners, when they willed the giant motorway under the town, wished to dig a tunnel for the cars so that none of the domestic harmony created by the several thousand adjacent hovels on the ground would have to be touched.
Here we are at Charing Cross in Glasgow and so much for that, because they tore them down. Two birds and one stone, old hovels gone away and new motorway placed in an analytic line from North to South.
The swathe of town they cut was over 100 metres wide, and at the point where I stand (and memorise this composition) the motorway is eight lanes deep and runs about thirty metres below ground level. The noise of all these engines thrashing at once is what attracted the planners to build this . . . yes, that and the fact that it may never stop.
What dynamism in our forebears!
Why, then, have we inherited so little of their pep, their defiant, demonic propulsion?
Have we been short-changed genetically, a gamete short of a character?
Not only could our grandparents out-stroll, out-write and out-work us, but they did it with such animal virility that it pales even our pasty, anaemic countenances that little bit more to think of trying to equal them in action.
What did they have that we lack?
What escaped transmission to us, or was it lost in the translation?
I have an idea, but only that.
A tentative, undogmatic notion that I am scarecly strong enough humbly to propose.
I get so tired you see ....
The Northern declivity of the hill of Parkhouse is called Aikey Brae or Yackie Brae. In the 1980s there was a play by The Invisible Bouncers, the theatre group of Alastair McDonald, called Pinky Brae, and it was an exceptional hit, at least in the North East. I'm trying to track down some stuff about the play at the present.
The name Aikey Brae is supposed to have derived from the aiks (oaks) of the area, which once clad the hill. Another idea is that the hill claims its name from Achaicus (or Yochock) a Pictish King.
Until the 20th century, the Aiky Fair was still held in the area, and marked with the removal of the relics of Achaicus’ brother, St Drostan, from Aberdour to Deer, on the third Wednesday in July.
On Aikey Brae, it is said one of the Earls of Buchan fell from his horse at hunting, and was killed. The facts of the case state that this happened because the earl had called Thomas the Rhymer, the great prognosticator, Thomas the Lyer.
Though Thomas the Lyar thou call’st me,
A sooth tale I shall tell to thee
By Aiky-side thy horse shall ride,
He shall stumble and thou shalt fa’;
Thy neck-bane shall break in twa,
And maugre all thy kin and thee,
Thy own belt thy bier shall be.
I GOT THIS LETTER, I THINK IT MAY BE SPAM: Someone said that they had seen you coming out of a 'Christian Bookshop, whatever that is, and that Christianity is a kind of God-thingy.
Which is perfect. So this is in the way of being an offer of a contract for the a series, provisionally entitled EASTEROGEN! that we are starting up.
The physical properties of the city of Edinburgh alone are enough to inspire awe in even the most determinedly impressionable, unobservant, English ape. But are best seen, rather than described. The populace, however, is ripe for ridicule. The population can be split in two roughly equal parts : Ancient and Modern. The former consists of 250,000 surreptitious wall-eyed hybrid Irish pub-dwellers, admirably possessed of a profound, seemingly infinite capacity for quiet reserve and decorous, delicate incuriosity, until drink-fuelled, they burst into extremes of hospitality and disinterested generosity. I can't help but envy their complacent, effortless confidence in drinking every day.
The DRINKARD's Aberdoniensus
The Combined Technical Jargon of Bev
These are all words and phrase which we have picked up from researches into the Scottish-Aberdonian way of speaking. We are three American students from New York who are in Scotland because of the unique words which they use here, and the Peter Burnett Website has let us publish what we have collected so far.
We hope that you enjoy the words and that you send us more if you hear any while you are in Aberdeen!
Lager Shanty: In that order. Another evening of wein, weib und gesang in Sordid Glasgow. And after "Gies a Tune" with DJ Malky Brogan on Radio Clype, and the flicking back and forth of the television in a yawning half-contemptuous manner, what could we do other than run up the starry path to meet Oblivion coming down? Later on, this typical Glasgow scene comes complete with the two shandied lovers slipping each others' tight leashes to go separately in the night, each to an off-sales of their choosing, for more of the Same.
Bernard (Saint) - (d. 1153) Founder of the Cistercian order but best loved as an opponent of Peter Abelard, Bernard of Clairvaux boldly borrowed quotations from the Cluniacs to make himself famous. His guitar playing and populist approach saw him commissioned to stir up solid peasant hatred during the Second Crusade in France and Germany, and he was canonized for this spreading of undue intolerance. He was named Doctor mellifluus, the "honey-sweet teacher", for the fine education he gave to young Wayne of Perth
Cuthbert (Saint) (b. circa 634, d 687) Visions as a sheep tending lad ensured a life of national travel and celebrity for this one time bishop of Lindisfarne. Why British people developed an interest in disturbing his remains after he died is unclear - but Bede describes how Cuthbert's body remained intact, his clothes unsullied and his hair neatly brushed after many years underground. Not forever though - mankind lost faith - and when Cuthbert was dug up again in 1827 - he were but bones.
Gandhi, Mahatma (b. 1869) Studied law at Oxford and crowd control in India. Left Europe to get away from photographs of James Joyce. Was killed en route to prayer in 1948 and has been watched on film by many an audience of disbelieving cineastes. "Look at the state of those rags!"
I wrote this out of the pride and vanity of my own mind, out of my disdain for the mutherkind. I wrote this at my table while human society talked about the good of man. Yea, my temporal goods were excluded from the composition. Yea, my weekends spent in inkie dollars then minky dollars. Yea I wrote this as I have often wished to write, with the same ease with which I drink it I can spit it back. None of this I saw coming. Give me leave to wonder now if I am bothered to pick it back up again.
It was a bright autumn day and at the River Tay near Perth, I hung my feet. White cloud warmed the day as the breeze trembled upon the strange images below me in the water, and this was the sight, past St Stephen's Well, beside the rudest magic of the braying animals, that I recalled the happy years of my youth.
It was in this arcadia I heard several machines approach, and an unnatural fray of luxury-style business men forced upward a great cloud as they rose from nothing in their chariots, causing the kine to run and bellow in desperate anguish. The cars rode down the slope and threw darkness behind them. The shepherd fell aside and the vehicles rammed through his flock with colder mercy than a mudslide of broken stone, and I took to my feet as the world fell to this noise of war.
Broken people stared within the great upturned swathes of their homeland, where the tarmac rolled black over the wild flowers, and there in the wake behind the cars, was left great doubt, great greed, great noise, and several brochures saying that a twelve year anti corrosion warranty, together with major service intervals and a comprehensive customer care package, could all be mine, provided I chose to sell my soul and opt for the burred wood gear lever knob and the Votex 7 spoke alloy wheels, the colour keyed front and rear bumpers and front centre arm rest (exclusive of fleet management fees, sale assistance and leaseback). *
* A full range of credit facilities are available, ranging from Death on a Stick to Purloin Purchasing agreements linked to a variable Finance House base rate, using current Shit Adjustment Tables, while you operate your vehicle privately, and go mental at the wheel, allowing you great peace of mind, and a wide choice of mileages, to satisfy your rampant outward urge, as you attach yourself firmly to the aluminum trim strips, opt for retractable rear centre lap belts, front bumper integrated cockie covers, wankie washers, rear screen aerials, Sienna upholstery, Competition-Standard alloy nut and beef toppings, and automatic handbag release.
One night Peter drank so much that he farted in the car port. Standing in the Fettercairned remains of his once sober world .... holding the bottle by the neck .... and swaying in the shit-marracked ruin of his one time holy body .... he shouted out that he was syruped to bits .... at which he took his self back to bed, to finish what of the drink was left.
In bed Peter imagined all sorts of pish-caked beings who came at him from the alcoholic contents of the glass. These were snotty alkys and heavy breathing gyno-doctors, pod swallowers and several dog-headed male and female nurses.
A leading figure in Peter's imaginings however was the brewer Mr Jack Daniels who came to Peter through the covers, threatening to force yet more poison into the poor boy's mouth. "Go to Vegas," said Jack Daniels, "and there I will punish you by making wolves ride you til you are sick."
But Peter refused to go to Vegas and so Jack Daniels got larger and loomed over the bed and filled the Peter's view.
Jack Daniels was a big beardy American with a black bush frothing from his face and Peter quavered when Jack Daniels breathed on him. Smelling Jack's breath, Peter wished then truly that he'd opted for the Vegas option.
"You will drink of me and vomit spangled root parts," said Jack as his frontier style beard waved in the moonlight. "You are not fit for any more of my brew tonight, and so you must finish it in the morning."
And so Peter rose the next day and trailed through the cigarette ash remains of his ruined life, tripping on broken and smashed items as he did so. And reclaiming the bottle from the trash can, Peter sat at his barrels and relished once more, the wooden-mouthed flavour of the garse broth that had killed his daughter.
And it was little wonder that Peter himself died two days later after his final vision, which was of a rusted steel tank … and this was an image of the brewery itself from where steamed the mince like brew which had got him so pot-nastied in the first place. And it had Jack's name on it.
Here I am . . . the lorne forlorn . . . a work-shire hunt, I mean a work-shy, Berkshire hunt, with triple bananas for lunch and the promise of a whole lot more when I get home.
Bananas! B is for boost their energy flows, A is for "ass" through which the pulp goes, N is for Nana, Mouskouri she sings, A is for anvil where Thor's hammer rings, N is for Nana, whose shortbread we crave, A is for Atholl, whose brose is our fave.
And that is the poem, soon to be featured as the strap line advertising my new product range, which is Burnett's Banana Brose. Mouskouri will be singing the song, accompanied by Marvel Comics' "Thor" who will mashing bananas on an anvil in a Scottish glen.
The entire project as you see is "concept led" and my Nan is mentioned, purely because the Banana Brose is her recipe.