Yesterday’s Herald carried a piece in Ken Smith’s diary on the upcoming reading at Barlinnie:

‘WE note that crime authors Alex Gray, Tony Black and Gordon Brown are visiting Glasgow’s Barlinnie Jail on February 15 to talk to the inmates about the pure escapism of reading fiction, although that’s perhaps not the escapism some of the audience might have in mind.

We only mention it as having Gray, Black and Brown under the same roof makes it sound like a Scottish version of Reservoir Dogs, but of course, being Scottish, it is not as colourful as Hollywood’s Mr Pink, Mr Blue, Mr White and Mr Orange.’

http://www.heraldscotland.com/comment/ken-smiths-diary/mirror-mirror-on-the-wall-the-diary-tuesday-1-february-2011-1.1082890

Back in Black.

As spring threatens to blossom did you noticed the predominance of black clothing this winter? I can’t tell if it has always been this way or if I’m just noticing it more. It was as if someone famous had died and we were all in mourning. I’d guess that half the individuals I saw on the street were, in part, clothed in black. Yet, and here is the strange bit, when I walked through East Kilbride shopping centre the clothing shops were not awash with black garments.  They were (and, ladies, this is the official top ten colours for spring) a rainbow of Honeysuckle, Russet, Coral Rose, Peapod, Blue Curacao, Beeswax, Lavender, Silver Peony and Silver Cloud. For the lads, and I have this on good authority, we should be wearing Barberry, Firecracker, Turf Green, Beeswax, Linen, Russet, Regatta, Blue Curacao, Lavender or Flint Grey.

You will notice that at no point does black feature. I looked up the winter colours in case there had been a mad focus on the darkest of dark shades. I mean, maybe the January sales had been one giant ‘funeral-cortege’ and I had missed it all. But no – black was not a winter colour.

In fact black hasn’t been a season’s fashion colour for years. As such I am left with the inescapable conclusion that although many of us step heavily in the footsteps of the fashion gurus of this world, we do not renew our wardrobe anywhere near as often as the fashion police would demand. Gok Wan can pontificate all he wants about the importance of new clothes in changing your life but as far as I can work out most of us are wearing old clothes – seriously old clothes. How else can you account for the dominance of a colour that hasn’t seen a cat walk in a decade?

Do me a favour. Go to the place you keep your coats and lift out your favourite (no doubt black) coat and consider how long you have had it? A year. Two? More. I’m not a betting man but, and lads this is so much more likely to be you than the girls, some coats have more than ten years behind them. Why? Lack of cash? Laziness? Love?

Well US Senator Jim Hargrove has a theory. He recently sited (and this is gospel) that an old fraternity brother of his had been wearing the same trench coat for twenty years. Why? Because, as was observed by this respected member of the US political landscape, the coat owner in question has been smoking marijuana for the last two decades. Seriously. Marijuana?

Now I don’t know if the trench coat in question is black. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t but does this mean that if your next-door neighbour/friend/colleague (delete as necessary) has been wearing the same coat since the eighties that he/she has a serious narcotic addiction?

Does this potentially explain the sea of black that flowed down our streets?  Think of the consequences if it did? Answers on a postcard! Oh, and while your out buying the stamp, see if you can dig out a non-black coat and maybe we can add a little colour to these depressing times. Personally I fancy one with just a hint of Beeswax.

Gordon Brown lives and runs his business in Clarkston. He is a published author and his new novel ’59 Minutes’, published by Fledgling Press, is now out. For more info visit www.gordonjbrown.com.

I’m down to my first solo live outing on the radio this Friday. I’m on 5.00pm to 6.00pm Drivetime show  on Pulse 98.4FM or live on www.pulseonair.co.uk.

Eek.

Religious Tea

When I was young the background music to life was the whispering bubbling of a kettle coming to the boil.  This was born of two grandmothers who saw tea as more essential than air and held the drink in the same tones of reverence that the religious reserve for their God. Tea was a beverage for every conceivable occasion. From birth to death – tea was the one constant. Every disaster and every celebration had to be accompanied by a cup of fresh brew. On my grandmother’s planet the gap, in time, between cups of tea was so infinitesimal that it held a mathematical definition all of its own.

And tea came with rituals that were engraved on the front door of their homes. Loose tea – never tea bags. Warm the pot first. Leave to infuse for at least a month. Cup – with saucer of course and never, ever, a mug. Milk before tea and then sugar. Stir for another month. Leave for a heartbeat. Take an appreciative sip. Utter the words ‘that’s a lovely cup of tea’ and reach for the biccies/cake/bun* – (*delete as necessary.)

I was weaned on tea and the sad truth is that few kids nowadays drink the precious liquid. Too challenging a taste. Fizzy drinks are easier on the palate, they are less hassle and heaven forbid that a child would be asked to handle hot water! I entered the hallowed halls of tea before I could walk. My first cup of tea was not even a cup. Made with the same care as one destined for the best china but at the last minute diverted and poured into my bottle. Too milky, too sugary, too cool – but it was tea. Sucking it through rubber must have been ok because it started my life-long love affair with the stuff.

My mother has inherited the tea-worshiping gene and her fervour, along with two ‘tea addicted’ grannies, has given me a zeal for the stuff that borders on the obsessive. I have never knowingly refused a cup. I see it as an affront. My intake can be north of ten cups a day, but , and sorry Grans,  for me it has to be a mug – oh and I prefer tea bags (I can hear the sound of distant tutting as I type this).

‘I’ll just put the kettle on’ is such a great phrase. It presages everything that is good about life. In the good moments it is the bonus ball that will make you a millionaire. In the bad moments it is the super sticking plaster that will fix all.

If there is a way to sum up the power of the almighty tea leaf take the following as a case study.

Let me start by pointing out that the cardinal sin in the world of tea is to rise from a chair, with others around you, and make a cup for yourself without offering to do likewise for those nearby.  For a few years I worked at STV where I was notionally in charge of the station’s marketing, viewers enquiries and the voice over team. We all sat in an open plan office around tables that accommodated six people.  Sitting next to us was our colleagues that looked after the programme scheduling. As such, and it did take a few months to convert people to the correct tea etiquette, a trip to the office kitchen could easily result in the requirement to make a dozen cuppas. I think the record was fifteen. Did anyone complain? Did the flow of tea ever stop? Were we better off for the tea run? Answers – no, no and yes.  A powerful brew.

Tea for me is the ultimate bonding agent, a polite way to bring people together – a relationship maker.  Am I over-playing its importance? Well let me just make another cup of tea and I’ll tell you some more.

By the way do you take milk and sugar?

Scottish Field review for 59 Minutes  - click on http://www.scottishfield.co.uk/review/214-59_Minutes.html

The Six Man Sledge

On the 14^th and 15^th of April 1931 over 87.5 inches of snow fell on the town of Silver Lake in Colorado – all in a period of twenty seven and half hours. As far as I am aware, not one driver attempted to get in his car and drive off without first removing some snow.

Compare that with November/December 2010 in Glasgow where a fair proportion of drivers got into their cars, switched on the windscreen wipers and drove off with a crown of snow on their roof that would struggle to get under the rail bridge at Busby.

But this is not a rant fest and I’m not going to go off on one (even if such driver’s should be removed from their cars, keys confiscated and their licenses revoked). I make the point because the cold weather sent me on a nostalgia trip. As I write my daughter is off to the park for a bout of sledging. I adored sledging – not that I had the premoulded sleek sliding machine that she is dragging behind her. No, the pinnacle of my ingenuity was to sneak a six by four feet slab of Formica out of our house – blissfully unaware that it was intended to form the top of our new kitchen table.

It was the ultimate multi person sledge. Sitting at the top of my road, and we are talking the Mount Everest of the south side here, six of us sat astride the shiny surface. (If you want a sense of perspective on what is to follow take a trip to Simshill and stand at the top of the Farne Drive looking down to Old Castle Road).

The night was perfect. The road was clear of cars – as it always was back then. The snow was deep and untouched. The sense of anticipation was thick and it took only the smallest of nudges to set us off. With no steering and nothing to hold onto we clung to each other as we gathered speed. A lot of speed. Ski jumping type speed. We lost the first passenger as we passed our next door neighbour’s house at around thirty miles an hour. Numbers two and three were thrown clear as we mounted the pavement and bounced off a garden wall at closer to sixty. Number four was ripped from our bosom when his outstretched arm clipped a lamppost. By now we had topped the ton.  Two of us hung on – zipping backwards at close to the speed of sound – hearts racing, screaming into the iced air. The one downside, and it was a big downside, was that my road ended in a T junction and, with no possible means of steering around the corner, we exited the road, crossed the junction, hit the kerb, executed the perfect take off, flew into the garden of the house at the foot of our hill and died.

Well, not quite. What we actually did was drag the Formica back to the top of the hill, picking up the lost passengers as we climbed, and set off again in, as it turned out, a vain attempt to reach the bottom with six bodies on board.

As I remember it we tried to well past midnight but somehow we never managed to keep the six of us together for the whole trip.

There is a side story to this. The following morning, in the bright white of a snow lit day, the Formica top that had performed so heroically did not quite have the pristine shine and ‘fresh out the wrapper’ look of the previous evening. In fact it had more scratches than a nineties DJ and more chips than McDonalds. I can’t remember my father’s reaction but I think I may have wiped the bad from the good that day to preserve the wonder of the six-man sledge.

Out of sheer curiosity I’ve just checked online and a six foot length of Formcia can be had for a hundred quid at B&Q – expensive but I wonder if I still have the contact details of my five friends from back then…

The University of Scotland magazine – West has reviewed my latest book. I’ve posted the review below or you can click on http://www.uws.ac.uk/alumni/west-viewer.asp.

BANG ON THE HOUR

REVIEWED BY HELEN SEDGWICK

59 Minutes, the second novel from crime

writer Gordon Brown, gives us the unlikely

but exciting story of a petty Glaswegian

criminal who becomes one of the most

powerful crime lords in the UK. From

modestly violent beginnings as a gun for

hire in 70s gang-infested Scotland, ‘Riko’

narrates his rise to infamy with sharp bursts

of brutality, surprising observation and more

than a light sprinkling of humour. But all

does not end well for our ambitious Riko; just

as he has reached the top, he is sent right

back down again and finds himself plotting

revenge from his cell during a decade and a

half in prison.

On his release, he records his desperation,

obsession, and plans for vengeance on a

Dictaphone – recordings that appear have been

typed up for our benefit. But who are we?

And why have we been presented with this

questionable diary?

With plot twists that keep the pages turning

fast and an array of suspicious characters

without a morally decent thought between

them, the answers remain elusive for the

majority of the book. Descriptions of Glasgow

and London are vivid throughout and the

cities seem, for all their grim gore, surprisingly

recognisable; despite not being a crime lord

myself, I suspect I have walked the back streets

with the best of them. If you fancy a bit of sun,

there are some blistering scenes in Spain as

well, ensuring the backdrop never becomes

stale or over familiar. The diary entry style of

the second half keeps the pace up, and the

conclusion arrives with a satisfying boom that

ties up all the loose ends in one big bodybag.

If you like your thrillers fast and your criminals

with severed spinal cords, you’ll find this a

cracking read.

Falling has been put up for voting in the People’s Book Prize – so if you fancy supporting me click on this link – http://www.peoplesbookprize.com/book.php?id=494.

A big thanks to David at Hyndland Book shop for the opportunity to do a reading at the store. Good fun and a nice evening.

Chewing Gum for the Mind.

I was checking on upcoming TV programmes a few weeks ago and noticed that the first ten Star Trek films were being shown back to back (well almost) on Film 4. So I hit the little red button a few times and set my machine to ingest twenty three hours of Trekkie fodder on to the hard drive. (Who knows how these things work – but then again I’m still stunned that you can pause live TV!)

I’ve seen all the films before – in some cases multiple times. So why record them – and worse still – after twenty three hours of down time – why watch them all?

Then again, why did I, one Christmas, ask for every James Bond film? Why do I start watching Doctor No, go all the way through to Quantum of Solace and start again at the beginning?

Why?

Escapism.

The need to get away from the day to day.

Or as I like to call it – chewing gum for the mind.

What’s yours?

I have many more.

• I confess to listening to Women’s Hour when I’m in the car. A great show and a guaranteed way to stop thinking about whatever it is that is bugging me. I also kid myself that it puts me more in touch with the females of this world. Well, come on, the medical stories alone have opened my eyes to a whole world that guys usually avoid like the plague.
• I read – and read a lot. Everything from the latest thriller to twenty year old editions of the Beano (I love the Numbskulls).
• I go to the gym. I hate it with a vengeance but I go and, half way through the rowing machine – and it is always the rowing machine – my mind can focus on nothing else but the little clock telling me I have only two minutes of hell to go. All my other thoughts simply vanish.
• I go to the pub. But this only works when there is nothing major happening the following day. I can’t relax when I know that the alcohol entering my system is going to come back and bite me in that important meeting at 9.30 the next morning. ‘Booze Breath’ is a big no-no. Changed days from when I started work life – working for a brewery – where ‘Booze Breath’ was part of the job description – oh how the world has moved on – but that is the subject for another day.
• I go to a concert – I’m doing the sad retro thing at the moment – OMD, the Psychedelic Furs and Status Quo are all tickets in my pocket before Christmas. Sing-a-long time – or rather dance-a-long – or in the case of Quo – head-bang-a-long.
• I write – the best escape pod on the planet. As someone once said ‘writing is all about making up lies about people that don’t exist’ – just a great thing to do! Even sitting at the computer doing this piece is an exercise in putting off what I really should be doing.

This list could be much longer but, in my case, will never include the likes of DIY, gardening, car cleaning, cooking, decorating, maintenance, taxi driving (or as it is called in our house ‘giving the kids a lift’) or anything else that can have the word chore attached to it. In my book these are not moments of escape but the domestic equivalent of going to the office.

And talking about the office I’m off to work shortly but, if I time it just right, I will catch the dulcet tones of Jenni Murray on Women’s Hour where I believe they are planning to discuss the merits of ‘real bread’ – wonderful.

Gordon Brown lives and runs his business in Clarkston. He is a published author and his new novel ’59 Minutes’, published by Fledgling Press, is now out. For more info visit www.gordonjbrown.com.