This is just to point you in the direction of a worthy publishing venture.

Gary Gibson at White Screen Of Despair has recently put into the form of an e-book a long neglected novel by erstwhile member of the Glasgow SF Writers’ Circle, Fergus Bannon.

The book is called Judgement and can be bought as a download, I think, for the princely sum of $2 from Smashwords.

If the short story Bannon had published in Interzone many, many moons ago is anything to go by Judgement will be well worth reading.

Yes, it was a handball.

Yes, the goal should not have stood.

But don’t the laws state that the referee is the sole arbiter of events on the pitch?

If the ref (or assistant) didn’t see it, it wasn’t a foul.

If the ref didn’t give it, it wasn’t a foul.

Now, arguably the fourth official could have alerted the ref if he saw the TV shots. (Wasn’t Zinedine Zidane sent off in the World Cup final in this fashion?) But this fourth official didn’t. So we’re left with the ref’s decision.

Now, a goal line assistant, as in the present Europa League arrangements, might have seen the handball (and therefore better justice done.) Then again, he might not.

It would only have led to a shoot-out, though. Ireland weren’t winning the tie.

But replaying the game? You’re having a laugh.

That way chaos lies.

Sceptre, 1999, 248p

This comes with an encomium from Gore Vidal on the front cover, ‘Master of the long ago historical novel.’ Since Vidal’s own Roman excursion Julian was no petty achievement this is high praise.

The book is essentially the reminiscences of Scaurus, an offshoot of ancient Roman aristocracy; in his youth an intimate of Vespasian’s son Titus and friend of Titus’s brother Domitian – all of whom were to become Emperor – as well as an admirer (and, much later, lover) of their sister Domatilla.

Written as a series of letters to Tacitus in reply to requests from that historian to provide background for his endeavours, interspersed with the narrator’s own reflections on his early life, it provides a close-up view of the turbulent Year of the Four Emperors that followed the death of Nero. Accordingly, the focus is not quite as sharp as it was in some of Massie’s other Roman novels; events are sometimes related at a distance. Hence, while Nero’s Heirs is always readable, there are some passages which read more like history than the dramatisation usual in a fictional narrative.

I suppose they are only to be expected in a work set in this period but the asides on early Christianity struck a wrong note for me. I would have thought that someone of Scaurus’s upbringing would most likely have paid scant attention to the doings and beliefs of a then minor, not to mention proscribed, religious sect whose adherents were mainly slaves. (No matter how beautiful his slave was.)

Massie is certainly in control of his subject matter, though, and his knowledge of the times shines through.

The novel concentrates more on Scaurus’s relationship with Domitian than either Titus or Vespasian, as he is present in Rome, with Scaurus, at the appropriate time while the others are busy quelling the Jewish rebellion in Judæa. The traits which would come to the fore when Domitian succeeded to the imperial purple are well foreshadowed by Massie, a study in the jealousy of a younger son for an older, apparently more favoured, brother.

A finely written example of the novelist’s art, Nero’s Heirs is also a painless way of immersing yourself in the history of the early Roman Empire.

The actor Edward Woodward‘s death was in the news today but from a personal perspective the fact that the Dumbarton FC club website has just announced the death of Kenny Jenkins affected me more.

Kenny, known to my generation as “Gilbert” for some strange reason which I can’t recall, was a member of the fabled promotion winning team of 1972. One of his key contributions to that success was the goal he scored at Cliftonhill in the 1-0 win over Albion Rovers where, with his back to goal, he gave a driven free kick the merest of deflections with his head to take it past the keeper.

He was an exponent of the “mazy dribble” when playing in midfield but later in his Sons career he dropped into central defence.

He had a really peculiar pecadillo, though, (or superstition, perhaps) in that he always used to trot into the opponents half of the field during the warm up and have a wee meander as if the other side weren’t there. This was something that was just not done. Players stayed strictly in ther own half until kick off, then as now.

I think it was a subtle form of gamesmanship.

Edward Woodward 1/6/30-16/11/09. Kenny Jenkins -16/11/09. So it goes.

This is Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s lesser Glasgow masterpiece (it comes second to the School Of Art.)

Scotland Street School

The day I visited the School – which is now a museum of Scottish education – there were two buses parked outside making a decent photo impossible so the above picture of the frontage is from the scotcities website where you can find loads of views of both the exterior and the interior.

These are my images:-

Entrance Gates. Lovely arch.

Infant’s Entrance – now the entrance to the museum. Typical Mackintosh motifs.

One of the circular stairwells. The stained glass in these is best seen from inside.

Janitor’s house, sited in the playground.

Side view. The janitor’s house is to the left of this photo.

Detail of side of building at top.

The Glasgow Guide site has on its second page a nice photo of the tiled pillars flanking the Drill Hall just inside the entrance.

Most of the links on the first Google page for Scotland Street School are worth a look.

Cardiff City Stadium, 14/11/09

What can you say?

(At least there was some good news for the SPL yesterday, though.
A few of its clubs will be represented at the World Cup Finals next year, now that New Zealand have qualified.)

Central Park, 14/11/09

Well. There wasn’t much chance of us equalling a 117 year old record today. Not after the penalty anyway.

Apart from the first fifteen or so minutes we didn’t deserve to win this. We played some nice stuff – too nice at times – could perhaps have converted a few corners into goals but barely worked their keeper.

The penalty…….

Wasn’t.

I could see why the ref gave it. Stevie Murray came in (he got the ball; he hit it against the Cowden player) but the guy fell down. From the ref’s angle it may have looked worse but it was still soft. Even then Dr Jan nearly saw justice done with his feet but it screwed in off him.

The BBC has “Stevie Murray was adjudged to have fouled John Armstrong in the box” (my italics.) The reporter obviously thought it wasn’t a pen.

Cowden took the lifeline. The goal gave them a lift. The first half was pretty even from then on.

In the second half Cowden’s physicality took the game over. They are a big strong side. The second goal was coming for most of the latter part of the game.

But we still could have got back into it. Following a corner and a scrambled clearance a shot from Chaplain, I think, was booted away by a defender. From where I was sitting it had crossed the line. The assistant referee was, perhaps, unsighted by players between him and the goal, but still…

Nevertheless, Cowdenbeath were worth the win. (But had either of the two big decisions that went against us gone the other way we still might have had a draw.)

We could never drop a place today; but next week….?

This Sunday (15^th Nov) a football match in memory of Gordon Lennon, Dumbarton FC’s former captain who died tragically in June, will take place. The game features players from all the teams Gordon played for from youth side Harmony Row through to Partick Thistle, Albion Rovers and Dumbarton.

Big Rab – who chaired the organising committee for this – has the details here.

There are tickets available on the door.

Sadly I won’t be able to make it but if you’re close by and wish to contribute to the cause, I encourage you to go along.

Pocket, 1981, 207p

This book is nearly thirty years old; and it shows. The characters are never more than cut-outs, present merely to illustrate the plot which is, in itself, pretty implausible.

Two computers, Largo and Czandra, collectively known as Control, are able to enforce actions or inactions of this universe’s inhabitants by means of a silicon neural net which is encoded into developing foetuses. The people are referred to as human but are actually members of Phelex Sapiens, having cat like features such as whiskers and manes. However, they are to all intents and purposes bipedal hominids like ourselves with neither discernible feline drives nor habits, except in one (late) instance.

Control has completed the Cancelar project which seeks to prevent the re-collapse of the universe in a Big Crunch and so allow Largo and Czandra to “live” and rule forever. Two characters (I use the term loosely) called Demaq and Gerain have, with the aid of the Diavolo – who comprise a group which is somehow able to work against Control – evaded (ahem) control by drinking a strange liquid. They embark on a voyage on a star ship, Firebird, which can subvert the loss of Universal mass engendered during the Cancelar project by travelling the universe at close to light speed for millennia.

There are several flaws in the playing out of this scenario, not the least of which was that while being chased at relativistic speeds by ships belonging to Control, Firebird was nevertheless able to stop dead in space to evade the chasing ships.

There is also some byplay involving travelling in time via the Cancelar black hole. I know as readers we should be perhaps one step ahead of the characters but Dermaq’s failure to realise the implications of this makes him seem irredeemably thick.

The “Phelex” words Harness uses for time and distance are particularly annoying; tench and meda for example. Yes, he is describing a different culture, yet nearly everything else is rendered in standard English (or, rather, American.) Moreover, the characteristic Phelex musical instrument, named as the violetta, isn’t italicised.

Finally, the denouement has more than a hint of the hoariest cliché about it.

In sum, this is not one of Harness’s best. His The Rose, The Catalyst, The Ring Of Ritornel, Lurid Dreams, Redworld, Krono, Lunar Justice and The Venetian Court are all more rewarding. Try any of them before considering Firebird.

With the release of a tape of a telephone conversation between Jacqui (sic) Janes and Gordon Brown it has become blindingly obvious that the hoo-hah surrounding his letter of condolence has been entirely confected; part of a sting operation against the Prime Minister almost certainly constructed for narrow (party) political purposes.

I do not buy for a single moment the notion that this is all about one woman’s grief or indeed supporting the troops in Afghanistan. It is solely about providing a bad press for the Prme Minister.

Not the least of the disturbing aspects of this affair is the revelation of the contents of the telephone call. Was Gordon Brown informed he was being taped? If not; is it not an offence to record someone over the phone without informing them that it is being done? This makes Ms Janes a law breaker and the Sun an accessory at the very least. (May we look forward to a prosecution?)

Moreover, due to these dubious circumstances – after all, which citizen, without ulterior motive or inducement, has the necessary recording equipment readily at hand, just in case? – I am inevitably led to the suspicion that Ms Janes may be rewarded financially for such deceit. [For the record: this is a suspicion that I would be delighted to be proven unfounded.]

However, I now have no sympathy whatever for Ms Janes.

Quite apart from Gordon Brown’s poor vision – which may make writing difficult for him and hence, also, his script difficult to read (and many people, myself included, have appalling handwriting) – how can Ms Janes object to his spelling when she, or her parents, cannot even spell her own name? The traditional form is Jackie, not Jacqui.

She not only spurned his initial letter – which he did not have to write; when, for whatever reason, he made another gesture of condolence by telephoning her, she was ungracious enough to reject this too.

It sounds very much like she is flailing around desperately trying to blame anyone for her son’s death.

Now (this is not to disparage the Armed Forces and it is especially galling to be writing this on Armistice Day) but Britain does not have a conscript army. Her son had to volunteer. Squaddies know the risks when they enlist. And unfortunately, if necessary, the duty they sign up for is to die. So to put it brutally, the only person to blame for his death is himself.

But perhaps she feels she could have stopped her son joining up and wishes now that she had, and so herself feels guilty for not doing so.

Whatever the truth of all this, the Sun’s complicity in her actions is despicable. She should have been left by them to grieve in peace; not driven to higher heights of denial and torment.

If the Sun’s intention was to make people less likely to have sympathy for the Prime Minister then in my case it has backfired spectacularly. It’s almost enough to make me consider voting for Gordon Brown. (And, unlike most people, I am actually in a position to do so.)

The man has done the decent thing twice over; and been pilloried for it.

He would have been damned if he hadn’t and he was damned that he did.

So, how likely is he in the future to write letters to the relatives of dead soldiers?

Wisely, David Cameron steered clear of this at PMQs today.