Tuesday, 18 December 2012


Select reviews on "Chef and I: Lyrical Salads and Literary Vandalism":

Reviews Dec 2012 –

“Finally, a luddite blessed with elan.” – Gary Cunnard, “New Man’s Magazine World”

“I’m sure the author of Lyrical Salads will die in poverty. Not because it is unworthy, but because most men producing work of this quality tend to go unrecognised in their own lifetime and often die in their own filth.” – Maria Perez, “South American Contemporary Literary Review Magazine”

“How a man can be so Scottish, yet so “Not-Scottish” is beyond myself and every one of my colleagues here at the newspaper.” - Rabbie McGlashlin, “Auchterarder Gazette and Post”

“This is perhaps the most sexual book since Fifty shades of Grey” - Durna Thorpo, “Woman’s Hour”

“Depressing. Intelligent. Brilliant.” -  “Bloomfeldt’s Who’s Who of Modern Literature”

“If you don’t understand it, it must be good, and we challenge anyone to understand Mr Guthrie.” – Chi Chee Hun, “Japanese World”

“Utter shit.” – Dr LE Cowper, “Dunkeld University Press”

Thursday, 14 June 2012


Learnt all about Jeanie Malloch today,
She sounded like a good friend,
I'm sorry to hear that she passed away,
Another stitch which won't mend.


Friday, 4 May 2012


Fuck off, Brian,
Yer da'in ma heid in,
Get away tae fuck wi ye,
What are ye sayin'?
That ye dinnae understand the plot?
Ye fuckin stupit numpty,
Ye wouldnay ken a line fae a dot,
Ye fuckin garrulous cunt.

Fuck off Brian,
Ah've had enough o' ye,
Friend tae nane,
There's no nae nounce tae ye.
Ye cannae commit tae
Judgement or sense,
Yer happy tae sit
Oan yer rickity fence,
Ye fuckin garrulous cunt.

Well, fuck ye ye cunt,
Ye fanny,
Ye cock,
Coz athin hereafter'll,
Come as a shock.
Ah'm Brian,
Aye me,
Brian's ma name,
An it's me Ah've been tellin,
Tae fuck an tae blame,
For the soul Ah've been sellin -
An it's me,
That'll burn,
In eternal flame,
But fuck you, tae,
It'll dae ye good,
Coz ye'll still burn wi me,
In Hell, like ye should,
Ye fuckin garrulous cunt.

Friday, 24 February 2012


"For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' Sense, and pride o' Worth,
Are higher rank than a' that." Burns, "Song: For a' that and a' that."

Me an That Joon. (First pub. by Poetry24 22/02/12)

Did ye hear aboot that Joon wha bides doon the Hull,
Sh’wiz foond dade this moarnin in a bath that was phul,
Mind, she went oot wi that hoodie that wiz intae that rap,
They got meltit th’gither an thieved fae the Gap.

Sh’wiz a bonnie lass afore a that,
Now she’s left that bairn alane in that flat,
She sung at the Kirk when she wiz jist a lassie,
Far creh fae th’day when her ehz turned ah glassy.

At the Highwayman, she sung like Whitney,
Efter watchin her faither aye dae Gene Pitney.
Och, sh’hid pipes like the wind through the heather,
An she eyewiz hid time fir a fag an a blether.

Anyweh, you get back tae Jeremeh Kyill,
Yer trackie’s near dreh and yer tea’s in a whyill,
Get back tae the news an shoutin at nations,
Flickin through blame while ye flick through the stations.

Aye, an spout the twa lines ye ken frae The Man,
But treh tae remember, Joon’s life’s doon the pan,
An a parcel o rogues?
Jist mair moths tae the flame,
Coz Agnes is fillin her bath jist the same,
Droonin her troubles an burnin her hay,
As that stream in the backgroond just bubbles away.

Monday, 30 January 2012


"We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet." - Forster, Howards End.


Dundee, Scumdee,
Naebdy kens yeh like me.
'Member when wyased tae write,
Black oan the sheds in the black o the night?

View the
Thick, black indelible Ssi'ay fae within'?

View o the Law?
Better view fae the Sidlaws.

Well, ehh say “we” but eh didnae,
– Ehh never waanted tae damage naebody’s door,
W’wir eyewaz dancin' oan the rooves,
Crackin' ah the thin beams, wi' resentful hooves,
Through the tar an felt on thae widden loack-ups,
That abody wiz sae proud tae oan,
An pentet regular wi thick green pent,
(Like Granda’s pent,
But he couldnae affoard ane,
Efter hayin tae
Hae the fear an the shits,
In a trench in France,
No maakin a fortune,
On some other cunt’s plants)
But kid barely affoard the council’s rent.
- Oh Aye, w’were eyewaz in yer back gairden,
Or oan yer rafe,
Laughin' an stairin'.

View Maggie's Dundee,
Well, eh say “we”, but you didnae,
Coz yi eyewaz kent how precaarious they structures were,
An yi eyewaz wyed up the odes o brackin' a leg,
When ane o us fell through the boards.

W’wer content tae view,
Athin fae the auld railway line:
Kirton, Duglas,
The TOTH an the BOTH,
Whitfeelt, Fintry,
Lochee an ah they midden multis,
- Wha midden multis?
Yer granny bides thair.

Set yer peepers oan the Dundee
Denim an Leather,
Leather an Lace,
Laither jaicket an Mertins,
Fortifehd wine, Merrydoon,
Green moansters, gut-fuckers,
Nucleur brown…
Oan an oan wi the 80-shillin' fun…

Stain oan the petticoat o naichure,
Chainttye through the Drink and
Chainttye by the music,
Freed fae ye by the friendship,
Embarrassed by the birth –
F’revrr trehin' tae get back,
Tae afore that time,
Back tae Spederman,
Back tae freedom
Where St Martin killt the dragon.

Fae the plesterboard boxes,
Ah the auld anes think,
Thit if thir is somethin' else,
It’s goanna be mint,
The Mysterious Golden Cloud,
Ll sweep them awa',
Existin' omnipotent,
Wi' nay chains atta'.

Never get tae wonder,
But it might be shite,
It might be keich,
It might no be sunshine,
It might be ren,
The next life might be a the misery and pehn,
A different consciousness o' sufferin’
So drastic we cannae conceive it,
And nothin' else -
Nae salvation,
Nae femily,
Naebody tae save ye,
Nae Dundee,
Wi ah its hooligans an Mods,
Punks an Heavy freaks,
An us,
Up the West Port wi aa that drink.
Christ, what a laugh.

Dundee, Dundee,
Naebdy kens yih like me.