...McGinty kicked the rabbit, and was instantly fried...

The family holiday!
Great isn’t it?
Arrangements all made in advance for some time away; built up to be all conquering, halcyon days where souls are cleansed, bodies rejuvenated and minds invigorated. Family bonds are renewed, free from the rigours of modern working life and the great institution of education. All prejudices cast aside. All agendas levelled.

Perhaps a sophisticated cruise aboard a luxury liner bound for exotic stop-overs in the Caribbean, the Mediterranean, the Adriatic or even Inverness.
Maybe an excitement filled adventure like the one described by some silver tongued poet working in an advertising agency whose closest brush with adventure is deciding whether to go to Burger King or McDonalds for lunch.

Weeks are spent looking forward to the experiences that will be shared.
The sights; the sounds; the smells. The wonder of being somewhere different.
A place where nobody knows your name; where everyone, metaphorically at least, is naked, stripped of everything that sets them apart from their neighbour.
Somewhere that isn’t home because, as everyone knows, a holiday spent at home only ends up with all manner of DIY projects, numerous trips to B&Q and the potential for messy and acrimonious divorce proceedings.

So you read the blurb in the brochure or on the website and choose your destination.
You process all the information available to you and, whether it is visual, verbal or based on your own memories, you start to build up a picture of what it will be like and what you will do.
This, of course, is fundamentally flawed.
If you’re reading or listening to someone else’s opinion then that is exactly what you get.
Their opinion.
If you are relying on your own memories, even if it is without the assistance of rose tinted specs, remember that circumstance will never allow itself to be repeated.
Not as long as your arse points down.

Personally, I prefer to view the world through a pair of drinking goggles.
It makes much less sense that way and let’s be honest, if we ever did manage to make sense of our lot, it would be route one to the nut house for the lot of us.
Either that or we’d be getting a free ride in the big white armoured van and a long vacation at Her Majesty’s expense.
Go to directly to Carstairs. Do not pass GO.
Remember to pick up your straightjacket on the way.

Those are a strange and special type of holiday usually afforded to the criminal fraternity but it never occurred to me before now what a strange concept the family holiday is.
The one thing that is never considered is that everyone has different needs and expectations from a vacation and those needs will be different tomorrow to what they were today.
Especially if you are a teenager.
Why?
Jis cuz!


As anyone who comes here will know, I live in Scotland.
It has been home for many years - all of them in fact.
Growing up, as I did, between the ‘60s and ‘70s, it was a time that predated the great British holiday abroad. Benidorm and Majorca were distant constellations of whitewashed fishing huts unknown to anyone outside of the Iberian Peninsula.
Greece was a place of mythological multi-headed freaks and cross breeds that we learned about in school and Turkey was just something we ate at Christmas.

Because my mother worked in London, I grew up with my grandparents, which wasn’t a bad thing but it meant that holidays were nothing terribly adventurous. Day trips here. Day trips there. Loch Ness was about as far as my Grandfathers old grey Ford Anglia would travel in a single stint and, to be honest, it’s probably as much as the rest of us could have taken of his 80dB whistling of the Three Marys.
Getting pushed through nettles by my cousin into the burn at the bottom of a distant Dundonian relative’s garden was the closest I ever got to having something exciting to show for the six week gap between school terms.
By the time my mother returned to the North the 60s were giving way to a new decade. She had a new man and we were looking more like a proper family. As time wore on and my grandparents got older, it looked more likely that they would take me to live with them.
Summer was coming and I was beginning to think that it might be more than days spent sitting in the car or visiting aging relatives that I didn’t know.
They had planned a trip to Ireland but poor little Cinders got left behind.
Even as a teenager, nothing changed. We didn’t go on family holidays. The summers were spent at home, outdoors, playing football; climbing trees; biking the six miles to our beach hut or playing in the local quarry.
The only exception to this that I can remember was a week in a borrowed caravan at Gairloch where it pissed with rain every day. I remember Alice Cooper was number one so that kind of sets the time.
I was about eleven and the only kid there.

You may think this has no relevance to anything but looking back now, it was all a bit strange and left me with hefty bag of chips balanced on each shoulder.
It did, however, shape my perception of solitude to the point where I was never uncomfortable with my own company.
As with many other things in my childhood, it had a profound effect on my adult way of thinking.
When I got married and began to raise a family of my own, I was determined that they would not miss out on the things I did. There would always be holidays. We would always do things at the weekend. I would never be ‘too busy’ to spend time with my family.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful it’s just that if I’d had the choice or been given the chance to have an input, I’d have planned things a little differently.


Anyway, that one holiday must have had an effect on me because Gairloch is one place I never tire of.
Gairloch was the destination a couple of years ago, incidentally when my eldest was eleven, as it had been for a few days the year before that.
It was on the basis of how great it was then, that we arranged an encore this year and decreed that a-camping we would go.

Despite my reservations about two weeks under canvas and how my aging body would cope with an ever deflating airbed, I geared up for it. Researched all the possible activities for all parties concerned, covering all weather options.
I even managed to squeeze a guitar into our little Italian job although I did have to leave off the bike rack as the whole affair was starting to look a little like the Griswalds’ Scottish Vacation.

From the air of disquiet before we left, I guess I should have known that the teenager would have preferred not to have been extricated from the confines of her bedroom for a fortnight. I should have seen it coming.
Even the presence of a games room was only good for the first week.
The slow pace of highland village life proved too hectic for her and the cries for home became more vociferous with each passing day.
I should have known the kids would find it tough. No hairdryers, no hair straighteners, nowhere to apply make up, no TV, no computers and total fresh air overload.

I should also have been aware that going on holiday with your closest friends is going to lead to a get together every night and, in the truest of all traditions, when the usual suspects gather in one place, it’s very much a case of ‘instant party, just add alcohol’.
Consequently, every morning was heralded by a hangover.

I should also have been able to figure out that because I couldn’t hire a canoe on line didn’t necessarily mean that there would be a plethora of hire shops locally that just didn’t go in for the whole web thing. This was the west coast of Scotland after all, not
the Lake District.
I should have been able to suss out that just because there was a fish and chip van on site didn’t necessarily mean that they would be serving anything remotely like fish and chips. That’s a whole different story that’s better left untold.

Although I was unprepared for these eventualities, they came as little surprise.

Our move to the far north for the second week was also based on previous experience and, as with Gairloch, Durness didn’t disappoint; at least not the adults.
Again, I should have know that day after day on the best beach in the country, in the sun, with nothing to do but relax, would not have them screaming for more.
Even the fact that John Lennon used to holiday there was not going to impress the teenager despite her being a Beatles fanatic.
So no real surprises.
Kids complaining about wasting two weeks of their lives. Adults left with no option but to turn to alcohol.
No surprises.

What happened next though, was a surprise.
It not only surprised me but it totally swept the rug from under my inbuilt sense of self preservation.

Dune running is nothing spectacular.
It’s not even recognised as anything other than a short cut to the beach but, as most kids will tell you, it’s great fun.
Sixty degree slope (or more), dig your heels in and, as the sand gives way take great big, gravity assisted strides while leaning slightly backwards.
No great shakes.
No different to scree running of which I’ve done plenty.
You simply glide gracefully to the bottom then tip the sand out of your shoes.
Thing is, being ill equipped to burrow through granite or loose stones, except in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, rabbits keep themselves to the softer stuff.
The average scree runner never comes face to face with Louis Lapin.
Sand dunes are a whole different proposition and are a veritable metropolis to the long eared, bug eyed rodent populous.
To say this has totally changed my perception of Bugs Bunny is an understatement and I now understand that Elmer Fudd was clearly misunderstood.

Having got about two steps in to my journey, my descent was halted by my right foot being swallowed by the earth. In the process, it made a 90 degree turn to the vertical and sent me spinning onto my arse.
The crack was enough to convince me I’d broken my ankle.
The searing pain backed up my immediate theory.
The string of copulating illegitimates, uttered in one long single sentence that would have given Billy Connolly, Jerry Sadowitz and Gordon Ramsay a collective run for their money, underlines the fact I was in total f4cking agony.
Fortunately I didn’t do a face plant into the marram grass otherwise I might have lost an eye.

The whole concept of Hooli versus sand dune concealed rabbit hole was one that I was totally unprepared for and had no contingency for.
The local doctor was probably shared with every other village within a 50 mile radius and, by the look of it, he also did a spot of moonlighting with Hawkwind.

The nearest hospital was 200 miles away.

Attendance at the local clinic and the attentions of Dr Lemmy, confirmed my suspicion that I was either going to have to put up and shut up or curtail my holiday. His ‘bag of peas’ theory would have been all well and good if the only local shop hadn’t already closed.
As it was, I had to make do with the only sensible course of action.
Instant pain relief, just add alcohol.

I did manage the next day hobbling about like Quasimodo along the beach but in the end, the tennis ball growing out of the side of my leg and the complaints from the teenager were too much.
It was indeed, end of holiday.
The injury aside, I wouldn’t change any of it.
Hopefully, in years to come the kids will look back and go ‘remember that time we went to Durness and dad bust his ankle showing off’.

Back in dear old Foggytoon, x-rays confirmed that there was no broken bone.
I have to say it was a bit of let down to have endured that amount of pain and cut my holiday short to realise that all I had was ligament damage but hey, at least they didn’t check my liver.

And so...

Billy Connolly - Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5bv9qo

Michael Marra – The Lochee Bard’s Visit to James Scott Skinner
http://www.sendspace.com/file/b8ya2l

Warren Zevon – Dublin 26.02.1988
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ns5w1v

Tom Waits – Cold Beer On A Hot Night
http://www.sendspace.com/file/j29ub2

Bob Dylan – Stirling Castle 13.07.2001
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3r0k82

Michelle Shocked – Live In Boston
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jucv58

LAU – Luminaire
http://www.sendspace.com/file/g5nfsy

Heidi Talbot with Kris Drever & John McCusker - Live at the Met Theatre, Bury
http://www.sendspace.com/file/67x98k

Liam O’Maonlai & Marketa Irglova – Vienna Haus der Musik
http://www.sendspace.com/file/s741zz

The Alarm – Live at the RPM Club
http://www.sendspace.com/file/fuj4vn

Tom Robinson - Live in London 1994
http://www.sendspace.com/file/mubdew

R.E.M – Live at Maxwell’s
http://www.sendspace.com/file/1lsuvu

Travis - Live at KCRW
http://www.sendspace.com/file/o1qcmi

Idlewild – Live at BBC Radio Scotland
http://www.sendspace.com/file/eirw5u

Ian McNabb – Ian McNabb
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jaz2xq

Enjoy...

Hooli

...I like to be here when I can...

Having recently returned from holiday, I think it’s only fitting that I pay tribute to the place I call home. I’ve booted this in and out of the reckoning for a couple of months and each time I’ve been set to post it, something has happened.
Usually a bout of lazyitis but now, I guess having had a month long sabbatical, it’s time to get my ass in gear, so here goes...

As I was saying, I’m just back from my hols which would normally be the only time of the year I picked up a book.
Up until recently that is.
Books didn’t do it for me and I openly admit to a high level of ignorance when it came to modern or classical literary works.
My passion was music and it stole me away from the world of literature.
Books were boring and I never allowed myself the time to read.
All the Shakespeare and Dickens on earth wasn’t going to pull me in, not when I had Dylan and Cohen to contend with and besides, I’d had enough of all that stuff at school.
Austen and the Brontës were too girly and Shakespeare was just too wordy in a completely different language sort of way.
The American classics like Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Steinbeck and Williams were too bloody American and the good old godfather of gloom, Thomas Hardy was just to f4cking grim to be real.
This is a guy who makes Dylan, Cohen, Waits and Cave seem like the Singing f4cking Kettle.

Now that I’ve presented myself with this scenario, it’s quite clear that I’m a bit of a Rita character like the one in Willy Russell’s play but it’s not that I don’t read, I just can’t be arsed fighting my way into the hearts and minds of characters and scenarios that I don’t care a toss about. A book I can’t identify with is as likely to strike a chord as a Diana Ross & Michael Jackson duet.
In brief, if the spaces between the words are more interesting than the words themselves, I ain’t readin’.

A While back, it was commented along the lines that I must be a tartan noir novelist in disguise.
Being a non reader, I’d never really considered it or the likelihood that there was any substance to it.
The closest I had ever come to tartan noir, apart from a walk down Union Street on a Saturday night, was a Taggart or Rebus rerun on the telly.
It’s not that I didn’t ever read. It was just that one book a year on a Turkish beach was more than enough but, as I’ve since discovered, given the right material, I actually like reading.
Recently, having ploughed relentlessly through a selection of Stuart McBride and Christopher Brookmyre, I now understand what Landyjon meant.

Unfortunately I don’t have the time or the patience to write screeds and screeds for a living and I don’t have the faculties to deal with the continual rejection that goes with selling your creative side.
I don’t have the depth in my imagination to be able to construct and deconstruct characters and worst of all I can’t ever manage to develop any sort of cohesive plot.
I remember this from creative writing at school. I could ramble on a load of shite for pages and pages but the trouble always was that I could never end it. Everyone else in the class was sitting arms folded or indulging in some deep cast nasal excavation while I was still scribbling frantically. Eventually, the teacher would get fed up waiting and take my work from me. That I had a final destination in mind but just didn’t have enough time to reach it must have been convincing enough for I always got good marks for creative writing. In the end though, it was just like I said; a load of shite.
Actually finishing anything close to a story or essay was like grappling around in a smoke filled room. Knowing there was a way out somewhere but never being smart enough to get down low to find the door.
Some things never change. I guess that’s why this has been rehashed so many times.

Despite that, I still like writing and using words; playing with them and using their rhythms, alliteration, allegory and analogy to beat out a message.

Last time I was going to post this, I got it all ready and, as I usually do, I slept on it.
Next morning I started reading Brookmyre’s ‘A Big Boy Did It and Ran Away’.

Bastard!

These were my very thoughts.
These were my words.
This man had tapped deep into my very ether.
Either that or we were secretly separated at birth.

It was time for the shelf again.

Now that I have reconciled the fact that just because we think the same doesn’t mean that I’m plagiarising, it really is time to let this one rip.


When I was younger, I looked upon returning home as something special. As soon as I crossed the brow of that hill on the A90 and I could see the lights of the city, I knew I was home.
It’s as if I was at one with the city and if I was anywhere else, I barely felt whole.
Home was everything about the city. I knew the cracks between the paving slabs. I knew all the back doorways and alleys. I knew the faces, young and old.
The restaurants and bars, the parks and gardens, the streets and shops, the tenements and the beach, all said as much about the city as the lights appearing on the horizon.

The northern lights of old Aberdeen...


...It was a grey day.
The fifth in succession!
The clouds wrapped around the cold granite like a miserable shroud.
Just as blanket would cover a dead birds cage long after darkness has passed, so the clouds enveloped the city preventing escape. The damp soaked into the pores of every block of stone claiming all the poor lost souls for itself.
So there it was. Another grey day.
Another day with no f4cking weather to speak of.
A day when the rest of the country was bathed in sunshine.
A day when it should have been sunny here.
The suited guy after the news said so.
A day when every man and his dog had stocked up with bargain bags of bad meat and over spiced crap to char to a cinder on the suburbanite males last great claim on domesticity.
Dolled up like a refugee from Neighbours (maybe that should be nay baaz), the suburban male really comes into his own at the barbecue. Even for those who can cook or tame the furnace like powers of the devil’s campfire, the lure is irresistible. We pile more meat onto the damn thing than the average family eats in a week and then reduce it to an unrecognisable, inedible cinder.
It’s that golden opportunity to show off in front of the family, friends and neighbours – look! I can cook.
In reality, the north east and al fresco dining are unlikely to fare well in the marriage stakes. OK, it never really gets dark in the summer months but it’s always at least five f4cking degrees colder than anywhere else in the land and then there’s the weather. Decent all week then on Saturday, while you’re charging round Tesco filling your cart with more dead animals than Damien Hirst's basement, the clouds start gathering like mobsters at an Italian wake.
Yep, if there’s one thing destined to ruin your pleasant valley Sunday it’s the weather.

I used to think it was odd they way weather forecasters never referred to this part of the country when they did the old Phil Connors bit but just as he was bound to wake up to I Got You Babe every morning, the weather was equally likely to be repetitively crap.
Now I know why.
It’s just what you come to expect living in the north east, stuck like a big plook on the face of the country.
This is the part of the country no one gives a f4ck about.
Why should they? Nobody ever comes here anyway.

Clearly there is no conventional science that can accurately predict what the weather will be like in this part of the world. Somewhere though, in a cobweb filled laboratory filled with rats and bats and cadaverous cats, there is an old crone working some weird witchery and black arts that keeps the fog circling around Aberdeen for days. She must have been here in days gone by and been so pissed off by the lack of charm that she unleashed an evil enchantment. Either that or this truly is the asshole of the world.

“It’s shite being Scottish” screamed Renton in that Trainspotting scene on the bridge in the middle of Rannoch Moor. Maybe so, but it’s even shitier being Scottish and living on the north east coast.

Apart from the weather, one of the things you notice about this place is that everything is a little bit bi-polar.

OK, honestly...
... we’re totally f4ckin schizo.

Aberdeen is a city populated by people with only one thing in common – a mutual resentment for one another.
We are so completely confused about our identity and have no real cultural model, so much so that we don’t even know if we want to be toonies or neep seeds.
The result is a city with a village mentality and all the bad things associated with both and, as Renton observed of the country as a whole, we are colonised by wankers.
The kind of people who make scum look good.
If it’s not rich, fat, cigar chomping Americans telling us how to build our golf courses and how big everything is in Texas, it’s the classless class, ‘fur coat nae draars’ mentality of the nouveau riche, swanking it up in their own little Wisteria Lanes, with their BMWs and 4x4s.
Faceless little twats without an original thought between them, conditioned to believe that if they see it on the TV it must be real.
This must be the way to live.
Little people with little lives and little idea of how to make the most of what they’re given; people with too much disposable wealth who see the route to distinction as having a bigger or flashier car than their neighbour.
The fact that they are prepared to spend endless amounts of money on something that they can’t ever fully appreciate and is exactly the same as the pile of crap their neebs has is a worthy paradox for the shallow minded.
Trouble is they will never see the irony.
They wouldn’t know class if it took a dump in their cornflakes and, like all the reality TV dupes who think they are getting their little slice of fame, the very thing they aspire to be is the very thing they long to escape from. The very thing that sets them apart is what binds them together. Sitting in their all terrain jeeps singing along with Chris Martin, feeling like action man when the closest they get to off-roading is bumping over the speed humps at forty or mounting the kerb when they try to park.
In a converse sort of way, it’s like the shy kids in the choir, refusing to sing because they’re too self conscious about it but only succeeding in drawing attention to themselves by gazing at their feet. We are a choir full of shy kids, all gazing at our Nikes, blending into one another, never standing out with any degree of individuality, all conspiring to create one very big and totally crap choir.

As my beloved author Christopher Brookmyre observes, Aberdeen truly is a grey city, full of grey people in grey cars with grey jobs, grey houses and grey lives.

Slithering around, even further below Brookmyre’s SSCs are the good old minkers.
The Nesbits and Steptoes of the modern world.
Lower than anything depicted in Shameless.
The benefit cheats and spongers whose sense of achievement is centred on getting to the offy early enough to get the first bottle of Concord or Bucky before the Bookies opens. The same people who have new kitchens fitted by the social and have full satellite TV packages installed at our expense. The same cheating bastards who claim to be homeless yet can still afford to have a big f4ck off Alsatian dog sitting next to them.
Ask them why they don’t get a job. I’ll bet their answer is “it’s not worth it mate. I get more off the bru and from my patch in this doorway”.
These are the same people who claim unlawfully against their insurance and push our premiums out of proportion. The same people who drunkenly abuse bus drivers and other passengers. You can always tell where they live by the discarded sofas, beds and electrical appliances lying outside their scabby flats. The same ones that have knee high grass and dandelions instead of a lawn.
Why can’t the lazy f4ckers take them to the skip like everyone else and while they’re there, nick a Flymo and mow their f4cking lawn?


On days when the weather does take an upturn, geography and some architectural improvidence has blessed the Granite City with the greyness it will never shake. Even in blazing sunshine, the buildings turn everything grey.
Silver city my arse.

More like slightly crisp and burnt copper city.
Soon as the sun comes out, they’re out there, like flies round a shite, togged up in their miniscule, undersize and overstretched piece of fluorescent lycra sportswear, cruising down to the beach in their pastel blue cabriolets like badly gift wrapped elephant seals.
I mean, I ask you! Who the f4ck in their right mind wants to own a convertible in a city that gets three days of sunshine a year and, when it comes to it, what the f4ck is all that French shite about.
Cabriolet bollocks, its a f4cking convertible and what’s more, it’s only a Vauxhall f4cking Astra with the top sawn off.
I could see the point if it was a Lotus, an Aston Martin or E Type Jag or if we were in Juan les Pins, the Amalfi Coast or Malibu Beach but it’s Aberdeen, the rain capital of Europe and just another classless piece of junk the same as everybody else’s except for the 4m of tarpaulin stapled to the back.

Architecturally, there are some gems but by god there are some howlers.
The west end, typically enough, has most of the grand granite buildings but these have largely been subject to the change in economic balance which has seen rich oil companies, solicitors and dentists move in, replacing the aging homeowners.
One of the most overblown, overrated and over the top buildings in the city is Marischal College. The second largest granite building in the world no less, it is a giant monstrosity full of neo-gothic self importance with a facade reminiscent of a wedding cake that has been decorated by an overzealous child, used to making drippy castles on the beach.
The fact that it sits opposite the equally absurd concrete and glass tower block of St Nicholas house, the council HQ, is typical Aberdeen. Even more typical is the fact that the same council HQ is about to relocate to, you guessed it, the drippy castle wedding cake across the road.
Even more typical than that is the fact that they still owe more than £2 million on the 40 year old tower block and the conversion of the new premises is expected to reach £80 million.

Even the normal honest Joe is not without his problems.
As an Aberdonian who moved away and then returned, neither time through choice, it is clear to me that the thing that truly sets your average Aberdonian apart from the rest of the country is the massive lumbering chip on his shoulder.
This all revolves around football of course.
Aberdeen were once the best team in Europe.
Home grown, successful, no nonsense winners.
Then the Mancs stole Alex Ferguson away and that was the end of it.
The McLeish & Miller era was over and all that was left was the memory of a Cup Winners Cup campaign that saw off Bayern Munich and Real Madrid. The subsequent humbling of Hamburg in the Supercup which saw the Germans’ striker Felix Magath play the entire match from the confines of Willie Miller’s pocket, confirmed what we all knew. Having taken a bunch of local kids and guys who nobody else rated and transformed them into a little red winning machine, Fergie was destined for great things.

Now of course, Manchester United rack up trophies like bugs on a head lamp while the poor old Dons could barely manage to buy a goal even if they had tango man David Dickinson in tow.
Last game I saw (I actually went twice last season) was such a dismal affair that I began to question how the f4ck they had managed to reach fourth place in the league. I was later advised that it wasn’t only our team that was shite.

With the opening day of the new season and a 3-1 defeat behind us to accompany an early exit from European football, it’s pretty clear that a year of spectacular embarrassment lies ahead.

Yes, the over forty grumpy Aberdonian has little to chirp about.
The weather’s shite.
The team’s shite.
The grub’s shite.
There’s not a decent gig-house in the place and the average pub charges four quid a pint.

There is one positive thing though, as one of my Glaswegian friends is fond of reminding me.
Aberdeen girls are the most beautiful in the world.
Here she comes.
Look at that beautiful clear complexion, caked by a layer of slap.
Doesn’t she have a beautiful year round tan, thanks to her brother who’s a welder?
Look how tightly she can pull her hair. Bet when she frowns it makes her stockings wrinkle.
And wait, that perfume.
What is it?
Chanel?
Dior?
What the f4ck’s that smell?
Smells like fish and we all know that only two things smell of fish.
Only one of them is fish so you can at least be thankful that she works in the fish market.
But the best thing of all is her shapely figure, especially if you’re into the burger look.
You know the one, big lardy belly hanging out over the undersize waist band of a pair of pink McKenzie joggers that cover the fattest arse outside of Tembe.

Side order of muffins to go - undersize bras a local speciality.

Remember Viz and the fat slags.
Must have been on a trip to Aberdeen when they thought that one up.

Never mind though, it’s still got one thing in its favour.
At least it’s never more than four miles in any direction to get out of the place.


Finally, my advice to Christpher Brookmyre...
...for your next novel, go a little further north where the sun simply never shines.
Fog enshrouds the towns of Peterhead and Fraserburgh.
These are places where trees refuse to grow; the dogs go round in pairs and the Silver Cross prams all have front fogs, Recaro seats and rear spoilers.
This is Scotland’s answer to Chavdom.

There’s enough material there for a whole series and personally...
...I can’t wait.

And so to the music...

Pink Floyd – Prism
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0hi1n8

Pale Saints – Slow Buildings
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ac1ow0

Richard Thompson - Folkscene 1993-06-13 and 1999-06-06
http://www.sendspace.com/file/z1zjuf

The Sound – Thunder Up
http://www.sendspace.com/file/d1wj7f

The Waterboys – Aberdeen
http://www.sendspace.com/file/e1wq28

10000 Maniacs - Strawberry Hill
http://www.sendspace.com/file/sr3vmx

DCFC – Bonaroo, 15.06.2008
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wtx71v

Kate Rusby – Edinburgh 15th June 2001
http://www.sendspace.com/file/84548d

River Detectives – King Of The Ghost Train Ride
http://www.sendspace.com/file/nmi8c7

Paul Kelly – Foggy Highway
http://www.sendspace.com/file/920hx7

Moldy Peaches – Live in NYC
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qu29gq

Mood Six - The Difference is....
http://www.sendspace.com/file/f3yo1n

The Alarm – My Father’s Place
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ooz0te

Hue & Cry – Open Soul
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qleo5w

Damien Rice – Live Unreleased Singles
http://www.sendspace.com/file/gsi9vi

…finally, thanks to Heather Browne at I Am Fuel, You Are Friends for this one…
Swell Season – Tiny Desk Session
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ibjdol


Enjoy

Hooli