Cogitators of Supererogatory Records,

Swing Hammer Swing by Jeff Torrington is on the list and rightly so. The book follows a week in the life of Tam, Tom, Tommy or Thomas Clay as he awaits the birth of his first child during the demise of the Glasgow Gorbals.

On a sicknote, or unemployed, with his wife in maternity hospital, Tam's days are free and Torrington lets us stumble around with him from debacle to dilemma. Tam never becomes too attached to each of these situations and Torrington never attempts to debate the issues Tam observes the symptoms of but yet we are able to understand his passing conclusions through the results of the incidents. Protestant-Catholic sectarianism is witnessed and although Clay doesn't declare support for one side or the other, the extremist becomes the victim of his own behaviour in a believable turn of the plot. Clay's wife is of middle-class stock and he is constantly at the mercy of their idiosyncrasies and lofty superfluous; this is, at least, how they are seen by the humble but intelligent Clay.

The language of this book might be troublesome for non-Scot, but the use of local dialect could have been much heavier, Torrington strikes the balance just right, he makes the book accessible but applies colloqialisms in the right amount to compliment the setting of the novel. I was mightily impressed by some of the descriptions and imagery used. This is perhaps my favourite section:

Over there standing, but only just, was the Brandon Snooker Hall. Dampness had laid a green baize on its bricked-up windows. Where were they now, those gallus geometricians whose wordless lectures on the properties and projections of the moving sphere had us leaning on the smoke in awe? Cuts Colquhous, Spider Sampson, Skinner Murphy: gone - all of them - potted by Time, the fastest cue in town.

That is brilliance.

There is no plot to speak of, only themes raised by observation. Swing Hammer Swing is as good as the reader wants it to be and that is surely a writer's target.

Avoidable Diplomats Under Scrutiny,

He finally knocked at the door, yesterday, and announced that he’d be leaving tomorrow. It was a lesson and the end to a strange relationship.

A couple of years ago, I was head-hunted by a guy who had challenged another guy to a football match. The teams met on a rainy, windswept November night. I was unfamiliar with my team mates and I had largely forgotten about them. Many months afterwards, I was puzzled by a chap who kept on saying ‘Hi’ to me. He moved in to the office next door and would wave at me through the window every day. I eventually remembered that he was a team mate during that distant one-off match.

The morning’s garbage men placed the couch in the crusher and were seated in their lorry before the chewing had begun. The show was a triviality to them; just a small potato blighting their schedule. It’s a sad day when people can no longer be excited by crushing things.

Of course, if I hadn’t been gawking at the demise of a couch, I’d have been a couple of further yards down the road and I wouldn’t have had the chance meeting with an ambulance and a police van at the junction. It was awkward; I had right of way so they had to wait until I passed and then pulled in, but of course, if they had had their sirens on, I’d have known it was an emergency and pulled up earlier to allow them to emerge. Small flashing lights on the grill are the only things that are visible on an ambulance emerging from a junction, thus it makes sense to approach junctions with sirens on. I am quite sensitive about people letting ambulances through, someone smashed into the back of me when I was making room for one once. Admittedly, they are tricky situations and the emergency makes some drivers panic, but at the same time, some of these blunders could cost lives.

Explorers to the Heart of Amateur Heroics,

I wandered the hardware department of Rejects, Kirkcaldy. I had found two of the things on my agenda; an aerial splitter and super glue (I’d later stick my shoe to my hand); but I had trouble finding a fuse.

It’s no surprise that people base comedy sketches on these places. There’s a certain brand of people that frequent these places.

‘Oh, that’s a braw bit o’cable.’, said one man to his pal.

He meant it.

Satirists Descending from Brigantine to Street,

Lord Cut-Glass is a man obsessed with clocks in Under Milk Wood, and lately, Alun Woodward, formerly of the Delgados. He has released a self-titled album on the Chemikal Underground record label with the aid of a host of musicians.

His lyrics, although quite pragmatic and gritty, take on a child-like innocence and poignancy when delivered in playful rhymes and verses. Combined with the briskness of the orchestra, his songs have punch and irresistibility.

Opener Even Jesus Couldn’t Love You is a bit of class, with a comic superiority and ambiguous lack of sympathy, Lord Cut-Glass rips into a midden of a person, ‘you are a human state’, the climatic moment is delivered in the lines, ‘Did your pony not wuv you, reject you and buck you?’, but a nice metaphor and rhyme is, ‘you are a lamb on the ocean causing commotion’ (I hope I hear it correctly).

Look After Your Wife is another fun jingle full of witty lyrics, ‘when it’s wrung, your cannot unring the bell’. The chirpy keys are reminiscent of Homer Simpson in the land of chocolate in the main part of the song, but then there is a drastic shift in the rhythm and scale that is utterly alien (from full band to acoustic guitar before the band slowly reintegrates) but brilliant.

The virtuous self-appraisal that is I’m a Great Example to the Dogs is one to listen out for, it’s quite endearing and a real gem given how gooey and pitiful such works can degenerate into. Big Time Teddy is my favourite, it’s clever. Is Teddy a toy bear? Is he an imaginary friend? Is he an idol, a genius, a life coach? The toy marching band heralding the chorus is a delight and adds to the mystery.

Lord Cut-Glass is just brilliant. I was completely amazed by it, I really didn’t expect something this good, I knew it would be good but not this good. I hope the clock doesn’t tick too long before the next album – BOOM! BOOM!

Waldo!

Incongruent Aspirants Serving the Ether,

In appearing completely unapproachable, I struggle to remember that I am accommodating, kind, polite, and additionally, a comic genius and that sometimes others can see this too.

As my date of birth became known - inadvertently, through my willingness to do a good deed (I loaned someone my swipe card so they could go to the toilet, I trusted them to wash their hands) – at precisely the right moment to plan a surprise cake, calamity unfolded. Due to my fantastic aural capabilities, I knew that a cake would be baked and presented to me as a surprise at an afternoon coffee break the next day. In hindsight, this was the exact moment to admit what I had overheard and put the buffers on it, although I would never be so presumptuous to lose my modesty and do so.

‘If you’re thinking of baking me a cake, don’t.’
A potential response which would have crushed my spirit; ‘Why would we make a cake for you?’

I was later asked to carry out a favour. It was a job that I couldn’t refuse; it was a small token which would go a little way to redeeming all the chores these people had done for me.

‘Can you take us to this funeral tomorrow?’
‘No, it’s my birthday and they might be making me a cake.’

As the birthday progressed, I announced that I’d be going home soon to drive my devotees to a funeral. I was then completely shocked to be given a mouthful of abuse and in light of the situation, offended. I was then faced with some unusual questions about what I’d be doing tomorrow, so I suspected then that they might postpone the cake presentation.

I almost made a faux-pas right at the crematorium, as the cortege was just arriving, so too did I and I almost ended up joining the procession at the front. It was an unavoidable error, we weren’t to know that the cortege was round the corner that we’d have to go round to get to the car park, although people who arrived earlier knew and parked further away. Thankfully, the undertaker paused for a moment to allow us to pass inconspicuously without breaching protocol. I waited in the car park, watching foxes and reading a book whilst the service took place.

As for the cake situation, I had mixed feelings, I was offended but also appreciative of their efforts in organising some kind of surprise. The next day I would see what unfolded. As the day wore on, I lost focus in the heat and decided I would be better off working elsewhere, or I’d take the afternoon out by the lake and resume working in the evening which is what I did. Shamefully, by mid-afternoon, I forgot about the plan to retry unveiling the cake. As I was leaving town, the phone rang, I didn’t answer as I was driving and later an SMS with the picture of the cake arrived with more abuse, but this time, mercifully, more light-hearted.

This was a confusing episode and I don’t know what I learned, perhaps that people care and sometimes, in showing it, fuss is a necessary by-product. The outrage at my involuntary thwarting of the goodwill gesture by performance of a good deed for someone else is perhaps the most troublesome part. Perhaps this episode only proved that I am erratic in thought.