Kenneth Roy Eck’s literary luvvies Jim Swire An…

29.03.12
No. 533

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North Berwick flowers

Photograph by
Islay McLeod

The politician

who knows where I

should stick my pen

Kenneth Roy

Tobermory: he’s banned here too
Photograph by Islay McLeod (who’s not banned)

One of Perth’s civic leaders, Councillor Peter Barrett, makes an interesting suggestion. He writes in a slightly coarse fashion that if I want to know where to stick my pen, he can arrange for someone in Perth to give me directions.

     Faced with this offer from an elected representative – ie someone taken seriously enough to have been voted for – what am I to do? The sensible answer is: keep out of Perth. But it occurs to me that before I finally depart for that independent republic in the sky, I might wish to make a valedictory trip to the Salutation Hotel, home of the cheery barmaid. I took, then, the precaution of looking up Councillor Barrett’s website, so that if, on any future undercover visit to the city, I see anyone bearing a resemblance, I will know to run for cover.
     He looks benign enough, I must say. It was also reassuring to note that he is both a Liberal Democrat and a Kirk elder. Neither of these facts surprises me. In the expectation that he is a star of the future, even a possible successor to the rather ineffectual Willie Rennie, I will alert my friend Jock Gallagher, a person of some influence in the Liberal Democrats, to the existence of Councillor Barrett.
     But why – oh why?, as they used to say in the better tabloids – have I incurred the wrath of this chappie? It dates back to a mild-mannered piece a few weeks ago in which I related a mildly funny anecdote about the Salutation Hotel before provocatively dissenting from the award of city status to Councillor Barrett’s pleasant enough wee toon by the Tay. I said that Perth was clearly far too pleased with itself to merit such an award and that it should go to Paisley instead.
     Actually, I didn’t mention Paisley. But it’s not a bad idea. You will recall that an on-the-make politician, Endymion from Disraeli’s novel of the same name, fell in with Job Thornberry, a wise man from Manchester. Job advised Endymion, who was on a reccy of the restless provinces, to go to Kilmarnock and Paisley if he had a mind to test the mood of the natives, but to keep a particular eye on Paisley, where (Job reckoned) the revolution would start if it started at all. There was, alas, no revolution and people have stopped keeping an eye on Paisley. It is time to rescue that splendid burgh.
     I think I’m still welcome in Paisley, but otherwise my travel options are diminishing steadily. The island of Mull imposed a life ban in 1987 after a piece of inoffensive satire about the bus drivers who operate out of Craignure pier; I haven’t dared to return, although I did send my representative on earth, the deputy editor, to Mull last year and she came back in one piece, although minus a coat which disappeared mysteriously in the night. Perth, despite my brave intentions, is probably a no-go area. Falkirk, my native town, isn’t happy either, since I recommended the demolition of the 1960s Town Hall (I would prefer a decent theatre in its place). And then, worryingly, there’s Bannockburn.
     Read this from 1987:

In the afternoon, I took a bus into the Stirling suburbs, where auld Scotia had its finest moment. But Bannockburn was a severe letdown. The 1314 Inn, my first stop, was a plain establishment, large, with a tired lino floor. Miss Duffy, the barmaid, was talking to a customer who had just finished his shift at the bus garage. What had he been doing, Miss Duffy asked. ‘Nothin’,’ said the man from the garage. ‘Loafin’ aboot. Playin’ the space invader’. And that was about it, really, down at the bus garage.
     The scene was dominated by a card game being played on a long table in the centre of the pub. The competitors bemoaned the effect of unemployment on the supply of stake money for their late-night sessions in Bannockburn backrooms. Most of the men smoked, and the most popular brand was Embassy Regal in packets of 10; I wondered if, on a bad night, it might be possible to buy fags singly in the 1314 Inn. Everybody wore black shoes, well polished.
      As I left the pub, I paused at a notice board advertising the bus to Hampden, where Bannockburn Amateurs were due to play in the Cup Final. (‘Hearts Scarves To Be Worn If Possible. No Children’). ‘So that’s you away, then,’ said a man from the other end of the room. These were the first and last words spoken to me in the 1314 Inn.

    
Routine stuff, you will agree; a tiny passage from a book of travels. Unhappily for me, the Glasgow Herald, in its serialisation of the book, chose to publish my impressions of the 1314 Inn (and of Mull bus drivers, come to think of it). A second Battle of Bannockburn was threatened. The proprietor of the 1314 Inn, a Mr Duffy, possibly related to the Miss Duffy of the passage quoted above, wrote to the Glasgow Herald challenging me to a duel outside the pub. The paper, thinking this a great idea, made quite a big deal out of Mr Duffy’s proposal. Like a coward, I declined to accept the challenge. But I can assure the first minister that there is no need for a full-scale renactment of the first Battle of Bannockburn on its 700th anniversary in 2014. A duel on the steps of the 1314 Inn would probably do just as well. I could play the dead Englishman.
     Nothing – I mean nothing – causes greater offence than assaults, real or imagined, on Scotland’s acutely developed sense of local patriotism. It is a much more powerful force than nationalism. Local govermment reorganiation may have robbed many familiar placenames of their formal identity – does anyone know where Paisley belongs any more? – but reputations are jealously guarded and criticisms, however well-intentioned, tend not to be tolerated. Falkirk does need to pull down its Town Hall and build a decent theatre on the site; but Falkirk doesn’t want to hear it.
     This is not a practical problem any more. Very few journalists leave the security of their own desks. But those who insist of venturing out into the Bannockburns and Perths, the Fakirks and Tobermorys, do so at their
own risk.

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