My Three Latest Books up for Grabs

America Today: A Personal View

America today: A Personal View' is available through Amazon, either in E-book or paper-back form.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B019HC46KQ?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B019HC46KQ?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

It joins 'Big Geordie' and 'Strange Tales' for immediate sale.

 http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B013BV642C?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B013BV642C?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00CYLSWUI?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00CYLSWUI?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

 Enjoy all three - and if you like them, try some others!

America Today: A Personal View

 What Hollywood did to me!!!

I am about to publish a Kindle book and also a paperback version of what I have called, 'America Today: A Personal View'. It should be available sometime in December, with the Kindle version a little earlier.

In this work I have made observations that present my thinking on America during the course of my personal life and of my first contacts with Americana. Nor have I been shy of stating some obvious truths, while trying to disregard some of the more stinging criticisms that could be made, as well as leaving out the most glorious blessings that stem from America.

All-in-all what appears, unavoidably, is an individualistic vision, but one that can be traced by the reader; and while doing so can also be paralleled by him (or her) through their own personal experiences and observations.

I will come back to this later, when the book appears, and I hope you can take the time to look it up and maybe peek into it.

3rd October 2015

'Big Geordie:Tales From A Scottish Mining Village'

To give a taste of the content and style of my latest recently published book, I have provided a portion of one of the stories - leaving off before the crux was reached in any of them.

This is how one little yarn entitled 'Climpy House' begins:

"I remember the scene as my faither 'Big Geordie' told the story to me, many years ago. I might have been about ten or eleven at the time. My dad was 'big' in all sorts of ways: physically, in the way he was regarded by others - especially when he had a gleam in his eye that said 'don't meddle with me', and the way he always had time for anyone less able than him. 
We were seated in front of a big coal fire, warm and comfortable. Now and then the wind outside would make the flames curl higher as the draught slid under the kitchen door. 
He began: ‘I was cycling home, son, after a back-shift at the pit: Kingshill Number Three, if I remember right. It was dark, about 9 o'clock, a foul night of wind and rain. In fact, the weather was so bad, when I think back, it reminded me of 'Tam O'Shanter': and especially the bit about ‘Auld Nick’ and Kirk Alloway being in a bleeze. I was nearly blown off the bike a few times. The flying rain struck at my face, each drop like a razor-sharp knife.’

I sat bug-eyed, rooted to the chair. My dad had captured my attention completely, because I had been studying Burns at school, and for the last few days had been prattling on about his poetry. The fearsome images in 'Tam O'Shanter' were very real to me: the old ruined church, thunder crashing, lightning flashing; the horrible images of murderers, strangled bairns, cut throats, bloody knives - and the devil, were all fresh in my mind. I can see myself yet: seated beside the warm ingle nook, leaning forward, mouth hanging open in anticipation of my dad’s next words.

‘If my memory serves me right, lad, it was long, long before I was married and before you were even thought of.' 

When I think of it now, he was looking at me slyly before he continued.
‘We, that is, your Granny and Grandpaw and all the family, lived next to Climpy House, when I was wee boy; it was a great big dreary pile. If you remember, I pointed to the place once, when we were out for a run in the car.’ 
He nodded at me while saying this, urging me to remember, which I did, I think – eventually.

He continued: ‘The big mansion was built in Queen Victoria’s time, but it had been neglected; and after the Wilsons of Wilsontown died out, it was allowed to crumble away.’

He took down his pipe from the mantle-piece and began to fill it from his old battered tobacco pouch.

‘Aye, it was queer,’ he muttered, ‘and a bit mysterious too, the way they all died and that family fizzled out.’ He was quiet for a few moments, gazing soulfully into the fire and shaking his head, before returning to the tale. 
‘I think you only ever saw the place as a broken-down heap, son; but even in its prime it must have been ugly. In my day it was an evil-looking, brooding, monstrosity. It wasn't that it was so very old – just gloomy and menacing. Standing as it did, on the edge of the moor, stark and forlorn, it looked for all the world like a cathedral raised in the wilderness; the folly of some rich man. Everything about it was dilapidated. Both wings were empty shells. Lichen and ivy grew everywhere. The windows had no glass in them, the casements were weathered and cracked; they were like creepy, black, sightless eyes.’

If I am picturing correctly things as they were then, he stopped speaking at that point, but kept looking at me, picking-up my reaction, because I was shuddering at the scary pictures he had induced. 

Eventually, he knocked his pipe against the grate, gave it a few sucks and continued. 
‘Aye, my lad; anyway, it was a wild, uncanny night and as I said, I was coming back from my work at the pit. I had to cross the Muldron Moor, and ye ken how bleak and melancholy that is, all covered with moss, ten feet deep; and many the poor traveller has wandered in there never to be seen again.’ 

I remember him keeking at me as he said this; sort of hiding behind his pipe as he held a hand to the re-filled bowl. 
‘Well, son, the wind was howling across the waste lands of the moors like a banshee. Now and again there was the merest glimmer of moonlight, just enough to make-out the road. I was sure something black was keeping pace with me, racing across the moor on my left-hand side.’

I was riveted by this. I knew the road my dad was travelling that night. It even scared me in the daylight. His voice seemed hushed when he spoke again, as if someone else might be listening. I think I might have looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was there.

‘I cycled fast, son, down the brae towards the stone bridge that crosses the stream. The next thing, I was flying over the handlebars of the bike, and before I hit the ground my head glanced against the stone parapet of the bridge. As you might expect, I was a bit dazed, but all I could think of was whether the bike was okay; it was. But I’ll let you know something, my lad, to this very day I don't know what caused me to fall. But it's gey queer, eh?’ 

I nodded in agreement with him. Something very strange was going on that night, I was sure of that.

‘Anyway,’ my dad continued, ‘I could still ride the bike, so on I went: through the Headless Cross and past Cock-ma-lane. It's all uphill from there; skirting Foulshiels, past Leven Hall – where the king of the goblins is supposed to live – and on to Breich.’ 
He looked hard at me. ‘You know how dreich Breich can be son.’ 

While I smiled at my old man’s play on words, I still felt myself shiver. 

‘What a sad and sorrowful list of names, dad.’

I remember being on tenter-hooks, but the old devil reached for his pipe again, and I had to wait in watchful silence while he went through the long rigmarole of lighting the smelly thing. He must have used half a box of matches to get it going. Or was it deliberate. Anyway, after several good sucks at the old briar, he was off again. 
‘Oh aye, laddie, I was sair puffed oot when I finally reached the crest o’ the brae, then began to thread my way through the forest. It's an old Caledonian one, full of oaks, sycamore, rowans and the like. You must  remember these woods, son, they stand about a quarter of a mile from the old house.’ 
 He cocked his head while looking at me, inquisitively. 

‘Oh aye, dad,’ I lied. 

He was quiet again. Then he said, ‘I'll tell you this, my boy, yon next five or ten minutes were the scariest of my life.’

I can still see myself sitting there, eyes wide. Nothing, but nothing, frightened my dad. 

With maddening slowness he drew on the pipe once more, before continuing. 
‘Son, I felt that the woods were moving, they were closing in from all sides – reaching out for me. The wind continued to whistle and moan through the branches. Just like that.’ He pointed towards the kitchen window with his pipe, which, even with the curtains drawn, allowed a current of air, whistling and groaning, into the room. 

I dragged my eyes from the window and back to my father.

‘Aye,’ he continued, ‘it seemed to say: ‘Come to me, come to me, I’m waiting for you’. One or two older trees, oaks I think, with twisted branches, reached out, threatening to grab hold of me with their outstretched arms. Some of them seemed to have gnarled faces, hooked noses and tilted chins. I was terrified and pedalled like mad.’

I was on the edge of my chair by now. ‘What happened, dad, what happened?’ 

But he was in no hurry. Only when he was ready did he begin again. 
‘Head down, I pedalled like fury, I can tell you. Then quite suddenly, I was free of the trees. I looked up – I have to admit, son, I was so scared I had been keeping my head down low over the handlebars – and there was Climpy House!’ 
‘But,’ and here he paused, ‘but, there was something different, something strange about it. You could tell immediately that something queer was going on. Silhouetted against the night sky, the stone-work of the old ruin gleamed; it was a deep blood-red colour. What’s more, it was no longer a dilapidated heap. Now it was a monstrous, hideous, nightmare: an edifice of massive proportions, dominating the area.’ 

If my memory serves me right, at this point my dad again shot a quick glance out of the corner of his eye in my direction, before continuing:
‘And I could hear voices carried on the wind, son. There were flashes of light here, there and everywhere. The windows, normally hollow empty sockets, flickered and glowed with some kind of inhuman illumination. In front of the building, small figures danced in a ring, in a weird ceremony. They jumped up and down, before proceeding round and round the fiery building in an ever-growing frenzy, seeming to acknowledge it as their master. 
The house was alive. The closer I came, the more uncanny everything appeared; and I also seemed to hear strange wailing noises as I approached..."

I hope you found this extract enjoyable. If you want to find out just what 'Big Geordie' was seeing, and the conclusion to the story, just contact:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B013BV642C?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

or

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B013BV642C?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

 

 

 

 

Big Geordie

4th August 2015

I said I was publishing  new book on Amazon (actually two books, but the other uses a pseudonym).
This one is a work with a lot of feeling injected into it. The subject was someone I knew very well -very well indeed!

 See the book in Amazon : http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B013BV642C?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

 and Amazon uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B013BV642C?*Version*=1&*entries*=0




Spend a little time relaxing and entering the mood and times that are presented.

Big Geordie Blurb
"This is a book of nostalgia and laughter, written with respect and love for a man and a village whose hearts were alive and beating for most of the second half of the 20th century. Both the man and the coalfields are now gone and little villages like this struggle to stay alive.

The people given life here, and what they did to occupy themselves, are typical of the times. Life was hard, but there was always friendship and affection, as well as feuding and fighting. The villages were separate societies in themselves; fiercely independent and ready to defend their uniqueness. Some of that spirit still exists; long may it continue to do so.

Hopefully, each tale will evoke memories of similar scenes among people from other villages and towns, and among different peoples of the world. The sentiments illustrated are universal."

Intimation Regarding My New Book 'Big Geordie...'

30th July 2015

I thought I would give advance notification that the launch of this new e-book is imminent. It should be available from Amazon by the 4th of August. I encourage my readers to seek it out - then tell me what you think.

It is a book of nostalgia, and laughter, written with respect and love for a man and a village whose hearts were alive and beating for most of the second half of the 20th century. Both the man and the coalfields are now gone and little villages like this struggle to stay alive. More's the pity.

Pithead Winding Gear

John Drummond - Research Article

2nd July 2015

Bringing to your attention the first part of my latest piece of work published. I am sure it would interest the History buffs among you - irrespective of country or your view of what it is all about.This is the July-August portion; the second part follows in September-October.

See www.historyscotland.com
vol 15, number 4

Getting to grips with America...continued.

Thursday 18 June 2015

Start of a More Critical attitude towards Hollywood films

I think 'Brigadoon' set me off. Despite a couple of memorable tunes, it was crass stuff! Then, Mary Queen of Scots was 'murdered' by Elizabeth and Lord Chancellor Burleigh in so many ways, I lost count. 

 Mary Queen of Scots

The (first) film about 'Greyfriars Bobby' passes muster. It's about the faithful little dog that slept on its masters grave every night until it also passed away. The dog's statue still stands outside the Kirk of the Greyfriars, in Edinburgh, where his master lies.

Greyfriars Bobby

They did better with RLS's 'Treasure Island' and 'Kidnapped', but a foul job with his 'Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde'. 

 Robert Louis Stevenson

Also, it seems to have completely missed Americana that Sir Walter Scott's imagination provided the substance for countless 'sword, shield and buckler' type of presentations, like 'Ivanhoe';

Ivanhoe

that Arthur Conan Doyle's life in Edinburgh laid the basis for his Sherlock Holmes character;

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Sherlock Holmes

or that J M Barrie created 'Peter Pan, or the Boy who wouldn't Grow Up'. 

J M Barrie

Perhaps I should be thankful that Hollywood eyes have not yet fallen upon the poet, Robert Burns! Or have they?

Robert Burns

Another, almost unforgivable trait is the feeble perception by Hollywood moguls of what

Scots have brought to the world. Despite having been at the forefront of almost every field of endeavour in the political, commercial and industrial worlds; in discovery and the mapping of the earth; in engineering, inventiveness, medicine, education and botany.

 What  is usually served is a re-hash of haggis, shortbread, tartan, kilts and bagpipes.

The unvarnished truth is that Scots (learning a great deal from others, and especially from the Dutch) developed professionalism in every major field from the 1680s: such as in medicine, education and botany. This was long before the rest of the world was even aware of such a word as 'professional'.  

The nearest to any form of recognition from American producers are the feats of Andrew Carnegie and that of 'Scotty' in 'Star Trek' (the one an industrialist, the other an engineer). 

Andrew Carnegie

Have they never heard of the finance genius, John Law and the founding of New Orleans; of Mackenzie and the North-West passage; 

John Law of the Mississippi Scheme

of Dr Livingstone - other than Stanley's "Dr Livingstone, I presume". 

 Livingstone

When will they 'do' a production that appraises the Scottish Enlightenment—and of the impact this had on founding America?

Alexander Graham Bell, although the invention was made in America where he had settled, was a Scot. So was Pinkerton and his detective agency, who hailed from Glasgow; protecting Presidents was one of his duties.

Alexander Graham Bell

To me, the 'daddy of them all' (i.e. the best) was James Clerk Maxwell, who really laid the ground work for all future inventions in electricity, magnetism and optics. He inspired Einstein and was regarded as the middle man between Isaac Newton and himself.

James Clerk Maxwell

What the above really says, readers, is that I had discovered who I really am. No longer was there a prism always in front of my eyes, directing my vision and thought through the projections of Hollywood, England, Europe or elsewhere.

In the words of yet another incredible Scot, Sir Patrick Geddes, I am now able to: 'Think global, act local'. 
I am a Scot.

Conclusion,,,for the time being...of Getting to grips with America