Get Intae Them!

I am almost sure that I posted on this before. I also think. however, that said post shuffled off the Internet coil when MyT (may the Barclay Brothers rot in Hell and/or Sark) pulled the plug.

My Dad was British to both the depths of his soul and to the sole of his Army boots. Never altered the fact that he was ecstatic if a Scot or Scots team shoved it right up the fundament of the relevant Southron opponent. Continue reading “Get Intae Them!”


I can only claim to be a Mackie because of  my mother. Her surname is one of my middle names, in traditional Scots style. It’s what we do, nomenclature-wise.

In case you have forgotten it. that is why Bob Wilson, stalwart keeper of the Arsenal goal, and one of the better Jock custodians.  in my opinion. rejoices in the middle name of ‘Primrose’. Continue reading “Clarification”

Fond Memories

Every so often, I read a story that drags me back  too many years.

This is one that just did it for me:-

As an an Army-born brat, my  initial reaction was that junior officers will be junior officers.  I would not want them to be anything else, given the excellent  job that they will do for my country in their future years of service. They would not, in my opinion, be able to do that  vital job for the rest of us unless they were  heid-banger inclined  in the first place. I could, of course, be biased. Continue reading “Fond Memories”

Stay or Go – Immigration

Uncontrolled immigration is  a bad thing.

You English Southrons are, comparatively,  living cheek by jowl  with a population density of 413 per square kilometre. Yet again, we Celts are holding you back from being right up there, c by j-wise. To be fair, you could never hope to compete with top of the table Monaco and  their 25,718.12 psm. Continue reading “Stay or Go – Immigration”

‘They Think It’s All Over.’

I’m a wee bit Reginald* tonight.

On the evening of 16th December 1964, I was part of a crowd of just under 5,000 which crammed itself into Muirton Park (record attendance 29,972 when we were robbed 1-3 in the Cup by one of the teams from the Armpit of the Universe which is rightly reviled  throughout the civilised world). Also known as Dundee.

Where was I? Oh yes, 16th December 1964. We had  finally managed to afford floodlights, thanks to selling Jim Townsend to Middlesbrough  for £20,000  and we had invited a top team for the official onswitch.  It was the FA Cup  holders, West Ham. Continue reading “‘They Think It’s All Over.’”

Welcome Back – Hands Across the M8

Those of you not fortunate enough to endure existence in Caledonia (stern and wild) under the benevolent and all-intruding rule of Wee Nippy (aka Mother Nicola)  probably don’t care very much about the football-related tribal strife which has, on occasion, stained our national name.

Wow. Just wow! That’s a whole paragraph with one sentence. Mind, I’m swithering a wee bit about whether it needs a comma after ‘wild)’ and ‘Nicola)’.

 Whatever!  Continue reading “Welcome Back – Hands Across the M8”


My father went to University (Embra) in 1932. Started in New College doing Divinity but quickly strayed on to the primrose path of the Arts Faculty. For which deviation I have always been grateful. I just know that I would not have been happy being a son of the Manse like Gordon Brown or David Steel.

Anyhow, he made lots of friends at said Uni of Embra. One of said chums  was a Hebridean Medical student called Donald. Jock-wise,  a very common Christian name but it came with an unusual surname.

Which was Duck. Continue reading “Hindsight”