Cultural Inspiration !!


I’ve started a lot of blogs in the past but none that have really hit it off. Yet today I started this blog a Scottish Lassie and It feels like I’ve hit the nail on the head Finally. I thought about making a blog on a lot of things books , music , leftism but they all seem very generic and I’m not sure if I’m an outstanding enough reviewer to survive against the hundreds of  blogs on these topics out there. So I thought whats close to home? what is there about me that isn’t dull that I would like to be defined by? My culture of course! I come from Scotland and our culture isn’t something you could run out of writing about quickly for such a small population everyone knows we are a power house when it comes to the arts , sciences and recipes. America may have burgers but it will never beat a fried mars bar , England may have Easterners but can compete against Harry potter , Sherlock homes , and Doctor Who …… I think not !!! Music they can have Justine Bieber any day we have Biffy , Twin Atlantic , Frightened Rabbit .And our language is the brawest of them all. Should I go on ………

  • Tunnock’s Tea Cakes
  • Penicillin
  • Andy Murray
  • Sectarianism
  • The telly
  • coos
  • oats – We conquered hunger.
  • Aileen Paterson
  • Bagpipes

OK you get the picture ,

other country’s may have their riches but it will never beat our whisky. 🙂



The lethargic traipsing days of august
Signify the winding down of summer
And stirs up past memories of youth
To the forefront of our minds.
For our soul to replay and scrutinise.
As we walk in a constant state of stupor in the time between
Rising from sheets and covers.
In anticipation of returning to them again.
To pick through moments of the past with a thin tooth comb
Like burning bleach against bare skin
and then releasing suddenly.
let go to drift as rich green leaves
and be picked up and shepherd listlessly by the breeze.
The bitter remains of them only conscious to us as a distant sour smell from the drain at the end of the street.

Seagulls trail the polluted grey sky above
Their silhouettes, plump fully grown and of the purest white
Catching the corners of the sky with their wings, slicing through the polluted grey clouds
To reveal sacred patches of the clearest blue.
In seaside towns.
In the inner urban towns, sickly and diseased
Their bodies Decaying on top of plastic bus shelters
Stragglers One-day closer to death.


A Collection Of Fag Butts Short Story (Part 2)


Jack Walked across the site. Dirt and rocks crumbling beneath his steel cap boots , the ground he walked on dusty and uneaven. He leant down heaving up a few bricks and sliding them under his arm in a routine manner. He stumbled across to where the house was being built and began to lay. Spreading on a layer of grey murky cement and then placing the brick on top. This was the filling of time in his days. His life one brick on top of another. The mundane repetitivness enough to keep insanity and fear at bay. The soothing relieve of money into the bank account at the end of the month ; enough to allow the objections to slide. To worn down by austerity to read a newspaper , to take an interest in politics. That life couldnt be his , comfort , clarity , security. Hope. Even if he deserved it.

He allowed his thoughts to drift off to an image of his partner. Her slender figure which made him tingle with animal desire , her charming smile which drew you to her like a moth , her flattering laugh which could make you giddy. Yet now she was gone. As quick as a memory. In a box in the ground a future erased ; a life extinguished like a naked flame. How someone could be standing next to you ; merged into every part of your life and the next minuit had disapeared was completly incomprehensible to Jack. He still expected her to be their in the place he had last saw her. A disorientation that it was impossible that he could never talk to her again , laugh with her again. Hold her in his arms and feel protected for one small moment in a world no one was safe in. He still carried the greif with him like a dusty old scarve that made each breath thick , heavy and difficult.

Most nights he spent alone , lagar can in hand the echoey flat only an empty shell and not something he could call home. Possesions scattered like a shrine , items that could never belong there anymore. Without her he was nothing. A one sided coin. An empty side of the bed. A shadow of a life. He stuffed it with booze and oven chips , saturday football matches and news at six. Mundane things. Things to keep killing time. To block out the fact he was alone in the world. Survival was necessary. Living was painful , unbearable , hopeless. Yet death scared him. Like it scared most men. So he carried on. One brick after another.

A Collection Of Fag Butts (Short Story Part 1)


He Leant against the brick wall. Th dry tabbaco floating over his lips and eveporating into the air. The process of the chalky smoke being inhaled through his mouth into his lungs , destroying little parts of him gave him the sense of twisted pleasure and relaxation. It formed a mask , against the guilt , fear and bitterness. It was a satisfactory action , to twist the slim pale ciggeret between his idle fingers. Knumbing the agitation and despair he felt. Despair as an adult wasn’t like despair as a child it paralised you steeped into every corner of your mind like cancer , dulling it.

“Jack for frig sake” his friend called to him his voice broad and masculine the tounge of the building trade. A language created as a dry attempt to keep at bay the vulnrability the men felt when they lay in their beds at night darkness cast over them , their children sleeping contently behind a door only a few steps away and the knowledge that the strength of their body was the only thing protecting them from drowning in the hands of the state. “Come on you aint got time for a cig I need this job finished today” his pal grumbled. Him eyes were heavy and worn his mind fatigued his body run down , like most of the boys. “Al…right” Jack moaned. Rumination was a fault Jack despised of himself. The inability to just accept and get on was a weakness he’d been torchered by all his days and bitter envy grew in him , of those who could escape the grasp of it.

I’m An Idol Of Amy Winehouse..


Amy Winehouse music is beautiful. I’ve recently been listening to Back To Black on repeat. There’s something captivating and haunting about this song. She really is a symbol of lower class woman. Some lines I love are

“He left no time to regret Kept his dick wet” this line although vulgar captures how woman are taken advantage of and discarded by men and highlights her bitterness towards the man she is singing about.

“We only said goodbye with words i died a hundred times ” This line does suggest she has some affection for her lover and misses him.

“You go back to her and I go back to black” This line symbolises her despair at losing her lover and perhaps her situation. As she only wears black.

Keep Warm – Prose


Set 1915


She sat in the draftee bus station her knees trembling slightly the mettle bench beneath her cold against her thin stockings and skirt there were only a few others around her. One man sat to her left his eyes looked threatening. Angry. As they darted from one spot to another anxiously but his tattooed arms were too thin his shoulders hunched, his frail body crumpling around him. The station smelt of damp linoleum and urine. A draft came in from the open doors the building offering little warmth against the cold. She stood up stiffly and shuffled out of the building the light making her eyes stumble to grasp the outline of shapes. She peered at the times displayed on the shelter at her bus stance. There was only one other woman who stood there. She looked in her fifties her face yellowed and worn, wearing a heavy duffle coat puffing wearily on a cigarette. She stood as if she didn’t have anywhere particular to go. Like most at the bus station did walking around listlessly from the shopping centre and back only for the sake of being around other human beings. It was that or the confident of your own four walls that gave enough allusion of safety to make a soul go mad. There was a bakers in the shopping centre with a café that sold cheap cups of tea, so she decided to head up there. Trailing back through the station and up the hill past the labour exchange and bookies. She passed woman with prams, and some with children too young for school or off absent. To most children would bring joy yet here it saddened her. Children brought into this, what sort of life would they live? What sort of life was there anymore?


The man at the bus station stood up and approached her as she walked out. He was thin and bare headed and his skin was pale with a sickly yellow tinge to it. She made brief eye contact with him, only to instantly regret it. “excuse me you got any change for the bus “he asked stopping her and holding out his hand. His wrist had a prison tattoo on it a permanent marker of his inadequacy in society.  Ann backed away feeling taken aback by his presence and uneasy in his company. “na sorry mate” she lied and walked on quickly relieved to get away, feeling his piercing empty eyes follow her.


She approached the cafe counter slowly. The place was deadened and gloomy there was no other customers apart from two middle aged women who sat tucked away at the window. “how can I help you luv” The woman at the counter asked. She ordered a tea and iced bun fumbling with her purse and handing too much change to the woman, who tipped a shilling back into her hand shaking her head slightly. She chose a small stained wooden table near the window in the light, so she had a clear view of the buses as they taxied in and out. The woman brought her tea over to her placing the metal pot, china cup and jug of milk down in front of her. She thanked her, and got a warm smile in return as the woman turned and walked back behind the counter. She picked up the pot her hand trembling slightly from the weight as she poured the steaming liquid into her cup. The women sat a few tables in front with their backs to her. One of them had a strong broad accent and was bitching loudly about woman from her work. “I don’t ken how they can let her do that job , she should nea be a carer,  I heard one of them pissed themselves and she just left them sitin in it for a week , and now she’s  aff  te work for the cooncil” “Yeah” the other replied. Ann poured the milk into her tea watching as it spread out polluting the translucent liquid. She raised the cup to her lips taking a gulp it was milky and warm the way she liked it and seemed to sooth her tired body and mind.


Les Miserables Film Reveiw – Part 1


Les miserables is by far one of my favourite films. Revolution is something I will always believe in as I live in quite a deprived area and believe in people revolting and standing up for themselves. I also love the fact that this film is a musical as it makes the whole story come together and makes it more entertaining.

The main themes in this film are love and redemetion as you have the love between cosette and Marious , you also have the love between John Van John and cosette , and epionees denied love for Marious. Another theme in the film is Justice as you have the scene where the people of France revolt and stand up. A last theme is conflict as you have the conflict between John Van John and Javert , also the conflict between the people of France and The police and army.

The film is set in 19th centuary France and centres around the 1832 revolt. To this day their is still a higher proportion of riots and discontent in France than any other European country. The film starts with John Van John getting freed from Prison on Parol and seeking shelter at a Priests church. There he attempts to steel the priests silver only to be cought. However the Priest tells the police he gifted the Silver to John Van John. This is where the theme of redemption comes in as the priest frees John Van John from sin.

Another theme in the film is Poverty. A lot of the film is set in the slums of Paris. For example near the start of the film fantine looses her job and sinks to the gutters.There she becomes a prostitute out of desperation to earn money to support her daughter. This part of the film is particularly moving as we see a different darker side of society. She ends up dying from catching a fever and exuastion at her situation and leaves her daughter in the care of John Van John.

On Nationalism

So recently I’ve turned more in the direction of nationalism. Scotland is basically a slave state under the English. With all of our oil money “disappearing ” and leaving scotland in dismal poverty. I wouldn’t say personally I adore the Scottish government basically because I don’t really stand behind in any government as I believe in a free state one where the people take charge and arnt dictated under any shitty party. Being the lowest in society isn’t fun living on nothing (so please subscribe to me and give me some money , just a wee plug there ) so yeah I believe in taking from the rich and giving to the poor it must work. We need higher taxation in this country to make things fairer and to create a more liberated society !! Freedom !!

Scaffolding Of The Old Primary School (Poem)

Scaffolding Of The Old Primary School

The skeleton of scaffolding holds up the old-school building.

Pigeons flutter upon it,

Resting their fragile wings

Against the brickwork of damp heat.

Preparing for the new year ahead.

No hint of death or reek scorches the pale sky above.

On this sacred new years day

Only the fluttering of pigeons wings breaks the silence.

The old school lies destitute

joys and innocence

Humble walls stripped bare.

Washed of the echos of laughter and

Whispered mutterings of prayer.

In those walls the masses learnt to read

To weave their names of worthiness.

Then each etched letter wrung equal against the other

Wither scrawled or painted in calligraphy.

Against the fresh blank page.

That place where their ignorance first began to fade.

All that’s left the mettle scaffolding

Trapping our deep desired hopes

And faint touches of glory.

Where our identity was first formed.

In that old worn brick three story.