Coals to Newcastle. Sand to the Sahara. Add to that – Crime to a Crime writer. With swift slight of hand by a fellow train passenger, I’ve just become the victim of a real crime and I’m now one iPhone lighter than I want to be.  The sheer brazen way in which the perpetrator half-inched my phone when it fell to the carriage floor amazes me. I’m mid type on my laptop when I hear a thump. ‘My phone!’ I think – given it was resting on my bag I assumed it had fallen off. I close the laptop, check my bag and notice that the person behind me seems to be rooting around beneath my seat. By the time I stand up he’s sitting upright and tries to look surprised when I ask if he has seen my phone. ‘Why did you drop something?’ comes the reply. The look of innocence convinces me that maybe I was mistaken so I go through the ‘I’ve lost something routine’.

Check bag. Check jacket. Check bag again. Check pockets. Check floor. Empty bag. Re-check jacket. Re-check floor. Empty bag once more. Check floor once more. Pause. Consider where else it could be? Come up blank and go through the check and re-check thing all over again. Ask one of the other passengers to phone my phone – they do so three times – answer machine only. Back to the check thing.

A dozen phone calls to various lost property offices and the British Transport Police and I’m more convinced now, than ever, that the person sitting behind me on the train has flogged my phone down the pub for fifty quid!

Of course I could have lost my phone. I doubt it, but I can be forgetful.  Every time I leave the house my wife awaits my return – which is never more than sixty seconds later – and looks on as I hunt for forgotten keys, phones, briefcases, jackets, wallets etc. Hotels around the land now possess a range of my clothes, toiletries, chargers and assorted bric-a-brac. Pens lie in my client’s offices never to be collected. Half finished books lounge by pools in foreign lands. All in all I have to admit that I’m cursed with the forgetful gene. But I’m not the worst.

Many years ago I worked in a garage pumping petrol. It was the good old days when self-service was still a thing of the future. It was a Sunday just after lunch and a man in an Austin Allegro rolled in. I fill up the tank. £5 to the brim. And he looks at me. I’ve seen the look before. No money. So what does he do? He asks his seven year old kid to jump out the car and, before I can object, drives off shouting that he’ll nip back for his wallet and the kid can act as collateral.

Half an hour later, and with the child full of lemonade and crisps, there is no sign of dad. I ask the kid ‘Where’s your house?’ and he informs me that  ‘It’s near the school’ just as the Allegro reappears – burning rubber. The passenger door flies open and the mother rushes up to me to reclaim her child. I smile, she looks at me and points to the car. ‘He forgot about our son. He was heading off for golf when I asked him where John was? Can you believe my husband?’

Back then the answer was no. Thirty years on – the answer is probably yes. But please don’t tell my wife.

The lads and myself are not long back from our annual pilgrimage to the beautiful island of Gigha. When I say lads I may be stretching the definition a little but our behaviour, over the four days, can often have more in common with a herd of teenagers than a clique of quadragenarians.

Some of us have been going to the island, on and off, for thirty years and the squad that descended upon the isle this year are now on their fifteenth consecutive long May bank holiday trip.  As with most men of our age we have embraced our ever blossoming OCD to great effect and each of us has our allocated tasks to perform. So well-worn is our desire for order that we have reduced the need for communication prior to the trip to zero because we all know exactly what is expected of each other. Food, accommodation, drink, transport, the kitty – even the weather are all the responsibility of set individuals.

Weather?

Yes we have our own resident Weather God in our midst. For the avoidance of doubt his job is not to forecast the weather – that would be a mundane use of his talents. His job is to improve the weather. In fact his job is more than this.  He is singly tasked to ensure that the temperature is pleasant and the rainfall slight.  Each year he’s instructed by us all to do whatever it is a Weather God does and ensure that Gigha is blessed with the sort of weather normally reserved for small Carribbean islands.

The intriguing thing about this bizarre request is that in the last fifteen years he has yet to let us down.  For fifteen years we have climbed hills, lounged on beaches, drank in beer gardens and played golf without the need for waterproof clothing or the feel of a thick fleece upon our persons. Statistically it’s an anomaly of extraordinary proportions. We are, after all, talking the west coast of Scotland in late April/early May. We should be delighted if we enjoy even the odd day of sunshine but our Weather God stares at the sky and dares the clouds to darken our frivolities. And so far they never have.

Go figure. If we were to reveal this fact to the public at large we could have our own entry in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Our Weather God could easily become the Uri Geller of 2010’s.  His skill could transform our fortunes. Think of the demand for someone that can ensure that perfect wedding day will not need brollies or that the local fun day will require an extra large stall selling sun-tan lotion. William and Kate even benefited from our Weather God’s will this year when he gave a quick glance at the telly on the Friday and no rain fell in London.

Of course it could be that I am using rose tinted glasses to look back over many years of good times on the island with my friends but, deep down, I know this is not the case.  Deep down I suspect there is more to it all and I’ve already asked if our Weather God would work on four days of sun from the 27^th April to the 30^th April 2012. As such please take advantage of this event and book a barbeque for that weekend. No umbrellas will be required.

Scott and I did a special Laid Back from the Isle of Gigha  - click here to listen – http://soundcloud.com/brown27/laid-back-may-13th/s-jcmxf

Foreigner, Journey and Styx. Not a London based legal firm of lawyers but three ageing giants of the 1980’s US rock scene. Resplendent in tight jeans (or for the brave – spandex), capped sleeve tee-shirts and topped off with long frizzy hair this trio, along with other ‘legends’ such as Reo Speedwagon, Chicago, Asia, Huey Lewis and the News  – the list seems endless – represented a world of excess wrapped in the Stars and Stripes.  I mention them because I have been arm twisted by a friend into seeing the triple act in full flow this summer, well let’s be honest here – almost full flow.  They are not quite in the Zimmer territory of some of the 1960’s bands on tour at the moment – but I’m not counting on witnessing any Dave Lee Roth trademark, ten feet high, leg splits.

What I am expecting is an audience that has, like yours truly, never quite let go of the 80’s. Not that I haven’t tried to divorce myself from the decade. Sometimes I can go months without playing OMD’s greatest hits. I even forgot the words to Relax by Frankie Goes to Hollywood once – but rescued the situation by playing it thirty times on my iPod while in the gym – damn fine gym track by the way.

Beyond music I still have every note, folder and book from my university days. Why? Good question. They have lain untouched since my graduation, twenty-seven years ago and I suspect that they may still be there, providing I’m still here, twenty-seven years from now.

It’s not a desire to stay young that drives this behaviour. Rather it’s my reluctance to let go of certain items. LP’s (for the young amongst you LP’s are Long Playing vinyl records) videos, DVD’s, books – I still have every one that I’ve ever purchased or been gifted. I can go on holiday with a dozen books and unless they are all in my bag on the flight home I feel cheated.

But I have a dilemma. A digital dilemma. As the proud owner of both a Kindle and iPod I now ‘own’ books and music that lack any tangible presence. My Virgin TV box is full of movies that are nothing more than one and zeroes on a hard drive. The radio show that I do every few weeks is no longer stored on a tape but is hidden in the guts of the station’s computer.

As such my hoarding is now moving from the physical to the electronic and I have a vision of me sitting in my dotage, surrounded by cracked and broken MP3 players, flaky PC’s and a pile of rusting hard drives.

But what’s to become of me with the next wave of content distribution – streaming. A world where Stephen King’s latest book or OMD’s fourth comeback album will exist in the so called ‘cloud’. What will I own then? A password? A user ID? Or maybe, just maybe, I will be able to stand next to some non-descript server in a darkened warehouse, stroking the metal casing – knowing my ‘virtual’ music and books live there.  Digital tourism at it’s most extreme. Then I will wait for the day that the server is consigned to the scrap heap and I can offer to purchase it, take it home and, happily, continue my hoarding ways.

Every second Friday I forget about the day job and, armed with a friend of longer standing than we both care to mention, take up the mantle as DJ’s on the local community radio station – Pulse 98.4. We enter the studios at three o’clock and pre record a two hour show of laid-back music (imaginatively entitled Laid Back with Gordon and Scott) and at five we move to live mode and host the drive- time show for an hour.

If you’re one of the poor souls who have heard us, you’ll understand why we have acquired the Smashy and Nicey tag. But we like to think that we put some care and attention into both programmes. We prepare before hand. Well, Scott does. He has become the king of Wikepedia in his pre show research. I fully expect him to pop up on TV sitting in that famous black chair to the introduction – ‘Mr Ballantyne you have two minutes on your chosen subject – Laid Back Music 1950 to the present day. Who reached number 9 in the US country Charts in 1967 with ‘Little Old Wine Drinker Me?’’

My research tends to be limited. In fact my co-host’s view is that I just talk rubbish for three hours.  Our audience is unknown. The station has no research budget to speak of and, as such, we rely on anecdotal feedback and the odd text  – you can text on 0753 898 4984 or find us live on www.pulseonair.co.uk – oops force of habit.

So, in a 21^st century orientated experiment I decided to employ the power of Social Media to see if we could stretch the listening boundaries of the station. Well when I say me I really mean a friend who lives in Germany and happens to have an international Facebook profile. Using her network we trailed the show with her friends and, at five o’clock, waited to see what feedback we got.

The result was a global jamboree. Individuals from Singapore, Uganda, the USA, Germany (off course), Spain and Australia are now official Pulse 98.4 listeners. Which is impressive when you consider it was six in the morning in Sydney, two in the morning in Singapore and ten in the morning in Los Angeles. As to what use the traffic report for the M77 or the gig guide for the West of Scotland would be in those countries is hard to fathom. And the news story about the new bin lorry that East Renfrewshire Council had just purchased will no doubt be the talk of the steamy in Kampala. I’m also sorry to report that the request for “Tú mirada me hace grande” by Maldita Nerea.  (currently riding high in the Spanish charts) beat the Pulse 98.4 record library.

What they thought of the Glaswegian accents will have to remain a mystery.

Oh and just in case you are wondering who did chart with ‘Little Old Wine Drinker Me’ in 1967 – you lose two points if you said Dean Martin. It was, of course, that star of screen, Robert Mitchum.

I’m trawling through looking for favourite quotes. So far I like -

‘Creativity is the defeat of habit by originality.’ Arthur Koestler.

I’m appearing with Karen Campbell at The ‘Wee’ Fish and Chips Crime Night at Milngavie Bookshop on Monday the 21st of March. Details will be avilable soon at:  http://www.milngaviebookshop.co.uk/bookshopevents.html

I was recently asked to join two fellow crime writers, Alex Gray and Tony Black, on a visit to Barlinnie prison.  We were asked to do a reading for some of the prisoners to be followed by a ‘question and answer’ session. Alex has been on a number of these before but I was new to the whole prison thing.

Thirty expectant prisoners listened to the three of us read from our various books before we all gathered for a photo and some chat.  To say we were facing a critical audience was a bit of an understatement. In a previous event Alex Gray had been reading from her last book, entitled ‘Five Ways to Kill A Man’, when she mentioned the title. There was a cough and one of her audience was heard to whisper – ‘I know a lot more than five ways!’

But our audience was both attentive and inquisitive. Leading to quite a bit of banter.  After the reading Rhona Hotchkiss, the deputy governor, was kind enough to offer us a short tour of the prison.

Constructed in 1882 the prison is Victorian architecture at its most effective. Built when space was more of an opportunity than a challenge it could double as the set from Porridge in many places. Two prisoners to a cell is the norm. I spent a couple of minutes inside one of the cells used for those on their first night and it was enough to convince me I don’t want to become a resident.

The whole complex is a maze of buildings, walkways and walls.  With nearly a hundred and thirty years of history behind the establishment there are stories attached to every inch – ghosts (the third last man to be hanged in Scotland, Peter Manuel, still switches on the call light from his cell), infamous, (the building where Abdelbaset Mohmed Ali al-Megrahi was held on arrival is nicknamed Gaddafi’s Cafe) and the famous (Andy Scott – the artists behind the Heavy Horse on the M8 – is working with prisoners to put their own horse in the gardens this year) means there is more than a book to be written on Barlinnie – a whole series awaits.

There is an overriding sense of politeness to outsiders from both staff and prisoners.  More so than you would get walking through a five star hotel. Of course we could have been getting special treatment but my overall impression was of peace and quiet – not what I had expected.

My summation of the day – interesting, intriguing and instructive but I’ll not be in a hurry to go back – one day in prison was more than enough for this man.

Well the reading at Barlinnie Prison made the papers – see  The Sun. An eye opening day.  Alex Gray and Tony Black were the other writers on the visit (http://www.alex-gray.com/ and http://www.tonyblack.net/).

I think I’ll do my next Brown view on the visit.

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Should be interesting doing a reading in prison. I can’t decide what to read but I’m sure that a chapter from  59 Minutes – a book where a criminal gets his revenge might just go down well (or maybe not?).