How the Brits Live

It was a brindle coated version of The Simpsons' family dog "Santa's Little Helper" that had buried its nose into the leg of my trousers.

I was a bit taken aback to find the dog attached to one of to my lower limbs.

It had sneaked up on me from behind the lounge doorway under the cover of the combined affect of my work clipboard and eye contact enforced by my greeting by the homeowner, mistress of said hound. She immediately referred to it, as if making an early apology, as a Rescue Dog. This conjured up in my mind a very lovely image of  it's fragile, lean frame dangling by a hoist from underneath a bright yellow RAF helicopter gesturing with its tiny paws towards those afflicted by flood or other natural disaster to grab and hold on.

Like most dogs heartlessly discarded, abandoned or just found wandering the city streets it was of mixed and dubious breeding. The head was classic borzoi, perhaps from a pedigree parent having a night out on the tiles, the main torso definitely whippet and the colouring more commonly found on a chunky Staffie terrier.

I dismissed the inevitable imagery of what must have been an horrific mating ritual in a back alley or on the bank of one of the deep drain cuttings which bisected the area. Nevertheless, it was a nice looking mongrel with trusting eyes, a nice but not fussy nature and ,as I found out later when sensing a dampness on my trouser leg on my return to the car, a very wet and sticky nose.

The animal did not bite or shy away when I offered an upturned palm in a gesture of friendship.

From therein on we were pals for the duration of my visit to its home and for the next 30 minutes there was never more than a couple of feet separating us. The dog was a big help to me in finding a clear pathway through the house as in the kindest of phrases it was "a lot lived in".

On entering the front room I was almost immediately legged up by a very small child clad in a grubby onesie and with a Tommee Tippee drinking cup permanently attached to its rosy cheeked little face. It was, I later back counted, the first of five and possibly six other wee mites in the house who either resided there permanently or were just visiting as a member of an extended family or group of playmates.

I could not reach any of the wall surfaces in the living room to carry out my routine inspection for dampness or other defects because of the congregation of children and the vast amount of their accompanying toys and accessories.

The homeowner and another woman whom I presumed to be a parent of one or more of the under 5's population were now sat chatting on the sofa amongst a large pile of clothes either in preparedness for ironing or putting away. Such was the congestion and accumulation in the room that I had to reverse out taking care not to come into contact with or crush any of the children or their belongings.

The rear living room was, I hoped, more accessible but in squeezing through the door against a hidden obstruction behind I was met by the sight of a huge table or rather a collection of smaller tables pushed together on which some sort of large scale E Bay operation was being masterminded. Computer monitors flickered and beeped as new emails arrived apparently updating the status of bids and recording enquiries of interested but not yet convinced bidders and prospective buyers for a wide miscellanea of goods and chattels.

I sidled around the working area with the dog just ahead, casually glancing back to make sure that I was still on the trail. Like a maze we wound around the obstacles in that room for what seemed an eternity. I was a bit panicky about knocking something over or, worst still, causing any of the power cables or connections to be dislodged by my heavy footfall or a trip. It is not unknown for me to have to make a token payment to compensate for a breakage in a house.

In contrast, the kitchen was like a broad and wide prairie stretching into the distance, or at least to the back door. Being a long and narrow room most of the belongings and trappings of modern life were distributed around its margins on every available worktop and surface leaving a clear central aisle. This allowed the dog to pause for a well earned scratch and the sight of that action caused me to do the same, I hoped out of mimickry and not an infestation of fleas.

I dare not go through that far door on the basis of what I had already encountered in the main house.

It led into what I tend to loosely describe as a verandah. This old fashioned term can be used to describe all manner of structures from a lean to shack to almost a conservatory. Space was again well oversubscribed, this time with plastic home brew kegs, rack upon rack of empty brown glass beer bottles and pieces of what looked like a classic Ford Cortina.

The dog sniffed around in an interested way and whilst it was distracted I made my way back through to the staircase to go upstairs.

Two small girls, the eldest of the tribe I had so far seen, were having a role play tea party on the landing. I knew this from stumbling over on and crushing at least two cups and saucers of their moulded plastic service and scattering a section of vacuumn moulded fruits and vegetables before me.

They gave me a dirty look not often achieved by those many years older.

The large, double windowed front bedroom, as with most of the similar properties in the street, had been partitioned into two smaller rooms. These were inaccessible because of yet more stored and stacked items of furniture, personal belongings and toys.

I was yet to come across where any of the occupants of the house actually slept but the collection of single bed and bunks in the next room accounted for this. It was a bit like one of those dormitory rooms in a Dickensian Boarding School.

Down the darkened landing, made more hazardous by unidentified debris crunching under foot I headed towards a thin beam of electric light which shone from under another closed door.

This was the bathroom.

It was staggeringly, surprisingly clean and sanitary and I have nothing more to report on that.

The fourth bedroom showed signs of occupancy but was a return to the chaos and disorder that reigned supreme in the house with the carpet littered with cast off clothing, bundles of lint, dust and neglect.

I had been able to negotiate through the whole of the accommodation without too many mishaps apart from upsetting the two little ladies whilst they did tea.

My constant canine companion looked sad as I bade my farewells to the small crowd in the hallway.

We may never meet again but the place and the animal had made a bit of an impression, for sure.

Lovely Noyes

I usually have a persistent tune in my head that dominates a good part of any day.

It may be something that seeps into my subconscious being the first melody to be heard as the clock radio fires up in the morning. A familiar song behind a TV advertisement can also catch on.

I did hum and sing alternately the "Bodyform" theme which is embarrassing as it is a female sanitary product. Everyone who heard me knew what it was. I was pretty oblivious to it all.

Today has been very different.

I have been obsessed with a poem.

It is a particular favourite from having studied it as a schoolboy and later introducing it to my young children as a bedtime favourite. My Pop music hero John Otway brought out a rock track version.

It is a poem that appeals to youthful imagination as it is very atmospheric and features everything from ghostly images to swashbuckling individuals, enemy soldiers,a bit of romance and ultimate tragedy.

The poem is "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958).

It has obviously been a mainstay in the English Education Curriculum as my own father could recite it almost word for word from his schooldays in the late 1940's and early 1950's.

I have, on the basis of the very regular requests to hear it from my children, learned by heart large tracts, especially the first verse which sets the scene beuatifully....

"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghastly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding, riding, riding.
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door".

This classic poem popped into my head as I made to sit down at a small two seater table in the window of a public house. I was early for an appointment in the village of Welton in East Yorkshire .Fed up of sitting behind the steering wheel of my car and having resisted buying a takeaway coffee from, in order a drive thru Starbucks and McDonalds I felt like treating myself to a cup of the stuff in a china cup and in a proper establishment.

My £2.11 black coffee with a foil wrapped chocolate mint balanced precariously on the wad of work papers that I had brought along, if only to shuffle a few more times whilst stalling for thinking time on a couple of difficult projects.

It is not really a surprise that the great words of Alfred Noyes came into my mind in that place.

As per the last line of the opening verse I was at an inn. The Green Dragon is a very old coaching house on what would have been a busy route for those crossing the Humber Estuary at low tide or coming out of the City of Hull on their way, principally to the influential regional hub and one time capital city of England, York.

The prospect of a highwayman riding up, however unlikely in 2016, was actually very real in 1739 when on the very spot that I was enjoying a restful coffee the notorious horseback villain, Dick Turpin was reputed to have been captured by the authorities.

There is, like the portrayal of the lead male character in Noye's poem, a very romantic perception of this branch of criminality and Turpin has certainly received the glossy treatment in popular fiction and film in the two hundred years following his reign of aggression and terror inflicted on travellers and residents of his stomping grounds.

Turpin was in the Welton area, supposedly having fled from his shooting dead of a collaborator in the South of England, but intent on continuing his lifestyle from the proceeds of crime or otherwise.

Under the assumed name of John Palmer he blended in with the East Yorkshire gentry for two years.

However, in a fit of rage in an argument Palmer/Turpin shot the prized fighting cockerel of a neighbour and this aroused the suspicions of the locals as to how he financed his livelihood.

Many tall tales and myths surround Turpin the highwayman.

One, and the most well known in popular culture, is his epic 200 mile ride from London to the North on his equally famous horse, Black Bess. This is actually attributed to another perpetrator.

Even with the discovery of his true identity after the chicken killing episode, Turpin is reputed to have jumped the Toll Gate on Cave Road, Welton on the wonderful Black Bess. I have seen a fantastic illustration of this particular endeavour in a feature in the publication "Look and Learn" which was a childhood favourite for many of my generation. It would be actually be another 32 years before there was a Turnpike Road on Cave Road which throws doubt on this exploit.

As I looked out onto the village green , sipping my coffee, I could well imagine another potentially tall tale whereby Dick Turpin evaded arrest by leaping through the window of the Green Dragon.

One constant is true. Turpin was eventually taken to York Assizes and sentenced to hang for the capital offence of stealing a horse. What is now York Racecourse was the location of the gibbet and noose which saw to the highwayman on 7th April 1739.

As with many heinous villains there can be some softening of their fearsome and terrorising behaviour with the passage of time. There is no doubting that Turpin was a prolific thief and brutal murderer and so his ultimate comeuppance was inevitable.

To some extent this was always to be the fate of Noye's protagonist although his highwayman rode into the withering fire of the King's Redcoat Soldiers out of grief and anger for the demise of his true love, Bess, the landlords daughter who warned him away from an ambush with a single musket shot that took her own life.

By the time I would get to the last of the 17 verses my young children were usually fast asleep but I always made a point of finishing the poem properly. I would be a bit of an emotional wreck as I muttered the closing ghostly lines,

"Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs, in the dark inn-yard
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter
Plaiting a dark red love knot into her long black hair"

Talk Talk

On the basis of statistics alone they could be seen as a bunch of underachievers.

The chart ratings on which history will judge Talk Talk undeniably state the following.

UK Number Ones- 0,

UK Top Tens- 0,

UK Top Forty placings- 4 and

Top Seventy Five- 13 records.

First emerging into the post punk and synth/electro-pop scene in 1982 the band did make an impression and even today have a cult following.

Cynics may say that the name of the band has never been out of the public consciousness because of the use of the same title by a challenger mobile phone, internet and TV provider but in a very crowded genre of music at that time they found a niche and have to a certain extent, kept it.

The UK Charts in 1982 were a very confused snapshot of what the record buying population were doing.

Amongst the regular home grown favourites such as McCartney and Shakin' Stevens there were megabands from the United States and a few novelty acts which I will not mention here but we all know who they were.

Just emerging were the contemporaries of Talk Talk in electro-pop and bordering on the New Romantics and these included Visage, Japan, Yazoo, Soft Cell and the group that drew most of the critical comparison, Duran Duran.

Prior to that in the first wave had been Heaven 17, Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, New Order, Tears for Fears and Depeche Mode.

These bands, bar just about none, attained massive status and unfortunately but for no fault of their own Talk Talk missed out.

Perhaps they were too purist in terms of musicianship and just better than the others in their craft but not quite possessing the same charisma, notoriety, ability to bullshit or exploit publicity and the category of fame that they flirted with.

The main pop output of Talk Talk, in my listening experience comes down to their four best performing singles.

Again, from a back catalogue of 8 albums this points at a poor return but just search out and enjoy the tracks as a returnee or for the first time if you are not of a certain age like myself.

In the UK Charts in the summer of 1982 the single release of "Today" peaked at number 14 following on from the bands first placing at number 52 in the spring of the same year. Theirs was a fresh and vibrant synth and drum sound and the vocals of Mark Hollis stand out in their distinctive tone and pitch.

My favourite single is undoubtedly "It's My Life" from January 1984 but again it was just too far ahead of its time reaching only number 46 although when re-released in 1990 which marked the beginning of the end for Talk Talk it was at last acknowledged for its contribution in peaking at number 13 along with a top five position for the inevitable greatest hits album.

"Such a Shame" was also a 1984 single but went almost unnoticed.

January 1986 saw the single "Life's what you make it" get to 16 in the UK Charts.

There was some success in Europe and a brief flurry in the US but the most enduring legacy has been the influence of Talk Talk on many musicians subsequently.

Yes, they could have given in to commercial and corporate interests but they maintained a credibility and creativity that is now becoming known to new audiences and will continue to be appreciated.

It's My Life

My Plan for Zombie Survival

It is very important to have a contingency plan for just about any scenario or predicament.

In the past I have considered a suitable course of action for the explosion of the sun and obliteration of our galaxy thanks to a bit of scaremongering in the Star Trek Annual of 1974. It arose because I took at face value the shattering implications of this for the 11 year old that I was but omitted to carry on reading over onto the next page which indicated that this event was not expected for something like a zillion years.

In the 1980's every household in the UK received a booklet about what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. It was a case of taping up windows against a blast wave, sitting under the kitchen table after draping it with white sheets and stockpiling essential goods. The precautions recommended by the Civil Defence authorities at that time did not vary much from those shown in the grainy black and white Public Information films from a couple of decades earlier.

In the 1990's I suppose it was fear of terrorism from dissident domestic groups and in the early years of the 21st Century more of the same but upscaled to overseas factions adopting aircraft assaults and the threat of dirty bombs plus of course the doctrinally neutral climate change.

More recently there has been the damage and anxiety exerted by flood and storms with many having to take a crash course in filling up sandbags or barricading their homes against tidal or river surge.

On a mundane day to day basis a contingency plan is just good practice to cover escape from fire and to generally keep out of harms way.

However, at the moment my primary concern relates to Zombie Apocalypse.

This has been hammered home in my psyche by watching, back to back, the first two series of "The Walking Dead" which is set in the uncertain and desperate days following a non-specific combination of global catastrophes resulting in most of the world's population dressing down, drooling and snarling and a few brave souls trying to make sense of it all and survive within the tatters of a moral code of decency and compassion.

The drama is accentuated by no real explanation of what transpired but yet the disintegration of society and mankind is rapid and very, very violent.

In successive scenes in the TV series I have placed myself in the role of some of the main non-Zombie-fied characters and really soul searched as to what I would do in the reality of the situations portrayed. It is plain to see that things would not pan out well for me. I do not possess currently what could be described as a ruthless or selfish trait but such qualities would be paramount in the decision making process when confronted by one or worst case, a whole herd of Zombies.

This was illustrated by my walk back from a football match last evening. It is quite rare to get a large mass of bodies all  moving in the same direction and at the same speed unless exiting from a stadium venue. We collectively lumbered along, a bit stiff limbed from sitting on hard seats and with limited legroom. The sensible amongst us were well wrapped up on a cold February night and this further influenced restricted movement. Our team had won and so there was an upbeat tone in the conversations but interspersed with grumbles about how laboured the performance had been. It was not a great stretch of the imagination to liken the exodus to the incoherent mutterings and random, erratic motions of Zombies. (No disrespect meant or implied to supporters of Hull City).

I took it on as a practice session.

If I kept towards the outer edge of the populus this would give me enough time to formulate that contingency plan. It was important not to draw attention to myself, make eye contact or even draw out of my coat pockets the last of the Extra Strong Mints that had got me through the tedious second half of the game. At least Zombies are a bit slow and I was confident of being able to outrun them unless they overran me or I got legged up by someone else trying to evade being eaten alive. I would be confident in being able to make my way home through the inevitable half chewed bodies, burnt out smouldering cars and abandoned military vehicles using all of the guile from a Cub Scout training that I have never forgotten.

I broke clear of the crowd just by the gates of the bread factory. Most Zombie movies feature a cohesive and attentive group of survivors, heavily armed and motivated. I was however on my own and fearful for other Johnny No-Mates in the post apocalyptic environment.

Reaching home I sneaked in under the electric door to the integral garage and closed it again before a full operating cycle. I calculated what would be required to blockade the stairwell up to the first floor which would be the main living area and from which to keep a look out over the street for marauding hordes. Behind closed blinds I felt that I could at last relax, safe for the time being from carnivorous neighbours and friends.

Of course, my daughter shattered my contingency plan by mentioning in passing that there were actually many different types of Zombie. Fast ones, bullet-proof ones, those able to spring and leap large obstacles, intelligent and reasoning ones, scheming and cantankerous ones. I would have to review my contingency for the Zombie Apocalypse or else I was at risk from being stuffed........and savoured as the main course.

Time to put the pedals on

I think that I may have mentioned it a bit before but in April last year (2017) I fell down a hole.

You do get the impression that something serious has happened whilst lying prone on the ground and then being winched, in a stretcher, up a slope by the ambulance crew to the waiting vehicle.

I felt a bit stunned by the accident but looking back this could easily be attributable to shock.

That day in April had started pleasantly enough with an early morning drive out to the coast for my first appointment to inspect a house for a prospective buyer. The fresh air, the required level of concentration for the job and a tried and tested routine must have given me a very false sense of security, so much so that I simply disregarded any possibility of there being unstable ground under my feet.

I have been trained to expect the unexpected but I suppose that in a previously accident free 30 years of working that I was statistically due for one.

A rough calculation suggests that in those three decades I have inspected more than 50,000 properties placing my occupation in, I would say, a very low risk category for injury or worse.

The road to rehabilitation goes on even now, approaching 10 months from the incident.

The first four months were post operative with non-weight bearing and leg brace restrictions. I will admit to finding this time difficult but family, friends and work colleagues kept me upbeat and busy- in mind at least.

There is something disheartening about being given a walking frame and crutches. Although I knew they were temporary I felt old, useless and vulnerable which were all perfectly new experiences for me, well, at least two of those three then.

Gradually and with weekly Physiotherapy sessions at the city hospital I have improved mobility in my damaged leg.

The bringing out of the plastic measuring gauge is a ritualistic part of the 40 minute regime but I have learned that there is an inverse factor where well being and actual degrees of movement are concerned. If I feel weak the gauge records a tangible improvement over the previous reading but after a very productive series of exercises it actually contracts in its opinion. I cannot account for that anomaly.

I have reached a milestone in my recovery quite recently with the ability to turn the pedals in full revolutions on the static bike in the Infirmary Treatment Room.

Everyone who knows me has at one time or another been availed of my cycling stories and modest achievements from a short but active participation in the local amateur racing scene. I am always a happy chappy when pedalling on two wheels and not being able to ride out for the duration of my confinement from injury has been the most difficult thing to manage over the last ten months.

One constant reminder of my absence from cycling is the brand new, unused  Bianchi Road Bike that sits in my garage. It is in the iconic bluey-green colours synonymous with that Italian manufacturer and the purchase was, I can honestly say, the culmination of many, many years of idolisation and wishful thinking.

It had been a long thought process to make the decision to buy one, mainly out of respect for my longstanding road bike that, thanks to a bequest from my Grandfather, I had custom built in 1982.

That machine has and will continue to serve me well and I do feel bad about supplanting it with the new bike but I see it as a sort of precursor to its graceful retirement.

Ironically although some may say, fatefully, I took delivery of the Bianchi on the very day before my accident and it has stood, pedal-less and still part wrapped ever since.

The bottled up excitement of the bike may have been a factor in my fall as the split second of concentration required to nimbly skip over the hole may have been distracted by a day dream exploit of careering about the countryside on the Bianchi. I just cannot say for sure but you never know.

I am just now at a stage of fitness to pedal on my sons indoor bike trainer.

I have started off modestly with a couple of thirty minute spinning sessions but I do have a target date to aim for.

The Tour of Yorkshire cycle race passes close to my home in some 97 days time and I have promised myself a ride out to watch it flash past.

I am, even now, getting quite emotional about the prospect of the resumption of cycling.

I know that I will shed a few tears by the roadside if I do actually achieve this aim. I was a brave soul in not crying when my quad tendon snapped and so I feel I deserve the indulgence of a bit of a weep at this future date.

Ahh, Juicy Fruit

It is 45 years ago this month that a Stanford University Professor in Psychology, David Rosenhan put into play an experiment in an attempt to answer his own searching question of “If sanity and insanity exists, how shall we know them?” 

He must have known that his test was to be the equivalent of an earthquake amongst the psychiatric practices that were being carried out in the early 1970’s and will have been relied upon for decades before that. 

Rosenhan got together a group of individuals of certified sound mind and by complaining to a psychiatrist of the symptom of hearing voices on a persistent basis they got themselves referred to one or more Mental Hospitals. 

It was a carefully controlled set of symptoms with the voices comprised of only three words “empty”, “hollow” and “thud”. 

No other conditions or abnormalities were suggested by these pseudo patients and indeed any back stories were truthful and not embellished in any way. 

All of the group were immediately admitted into the care of professionals in the respective institutions. 

Furthermore, all but one were diagnosed with schizophrenia, the lone patient with manic depression. 

As soon as having been admitted the individuals stated, calmly and sanely, that the voices had disappeared and all asked when they would be discharged. 

In spite of the rapid reversion to completely normal behaviour the average detainment in the mental facilities was 19 days and this over a range of a week to an amazing 52 days. 

In this period of confinement the pseudo patients took part in the normal activities of a Ward but of course never took any of the cocktail of anti-psychotic drugs that had been prescribed. 

Very obviously the group took notes of their experiences and rather than alert the hospital staff to some sort of covert operation this was observed to be part of their mental state of mind as in a display of paranoia. 

What came out of the first person study was a shockingly inadequate level of contact between Therapists and patients- on average just 6.8 minutes per day which included admissions interviews, ward meetings, group and individual psychotherapy sessions, case conferences and discharge meetings. 

Other noted observations were that in any 8 hour shift the ward attendants only entered the secure areas an average of 11 and a half times and even then had minimal interaction with the patients. 

As for the psychiatrists themselves they rarely had any meaningful contact with any patient. 

In a sort of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” scenario it was the fellow patients, the real ones, who easily rumbled the identities of the insurgents and would often be heard to say things which, to a conscientious and informed member of the general or clinical staff, should have fully exposed the test subjects. 

When Rosenhan published his findings there were accusations that he had acted as “agent provocateur” and there was much uproar and controversy directed at the ethics of the study. 

Chief accusers and sceptics were of course those who had been exposed for their poor diagnoses and patient care. 

As a consequence of the storm of criticism Rosenhan indicated that there would be a follow up study specifically targeting one of the offending hospitals. 

It was implied that sometime in the proceeding three months there would be an attempt by one or more pseudo patients to get themselves admitted. 

Now alerted to another potential incursion the subject hospital ramped up their procedures. 

In a three month period some 193 patients were admitted for psychiatric treatment to that institution and 41 of these were suspected of being pseudo patients under the regime of heightened vigilance. Being deemed pretenders and sane these people were spared a diagnosis of permanent mental illness and a likely dependency on mind altering drugs. 

Rosenhan, in fact, did not actually activate any of his team to attempt admission anywhere and at any time. 

The experiment continues to have far reaching effects in psychiatric diagnosis and treatment some 45 years later. 

Rosenhan’s measured conclusions remain valid that the sane are not sane all of the time nor are those labelled insane actually insane all of the time. 

Sanity and insanity can be seen to have cultural variations and bizarre behaviour in people constitutes only a fraction of total behaviour. 

Essentially, psychiatric diagnoses, even those made in error, carry with them personal, legal and social stigmas that can be impossible to shake off and which often last a lifetime. 

There are obviously still lessons to be learned.

Burns Units

It is Burns Night 2018. I have, in frugal style, scraped up the last of the Haggis from the corners of the serving dish as it stands on the cooker top trying to avoid the scraps of neaps which from experience have a bitter aftertaste.

With a gloriously naughty feeling on what is a working day I run my finger around the inside of the whisky glass used for the evening's toasts and get just a wee sensation of the essence of Scotland.

Ours had been a grand Burns Supper, one of countless millions celebrated globally by the upwards of 45 million or more who possess a Scottish ancestry.

From The New York Public Library

Tomorrow, it is back to business and an opportunity to reflect on the value of the poet and lyricist Robert Burns to Scotland not just in artistic and cultural terms which are a given but in cold hard cash revenues to the national economy. Of course there has been talk of his referencing of others' work in his own but what great writer has not drawn upon influences and themes from the past? 

I am looking to update an exercise commissioned by the BBC in 2009 on the issue of just how much does the Burns Brand generate for the nation?

Robert Burns was born in Alloway, Ayrshire in 1759.

In his relatively short life, he died aged 37, he produced great works of prose, poetry and song in the Scottish dialect and these have endured amongst a home grown and worldwide audience. He was not always appreciated in his own lifetime, indeed it was not really until the late Victorian era that an interest was shown in all things from North of the Border from fashion to design, art and crafts, literature and furniture.

Scotland has produced, for its population, a disproportionate number of exceptional individuals in science, philanthropy, the arts, invention and as entrepreneurs. The Victorians wanted to be associated with such a progressive cultural attitude and Robert Burns was at the forefront of the movement, albeit posthumously.

It was not therefore instant stardom and celebrity for the man.

Even as recently as 2004 the sustainability of Burns as a national icon was under pressure when funding organisations withdrew from their support of the Birthplace Museum in Alloway. Declining visitor numbers led to dwindling income. Deterioration of the Museum building allowed the Burns Family Bible to be damaged by a roof leak and it was only when the National Trust for Scotland and Lottery Money stepped up in or around 2009 that any sort of future was assured.

Huge investment to coincide with the 250th anniversary of the birth of Burns  allowed construction of a new Heritage Centre and attractions in Ayrshire and the future of the Burns Brand was assured.

In 2009 the BBC consulted the great and the good in order to come up with an estimated figure for the revenue generated by all things Burns.

They considered five broad categories of income that were intrinsically linked to the current cult-status  centred on the poet.

1) General Tourism. There are millions of visitors to Scotland every year and Ayrshire is a destination for many followers of Burns. Income is derived from hotel accommodation, restaurants and shops, taxi fares, bus fares, guide books and services.

2)Burns Merchandise. The Heritage Centre and on line shops have a range of quality products in the Burns Brand ranging from expensive lyric -engraved jewellery to chess sets and snowglobes to the best selling fridge magnets. Summer visitors like the themed postcards and as Burns Night, 25th January approaches, the sales of napkins and tea towels ramp up.

3)Haggis. Not many foodstuffs have their own poem in celebration. This blend of lambs lungs, offal, oats, gravy and other things.....is available all year round but with a spike in volumes for the traditional Supper. It is quite a scrap in my local stockist to secure an elusive MacSweens Haggis for this occasion. Don't forget the tatties and neaps. Oatcakes and soup sales also peak.

4)Whisky. I do  not have much to add to the production figures for this national tipple by way of emphasising the income generating ability of this product.

5) Miscellaneous items. These are as varied as kilt and sporran hire to fees for a Piper, choirs, Master of Ceremonies, Guest Speakers and admission prices for Corporate Events.

The wide range of inputs in this calculation does, as you will appreciate, give potential for a huge margin of error.

Since the 2009 BBC guesstimate there has been inflationary and other pressures at play. 

One single element has been the increase, over that period, in the adult admission charge to the Heritage Centre from £5 to £9.

Crunching the numbers, in my update, produces a figure of £196 millions.

Robert Burns would, I think, be pleased about his 21st Century wealth generating capabilities although ironically he struggled in his lifetime with his own finances.

Not that he was really bothered by material things as a line from his "Country Lassie" testifies "Content and Loove brings peace and joy". 

Numpty's Guide to Robert Burns

It is the celebration of the Scottish poet, Robert Burns tomorrow, 25th January and so to get us all in the spirit of the event here are a few olde worlde Scottish sayings and words and other more modern ones...

• I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug! – I’ll give you a slap on the ear.
• Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye! – What’s meant to happen will happen.
• Skinny Malinky Longlegs! – A tall thin person.
• Lang may yer lum reek! – May you live long and stay well.
• Speak o’ the Devil! – Usually said when you have been talking about someone – they usually appear.
• Black as the Earl of Hell’s Waistcoat! – Pitch black.
• Failing means yer playin! – When you fail at something at least you’re trying.
• Mony a mickle maks a muckle! – Saving a small amount soon builds up to a large amount.
• Keep the heid! – Stay calm, don’t get upset.
• We’re a’ Jock Tamson’s bairns! – We’re all God’s children, nobody is better than anybody else – we’re all equal.
• Dinnae teach yer Granny tae suck eggs! – Don’t try to teach someone something they already know.
• Dinnae marry fur money! – Don’t marry for money – you can borrow it cheaper.
• Is the cat deid? – Has the cat died? Means your trousers are a bit short – like a flag flying at half mast.
• Haud yer wheesht! – Be quiet.
• Noo jist haud on! – Now just hold it, slow down, take your time.
• Hell slap it intae ye! – Means it’s your own fault.
• I’m fair puckled! – I’m short of breath.
• Do yer dinger. – Loudly express disapproval.
• Gie it laldy. – Do something with gusto.
• Ah dinnae ken. – I don’t know.
• Haste Ye Back! – Farewell saying meaning “return soon”.
• It’s a dreich day! – Said in reference to the weather, when it’s cold, damp and miserable.

Some Scottish sayings that are not so old ……

• Gonnae no’ dae that! – Going to not do that.
• Pure dead brilliant – Exceptionally good.
• Yer bum’s oot the windae – You’re talking rubbish.
• Am pure done in – I’m feeling very tired.
• Am a pure nick – I don’t look very presentable.
• Ah umnae – I am not.
• Ma heid’s mince – My head’s a bit mixed up.
• Yer oot yer face! – You’re very drunk.
• Yer aff yer heid – You’re off your head – a little bit daft.

And some Scottish slang words ……

• Aboot – About
• Ain – Own
• Auld – Old
• Aye – Yes
• Bahooky – Backside, bum
• Bairn – Baby
• Bampot- Idiot
• Barry- splendid
• Baw – Ball
• Bawface – Describes someone with a big round face.
• Ben – Mountain, or through
• Bevvy-drink
• Bide – Depending on the context, means wait, or stay.
• Blether – Talkative, when referred to a person. To “have a blether” is to have a chat.
• Blutered- very drunk
• Boggin-filthy or disgusting
• Bonnie – Beautiful
• Bowfing – Smelly, horrible
• Braw – Good, or brilliant
• Breeks – Trousers
• Coo – Cow
• Clorty- Filthy
• Crabbit – Bad tempered
• Cry – Call, as in what do you call him?
• Dae – Do
• Dauner – Walk – “I’m away for a dauner”
• Didnae – Didn’t
• Dinnae – Don’t
• Dour- glum
• Drap – Drop
• Dreep – Drip
• Drookit – Soaking wet
• Druth- thirsty
• Dug – Dog
• Dunderheid, Eejit, Galoot, Numptie – All mean idiot
• Dunt – Bump
• Eedjit- idiot
• Feart – Afraid
• Fusty- mouldy
• Frae – From
• Galoot- idiot
• Gallus – Bravado, over-confident
• Gang – Go
• Gaunnae – Going to
• Geggie – Mouth, as in “shut your geggie”
• Glaikit – Stupid, slow on the uptake
• Goonie – Nightgown
• Greet – Cry
• Gubbed - Badly
• Gumption – Common sense, initiative
• Gurne- Sulk
• Guttered- Drunk
• Gutties - Plimsolls
• Hae – Have
• Hame – Home
• Hammered- Drunk
• Haud – Hold
• Haver – Talk rubbish
• Hing – Hang
• Hoachin’ – Very busy
• Hokin’ – Rummaging
• Honkin’, Hummin’, Howlin’ – Bad smell
• Hoose – House
• Houghin - Revolting
• Hunner – Hundred
• Hurkle Durkle - messing about
• Huvnae – Haven’t
• Invershnecky- Inverness
• Jobbie - going for shit
• Keech - bird poo
• Keek – A little look
• Ken – Know
• Lum – Chimney
• Mair – More
• Mannie - little man
• Manky - Filthy
• Merrit – Married
• Messages - groceries
• Mockit, Mingin’, Boggin’ – All mean dirty
• Moose – Mouse
• Naw – No
• Neep, Tumshie – Turnip
• Noo – Now
• Numpty - idiot
• Oot – Out
• Peely Wally – Pale
• Piece – A sandwich
• Poke – (to poke – to prod) (a poke – a paper bag)
• Pus - Mouth
• Radgees - Crazy young lads
• Reek – Smell, emit smoke
• Riddy – A red face, embarrassed
• Scran - Food
• Screwball – Unhinged, mad
• Scullery – Kitchen
• Scunnered – Bored, fed up
• Shoogle – Shake
• Shoogly – Shaky, wobbly
• Shuftie - take a look
• Shunky - Toilet
• Simmet – Gents singlet
• Skelp – Slap
• Skoosh – Lemonade (or fizzy drink)
• Skrechin- shriek
• Sleekit – Sly
• Stookie – Plaster cast (for a broken bone)
• Stour – Dust
• Swally - drunk
• Tartle - panic when forgetting someones name
• Tattie – Potato
• Tattyboggler - Scarecrow
• Telt – Told
• Teuchtar - someone for far north west Scotland
• Thon – That
• Wean – Child
• Weegie- Glasgow person
• Wellies – Wellington boots
• Wheest - be quiet
• Whit – What
• Willnae – Will not
• Widnae – Would not
• Windae – Window
• Wummin – Women
• Ye – You
• Yer – Your
• Yin – One