So. Labour’s sacrificial lamb is to be Lindsay Roy.

Well, he’s a headmaster; so he’ll be no stranger to the dark arts of politicking.

But; a Fife headmaster, a member of the Labour Party? Gosh!

This is another fairly prominent landmark’ this time by the A8 on the outskirts of Edinburgh.
I pass this building a lot as it’s in Edinburgh and reasonably close to where I now live – or at least I did till the M 9 spur to the A 90 opened.

Designed by Patterson and Broom, the roadhouse was built in 1935 but as you can see has since been refurbished (in the 1990s) for use as a casino. Again the facade has been restored sympathetically.

This photo (from the South?) must have been taken some time after the Roadhouse first opened and shows some deterioration.

Pictures of the interior and exterior from the architects involved in the restoration can be found on their site.
The interior has since been described as jarring Art Deco.

Iain Zazcek features the Maybury in his book “Essential Art Deco” where he describes its style as International Modernism at its most severe. So it seems to be Art Deco and Modernist. Zazcek emphasises the interaction of vertical and horizontal components of the Maybury as an important architectural feature of the building.

Here, also, is an aerial view (centre-left of picture) of the building’s location at the Maybury intersection from where it’s an impressive sight.

David Milliband wrote a piece for the Guardian some weeks ago which was instantly proclaimed by the press as a leadership bid.

Alastair Darling gives the Guardian an interview at the weekend and it’s seen as a (political) suicide bid.

Isn’t it a possibility that both of these were actually neither?

In a less febrile world than these politicos and their attendant journalists inhabit these comments might have been perceived as unexceptionable.

Tor, 2006

Disclaimer. Alan Campbell belongs to the same writers’ group as I do, so you may wish to discount what follows. Nevertheless, I only saw very small parts of this book before it was published and none of it in its published form. Apologies to Alan for taking so long to get round to actually reading the finished novel but it’s another 500+ pager and time is short. I will refer to him as Campbell throughout as in a normal review.

In the city of Deepgate, someone is going about murdering people, draining them of their blood and hence their souls. Moreover, it is not the usual culprit, Carnival, who normally takes just the one victim and then only on Scar Night. The perpetrator is trying to produce angelwine, a forbidden concoction that confers resistance to wounds and, perhaps, death.

Deepgate itself is an impressive creation. It is held together by chains and is suspended over an abyss at the bottom of which a god is believed to wait to collect the blood and souls of the departed.
Because he wants to convince us of the reality of his setting, Campbell has a tendency to overdescribe at times, even if lovingly, but this is of course probably what the intended reader will most like about the book.
A minor caveat is that there is sometimes an overtone of default mediaevality about the city, especially in the importance of the church and the degree of technology, though, refreshingly, there are airships.

As you would expect from a first novel there are some infelicities scattered throughout and there can be problems with pacing but Campbell has created believable characters – Dill, Mr Nettle, Presbyter Sypes, Rachel Hael, Fogwill Crumb, the poisoner Devon – and even the minor ones all behave the way real people would in their circumstances.
However, when the inevitable happens and some of the characters descend into the abyss and others move on to the plains surrounding Deepgate the emphasis on character becomes lost and action begins to predominate. This may have been necessary but I felt it was to the novel’s detriment overall.

Campbell is at his most convincing in the earlier part of the book, depicting the city, its inhabitants and their daily lives. He may have created a rod for his own back here if his fans develop obsessive tendencies.
However, the build up to the climax is, to my mind, too rushed. (There may perhaps have been a touch of rapidly approaching publisher’s deadline about it.)
And the title is a bit askew. We experience two Scar Nights during the book’s course not just one.

Further disclaimer. A fantastical tale of this sort is not my usual preferred reading.
But there is enough good writing here to make me want to read the sequel Iron Angel.

It has recently been reported that soon there will be hardly any Normans left, and no Gertrudes at all. Other names which are on the way out include Walter, Percy (What, despite Thomas the Tank Engine?) Harold, Edna, Irene, Ada, Ernest, Nora (Compo you must be devastated!) Herbert, Olive, Agnes, Clifford, even Frank.

So new parents are unlikely to repeat the bizarre decision that those of a certain Norman (whom I have met, and spoken to professionally as a result of my day job) did. He’s even written several text books.

A man called Norman Conquest? Yes, really.

In Scotland, the tradition used to be that, since the mother chose the name, a first son was named after the mother’s father and a second son after its mother’s husband. Sometimes the mother’s maiden name was used. The use of surnames as given names was very common as a result. There are all those Murrays, Camerons, Dougals, Duncans, Gordons, Calums and Finlays, not to mention the odd Menzies or Tavish – I’ve even heard of McKenzies, MacDonalds and Brodies. However, this practice is also now tending to die out.

Despite being the third son in my family, I was named after my mother’s father. (Perhaps it took my parents so long because he wasn’t a Scot.) This caused problems when I was a lad because almost nobody had Jack as a first – in those days it was referred to as a Christian – name. A lot of men were called Jack but their legal name was John. As a child I lost count of the number of times that I was asked, “Are you sure it’s not John?” before sighing and explaining that Jack was indeed my “proper” name.
Yet nowadays Jack is one of the most popular boys’ names (I blame Richard and Judy) and all sorts of weird and wonderful monikers are in vogue.

And I feel sad to hear that the name Norman, in particular, has fallen into disuse.
You see, my other grandfather was called Norman and it is my elder brother’s middle name. I also have a cousin Norman, so I almost feel as if part of my heritage is dying.

What better excuse to embed this inoffensive ditty from Dean Ford & the Gaylords (you wouldn’t get away with that name now!) otherwise known as Marmalade?

()

I’ve been tagged.
I gather this is some sort of bloggers’ chainletter. At least it’s not a pyramid scheme.
Won’t it run out soon? (Probably! see below.)

Princess Diana’s death – 31 August 1997
I was in bed, heard it on the radio, and my first thought was, “That’ll mean the TV’s all up the creek for today, then.” I was right – except it was for the week.
The country went collectively mad – or at least the media did. Whatever happened to restraint and the stiff upper lip?
What irked me most was that Scotland had a crucial World Cup qualifier unnecessarily delayed because of the funeral. Who has a funeral on a Saturday?
And all over a glorified clothes-horse. She seemed not to understand that (sadly as it happens) royal wives are nothing but baby machines. Katherine (I believe she doesn’t like being called Kate) Middleton, take note.

Margaret Thatcher’s That woman’s resignation – 22 November 1990
I think I was at work and someone came in and told me; but I could be confusing this with John Major’s resignation as Tory party leader (I accidentally typed praty there at first, how apposite) as I don’t think I believed it. It’s not that easy to get rid of the wicked witch is it?
(I know the above might sound sexist; but she really was an aggravating so-and-so and destroyed a large part of what made Britain great. Part of that destruction was that she ensured devolution would come to Scotland sooner rather than later.
I no longer live in the country I grew up in. It’s a harder, harsher, much more selfish place now. And that is a loss.)

Attack on the twin towers – 11 September 2001
Doctorvee, I was at home because I was ill. (I didn’t have another day off sick for over five years.)
The footage, of the second aeroplane sharking in (participle copyright Martin Amis) on looped repeat, seemed unreal. We’re so familiar with multiple camera angles that it somehow wasn’t convincing with only the one. It was the fires in the towers and their subsequent fall that hit me. (We did finally get footage from ground level of the planes hitting the towers.)
I never thought it could be an excuse for us co-invading a foreign country, though I had predicted in 1979 that our next war would be in the Middle East, over oil. (I was wrong about that because of the Falklands, but that wasn’t a war, oh no, that was a “police action.”)
Of course, Blair sent more troops overseas to more places than anyone since Churchill (who had, after all, had a bloody good reason.)

England’s World Cup Semi Final v Germany – 4 July 1990
What in the name of the wee man is this doing here?
We’re celebrating (ahem) a side reaching a semi-final?
That sums up the England football team’s achievements away from home in a nutshell.
Anyway, I watched the game on TV and harrumphed derisively as the “greatest goalkeeper in the world” failed to manage to take a couple of steps backwards and then jump, as Germany scored. Lineker’s equaliser was a class act, though. Gazza’s tears? Big Jessie.
I was sad for Bobby Robson.

President Kennedy’s Assassination – 22 November 1963
At home, I don’t think the TV was on. My dad came in from the shop across the road – it was a Friday night, I know, because this was a family ritual on Fridays. (Don’t ask, I was a child.) The shopkeeper had told him Kennedy had been shot. We didn’t yet know he was dead.

I don’t really feel I know enough bloggers well enough to tag five and doctorvee’s bagged one of them in onebrow.
So:-
Alastair
Big Rab
Simon Barrow
paul cockburn
Jim Steel
Sorry guys; you’re it.