Mark Fleming. Creative Writing. Blog

Ian Colquhoun: how surviving an appalling attack inspired him to become an author

2/4/2025

Livingston-born Ian Colquhoun is a neurodivergent author, actor, stuntman, and historian. Aged 24, he suffered an unprovoked, brutally violent assault, resulting in the loss of his legs. He has since channelled his energy into writing a diverse range of acclaimed books.

Ian Colquhoun, Scottish author, actor and historian

Born in Livingston in 1978, Ian Colquhoun has written 12 books so far, on a broad spectrum of subjects. A social history of his hometown. Intriguing histories plunging readers into Ireland’s ‘Great Hunger,’ the Battle of Culloden, and colonial warfare in Victorian Sudan. Histories of his beloved Hibernian Football Club, from anniversaries of key events for each day of the year, to the story of the club's most turbulent period, 1990 to 1991, when Hibs battled back from near extinction to win Hampden silverware. But his candid autobiography, Burnt, a jaw-dropping account of survival defying the term nonfiction, truly sears into the reader's imagination.

Aged 24, while living in Ireland, Ian was the victim of an unprovoked assault. Knocked unconscious by a pickaxe, he was left for dead when the house he was in was set alight. Dragged free by a police officer, as he remained in a coma, his mother concurred with the agonising decision presented by Ian’s medical staff: both legs were so badly burnt - right to the bone - they required amputation. Before emerging from the seven-week coma, he received the last rites three times. But Ian’s story is one of off-the-scale resilience. Multiple operations and years of painful rehabilitation have imbued a fierce resolve. For this remarkable and inspirational young man, unbelievable tragedy has become cathartic.

Although wheelchair-bound, he passed his driving test. He has trained as a stunt man. Turning to acting, he played a wounded sailor in a 2007 made-for-TV documentary, Ocean of Fear: Worst Shark Attack Ever, about the aftermath of the sinking of the USS Indianapolis in the Pacific Ocean during World War Two. Anyone who has seen Steven Spielberg's Jaws will be familiar with one iconic scene, where Richard Shaw's Quint describes being one of the stricken vessel's shipwrecked crew floundering amongst a shark feeding frenzy. His co-star, Richard Dreyfuss was the documentary's commentator. Ian's acting career progressed to an episode of long-running Scottish crime drama, Taggart. He appeared in a promotional film credited with helping Scotland being awarded 2014's Commonwealth games.

Not only has he lectured about his predicament to physiotherapy students at Edinburgh University, he has written a self-help book for amputees. in 2007, Ian guested on Channel 4's Richard and Judy, discussing Burnt. In 2025, his prolific writing shows no sign of abating: he has now turned his storytelling skills to dark fiction.

As he remained in a coma, his mother concurred with the agonising decision presented by Ian’s medical staff: both legs required amputation. Before emerging from the seven-week coma, he received the last rites three times.

Interview with Ian Colquhoun:

Your life story almost reads like a pitch for the next instalment in the Final Destination franchise. Burnt goes into your horrific experiences in greater detail. But when did you decide to channel your recovery into becoming a writer?

After the fire, I was physically unable to do my old warehouse job. I’d always been good at English and interested in history, so, I did a short course at the University of Edinburgh in 2004. During that course my talent was ‘spotted’ and I was persuaded to study further. A couple of years later, out of the blue I received an offer from a publisher to ghost write my survival memoir, I told them I’d write it myself. It took two weeks. The rest , as they say , is history.

You’ve published several books delving into history, particularly during Britain’s colonial period. What drew you to this source?

As I grew up, my reading age was always higher than my actual age. I grew up reading Beau Geste and The Four Feathers, and watching old films at my gran’s house in Edinburgh on Sundays, stuff like Zulu, Khartoum and They Did With Their Boots On. Small, doomed groups fighting vast odds have always fascinated me.

How about Hibernian. What made you decide to translate your love of the Hibees into print? Have your Hibs histories been well received? Do you still go to Easter Road regularly?

I did my first piece of Hibs journalism when I was 14, I interviewed legendary groundsman, Pat Frost, while visiting Easter Road on a school project in 1992. I have ADHD and a photographic memory, so, when I became a writer, it seemed natural to write about the football team I love, after all, we spend so much of our lives absorbed by our football teams. They’ve been well received, my Hibs books, fans like the narrative style I use, I think. I still buy two season tickets every season but I can’t go as often now, due to chest problems whenever I go shouting and bawling at football.

From a mental health angle, did your physical injuries prompt any mental injury? If so, how have you coped?

Weirdly, in 2023 specialists diagnosed me as AuDHD, so, it went undiagnosed all my life. It actually may have helped me to deal with the attack in which I lost my legs and the years of suffering after it, so the doctors now say. I do have PTSD and that’s been a bit of a nuisance over the years, I find that keeping busy is great medicine – but my cat, Jack Sauzee, has been the best therapy for the PTSD.

Finally, two decades on from that fateful party in Dundalk which altered the course of your life, how is life for you in 2025? What are you currently working on?

Life is kinda sweeter now, though still a lot of pain, illness and anxiety. I swim a lot and since my AuDHD diagnosis in 2023 I’m no longer afraid of my own imagination, so, I’ve started writing dark fiction set in Scotland – the first two novels are out later this year – they’ll blow your mind!

Burnt, along with Ian's other books, can be ordered via his website.

Contact Ian for any further information about his writing, past/present/future here.

Typewronger Bookshop: Open Mic

31/3/2025

In 2017, Typewronger Books launched as a pop-up at Leith Walk Police Box. Since moving into gallery space further up the Walk (at 4A Haddington Place), Typewronger has evolved into an Aladdin's Cave of books and zines, as well as a creative hub for a diverse community of writers, musicians, and artists.

Typewronger Books, Leith

" Typewronger CIC (Community Interest Company) is a not-for-profit social enterprise committed to fostering creativity within Edinburgh and further afield. We do this through running Typewronger Books, a bookshop selling new books, indie publications, zines and prints; and Typewronger Riso, our print studio.

Published on Typewronger's website, the above mission statement encapsulates the vibrant vibe driving this Leith venture. That Typemonger initially plied its trade from the Leith Walk Police Box chimed with myself - prior to his health deteriorating, a close family friend, former police officer, Derek Allan, presented free lectures about the history of Leith and Edinburgh's police boxes from this very location.

Typewronger's Open Mic evening

When my friend and co-author of Heids Up, Neil Renton, came across a flyer for an 'open mic' event at Typewronger running on Sunday March 30th, we rocked up with our anthology, bookmarked with the respective pieces we'd chosen to read out. The format is straightforward. Upon arrival, free wine, beer or soft drinks are offered, while those wishing to participate add their names to a list. The time available is divided by numbers; tonight, this equated to a five-minute slot each.

Tee introducing the Open Mic event

Typewronger's initiator, Tee, explained since time was of the essence, a bell would 'ping' to indicate 30 seconds of the five-minutes allocation remained, followed by a final gong. After a quick demo of how to adjust the mic, the first of a dozen or so names was called. There were poems, prose pieces, readings from novels-in-progress, and flash fiction. As well as spoken word, a musician treated the audience to serene harp melodies. When his name was called, Neil read one of his pieces from Heids Up, 'Songs in the Key of Strife - Noel Gallagher Wrecked my Mum's Funeral'; I read an excerpt from my short story, 'YCL!' - also included in the anthology.

Here are photos from the Typewronger event, together with the stories themselves (including the full version of 'YCL!')

Neil reading from 'Heids Up'

Mark reading from 'Heids Up'

SONGS IN THE KEY OF STRIFE – NOEL GALLAGHER WRECKED MY MUM’S FUNERAL

Neil Renton

I’ll never forgive Noel Gallagher for spoiling my mum’s funeral.
He didn’t turn up with the Primrose Posses and start a drug-filled fight with brother Liam, rolling about in the cemetery and crushing carnations left by well-wishers. He didn’t piss Jack Daniels over the cucumber sandwiches at the wake. The ones without crusts but that curl up because no one wants them. He didn’t wear Adidas trainers and an olive parka when the dress code was black suit and tie. He didn’t even turn up changing the lyrics to (What’s The Story) Morning Glory?
In fact, he didn’t ruin my mum’s funeral. I did. But as always, I like to blame others for my mistakes and the inevitable demise they cause.
You should try it one time. Just don’t blame me because I’ll pass that buck to someone like a multi-millionaire Mancunian singer-songwriter I’ve never met before.
I don’t think a son ever recovers from his mum dying. They spend nine months carrying us around in their bellies and the rest of their lives carrying us about in any other way they can. They’re pillars of support, always in your corner even if you’ve backed yourself into it without any space for another.
They’ll always find a way.
My mum was there for me when I needed her. Even if I didn’t deserve her. So, given the chance, I wanted to repay her in a small, tiny amount. I wanted to make her proud and to make her remembered.
And, in an office above a Masonic Hall in Leith, my chance to shine broke through the dust-covered windows.
We were arranging the order of service, and we needed music. That’s when it hit me. As I loved music, I was going to honour my mum in the most spectacular fashion by making sure there was a song that was suitable for her.
My mum (my dear old mum whose face I can see as I type this and I want to see her face in real life) loved the Bee Gees. To be honest, anyone with half a clue about life would feel the same.
Noel Gallagher, one of my musical heroes, did an interview in Melody Maker. It was just when Oasis were breaking through. He had to pick ten songs for an imaginary jukebox and one of his choices was a Bee Gees song.
I’ll pick that, I thought. I put forward the title and the guy helping us sort stuff out took a note of it, and we continued organising the service.
What could go wrong?
The funeral was a funeral. Everybody whispering in that tone they usually keep for phoning in sick from their darkened bedroom. People sorry for our loss. Some words spoken as a tribute. A loving and fulfilling life condensed into a few minutes.
Then came my moment. The song played that was special to my mum so we could close our eyes, bow our heads and think of her.
Which we did.
I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. The Bee Gees song I picked on the ancient advice of Noel Gallagher was ‘You Don’t Know What It’s Like.’ It’s a beautiful song. If you don’t believe me, go on. Give it a listen.
It’s a song that has a time and a place. And as it started, it hit me why Noel recommended it. The time and the place was on a Friday night, over a bottle of wine with that person you love and you’re about to love all night long.
The time and the place wasn’t on a Tuesday morning at your mum’s funeral. It’s a love song. A different kind of love song. A fact I soon realised.
The tune gets off to a fitting start. “There’s a light. A special kind of light. That’s never shone on me.” That was appropriate as my mum was about to be cremated.
It went from bad to worse. “I’m a man!” Barry Gibb screams. “Can’t you see who I am?”
“I can’t see,” I can imagine my dear old mum saying. “I’m dead.”
Then there’s more taunting from the falsetto legend. “You don’t know what it’s like to love somebody, the way I love you.”
Again, my mum was probably saying from the discomfort of her coffin she was spinning in, big problem with the emotion being returned right now.
When songs get played at funerals, there’s never usually a reaction other than sobs and eyes dabbed with hankies. This response was even more subdued.
Deep down inside, I think my mum would have approved of the selection. Maybe had a laugh from the unforgiving corner I’d managed to back myself into.
I hadn’t intended to fuck things up, but I did. To the point that the only way I could have made an even bigger mess was if Noel Gallagher had said his favourite Bee Gees song was “Stayin’ Alive.”

YCL!

Mark Fleming

When the alarm bleats, Dimitri just heaves the duvet tighter. Sophie scratches the ink band around his arm until he groans. ‘Proud of your tat, eh, Dimbo? All about my individuality, Soph. Aye, right, mate. Page after page of they Celtic knots in the Tribe catalogue. With your spindly arms …Reminds me of school sports day, eh. When we had to chuck quoits over a stick.’
‘Mmmh?’
‘Get my breakfast while I shower, Dim.’
When she persists digging at his skin, he lets out a longer moan, burying himself under the covers.
‘Boys with more get up and go in the Walking Dead last night, eh.’ About to tug his tumbleweed hair, her phone beeps. ‘Danni girl?’ Stares at the text.
*
Typically, the 24 was late, so she speedwalks up to the care home from the stop, then swipes herself in. Creeps past the manager, Mags Laidlaw’s door. But it’s open.
‘Eh. Morning …’
‘Sophie. About time. Straight to Betty Stevenson, now.’
Her order’s cut short by her phone. Cradling it, Laidlaw pokes around in a plastic box crammed with odds and ends. Snapping at whoever’s at the other end, she wafts her hands at Sophie, making her feel like a bad smell.
‘Old boot,’ she murmurs, heading to the lift, jabbing the third floor. Along the corridor, snores. Coughs. ‘Fraser Mallan, your lungs are pure hacking, mate,’ she calls as she passes his door. ‘You sound like the crows that fixed me with their beady eyes when I passed the main gates.’
Sophie enters Betty’s bedroom. ‘Danni.’ Danni’s at the window, watching the sunrise.
'Blackford Hill’s on fire this morning, Soph. Beautiful.’ About turning, she marches over to Sophie and they hug.
‘Your yacks are red raw, Danni girl. You look ripped, though I ken your only vice is WKD Blues.’
‘Her bed alarm went off, around twenty to six, Soph. I’ve come in to check. Soon as I clocked her, I just knew. Dr Inglis suggested she might’ve had a spasm, enough to trigger her alarm, eh. He says cause it was sudden, it’ll be reported to the Procurator Fiscal.’
‘This is so shan, eh?’
‘Look at her, Soph.’
‘Trying not to, Danni girl.’
‘No, look at her, Soph. Her face. It’s changed. Even in just a couple of hours. It’s no Betty anymore.’
‘Ayeways wanted to go in her sleep, eh?’
Danni nods, reaches out, brushes her cheek. ‘So cold.’
‘Poor Betty.’
‘Listen, Soph. Liam’ll be waiting for me. Needing my kip. Need a fucking drink, more to the point. I started giving her a bed bath. You can finish.’ She steps over and they embrace again. ‘Catch you, Sophie.’
‘Aye. Same time the morn, Danniella, pal.’
As Danni’s footsteps recede, Sophie turns to the bed. Betty looks asleep. But her eyes are a wee bit open, as if trying to focus on her. From countless bed baths, Sophie can recognise her body like reading a map. Below her wrinkles, the veins are its road network, still gorged with blood. Red cells trapped inside the gridlock of their pointless journeys.
Steam curls and weaves from the plastic bowl on the chest-of-drawers. ‘Imagine that was a witch’s potion, Betty. Maybe toss in an eye of a bat, see if it’d bring you back, eh. That witch in her office down the stairs could probably cast a spell or two, mind. Nah. Fuck that. Seen enough zombies on the box last night.’
Poking inside disposable gloves, she plucks the sponge. Wrings it.
‘I hate it when a patient goes, Dimitri,’ Sophie says aloud, rehearsing how she’ll tell him later. ‘While you were sparking up your first doobie-do, I was washing a cadaver on twelve quid an hour.’ She leans in closer. ‘I’ll have you looking your best for the undertakers, Betty.’
Sophie catches herself in the bedside mirror, tears trickling down her freckly cheeks. She clocks the purple and green streaks she was in too much of a rush to notice earlier. ‘Dim helped me colour my jet-black locks last night, Betty. Cool as, Dimbo. Dye proper worked this time.’
The detergent catches the back of her throat. Reminds her of the smell in the bogs in Opium after somebody’s hurled and they swamp the tiles with bleach. Two days ago, when she gave Betty her previous bed bath, her hair was peroxide. Almost white. After that, she wheeled the elderly woman down to the TV lounge. They watched This Morning.
‘Betty, mate. Mind the other day? You were telling me about being a chorus girl at the King’s Theatre. About being a WAAF. Married at my age, 19, to Kenneth, a sailor. Not Ken or Kenny. Kenneth. He was on the convoys, you said. On the convoys taking supplies to Russia. His ship was torpedoed. Lost by what you cried the Cola Peninsula. Not drowned. Lost. That’s how you put it, eh. His body lost, like a bus-pass, or that pack of 17 Regal that dropped out my pockets in a cab after our Christmas night out.’
Sophie smoothes the sponge up and down her legs. ‘Bones with a shiny layer of skin, Betty. Like this is a waxwork of you, mate. I can imagine you on the stage, mind. Dancing in front of a packed audience. Everyone smoking. Most of the lads in uniforms, trying not to get caught drooling over the chorus girls. I could see it all. Easily. When you told your stories about the old days, I could see it all so clearly. It was like you were painting pictures with your words. You’ve some photie collection, eh. Flicked through your albums over many a cuppa, eh, mate? You giggling at some of the memories, eh. The stories beyond the freeze-frames. Me picking up on your excitement, eh. You explaining who’s who. All the names, eh. People long gone. They’ll be waiting for you, mate. Loved the way you could mind the names. Couldn’t have told me who Dermot and Alison were interviewing yesterday morning, but you could travel back in time. Decades. Seen all your photies in Darth Laidlaw’s office. You’ve not had visitors since I started here, eh. If no next of kin shows out the woodwork, sniffing around for a Will, they’ll wind up in landfill.’
Sophie rubs into the bloated stomach. ‘Stretchmarks like Cramond beach when the tide’s out, eh. Here, Betty. Might as well tell you. Dimitri’s turning into a right wankstain. I know you’d laugh if you heard me say that. You liked telling Darth Laidlaw where to go, eh. But Dim just uses. In the old-fashioned sense of the word, I mean. Give him a roof over his head and all I ask in return is he visits the jobcentre once in a blue moon.’
She dunks the sponge into the basin.
‘Know what’s even worse, Betty? He’s not even a great shag. I might very well sack him soon. The night, why not? Seeing you this morning, like this, Betty, that’s the icing on the cake. Put me on a right downer, eh. That’s it, by the way. I’ll tell him straight. After Emmerdale, mind. Not provoking any nasty drawn-out scenes before my programme, eh.’
Sprinkles trickle towards her crack. Sophie pokes into her belly button. ‘How tickly is this? You’d usually be creasing yourself, eh. Giggling like fuck. If anything could bring you back, mate, it’d be this, not CPR. If you were still a teenager, bet you’d have your belly button pierced, eh, Betty? D’you like mine? Never did show you, ayeways meant to.’
Prising open the buttons of her blue tunic, Sophie tugs the material aside. Flashes her navel-ring. ‘Dim’s treat, Betty. He eBayed a dose of his old boy’s records to cover it. Happy Mondays. 808 State. The Roses. Thankyou, Madchester! My Ma’ll kill me! So what, Betty, eh?!’
Working into the tiny white weeds between her legs, Sophie chews from a Juicy Fruit discovered in her tunic, then spits out foil. Hums a snippet of Bring Me The Horizon. ‘Dim plays them to death. I know he’s been playing them cause when I get back the Bluetooth speaker’s cranked the fuck up. Their singer Ollie’s a ride, but.’
Sophie delves the sponge between the body’s legs. Noticing the brown smear, she paces back to the bowl. Rinses it a good few times, squeezing until her fingers hurt.
‘I can mind everything you were telling me the other day, Betty? After you’d taken your meds. Sounded a wee bit of a ramble but I could tell by the tone of your voice it wasn’t rambling at all. It was heartfelt, eh? Before the war, you joined the Young Communist League. YCL, you said, raising your fist. Sounds like a gang! When you were my age, you were rioting on the streets. Outside the Usher Hall when Mosley the blackshirt gave a speech. Some of your mates in that YCL went all the way to Barcelona to join … What was it you said? The Brigades? Fighting Franco? Dying fighting Franco. Dim and his mates spend hours killing Nazis on Call of Duty. But Spain? You’d struggle to get them out their fucking bedrooms. What else? Oh aye. Winston Churchill? The great British war hero. There was a General Strike and nearly a revolution up here. Churchill wanted to send English soldiers into Glasgow to machine-gun the strikers, keep our lads confined to barracks. I can mind what you said, Betty. In case they sided with their people before their crown. I also mind what you were saying about the Italian blackshirt leader. Il Duce? Churchill cried him a genius for the way his soldiers ended strikes. You’d be pleased I minded all that, Betty. I could tell it was important to you, cause you were getting pure potty-mouthed, eh. Danni wouldn’t have had a Scooby about any of that. Know what she’d say, Betty? She’d say Betty was havering about that dog from the insurance adverts.
Revolution reminds me of Rezerection, Betty. That was a mega rave held at Ingliston, according to Danni. Her Ma and aunties went to that. Bet your Ma was never off her face, Betty. But rave’s not my scene, Betty. Hate that hardcore shite. I met Dimitri at Opium. The first time we did it we were listening to Nirvana. Lithium. While I jumped my first bones. What was yours? Some scratchy 78? Vera Lynn? More to the point, Betty, was it a sample or an extended dance mix, eh? With Dimbo, I blinked and missed it.’
Sophie dumps the sponge in the bowl. Stares out the window where the sunrise has gone from red to gold. ‘Wow, Betty. Pity you missed this yin. Your last yin, yesterday, that was so dull in comparison. Grey and drizzly.’
Plucking out her moby, she captures a few snapshots. Turns to Betty. ‘You shared so much with me. Highs and lows. Your Ma and waste of space of a stepdad sending you out to work when you were a lot younger than me, cos your Da had been killed in the Great War, years before, and there was no welfare. Or the time you were found wandering the streets, greeting, when your own kids were getting too much, when you were cracking up and shit, like my sister did. But in they days, you nearly lost your kids, eh, cause there was no such thing in the dictionary as post-natal depression. Only madness. Specially when it was women cracking up.
Well. You’re going for your final flit, Betty. And what’d your last word of advice have been? I’m going to tell Dim we were just a hiccup in the drink of life. Except. Well. It’s not always that easy, eh? I’m in love with him, Betty. What d’you say to that?’
Betty farts. Jump-scared, heart pattering, Sophie chuckles. ‘Christ, Betty. Laidlaw would’ve had to scrape me off the ceiling, there! My pulse is doing a BPM Danni could dance to, mate.’
She imagines Betty’s eyes flickering open; hears her infectious laughter, mischievous as a schoolkid at the back. But she also recalls Laidlaw lecturing with her mouthful of Morningside marbles and impersonates her. ‘Even after the heart stops, Sophie, other functions continue. Hair still grows. Fingernails. Acid persists at the bowel contents, creates gas pockets. Still the most comical thing I’ve heard for yonks, mate. Like you were summing up my immature dickhead of a BF. Not just that. It’s like your message from beyond, eh. What you think of the way Darth Laidlaw talks to you lot. The way Dim said it when I mentioned it to him. Like a Nazi officer at the station platform outside one of they camps. You, that queue. You, that queue. But tell you what, Betty. From this bed, you’ve shared your life with me. First stage performance. First crush. Through to your grand finale, the sun on fire outside your window. Hope you seen some of it. The last thing you ever seen, eh.’
Footsteps approach. Unfamiliar voices. Sophie bends down to Betty. ‘Aw. Your wee face.’ Kisses her cold lips. ‘Bye, Betty. You were a mate. Ayeways.’
Tugging the sheet over her wizened tits, she notices a white wire jutting out. ‘One of the undertakers might be a horny old cunt, Betty. Giving you the glad eye and that, eh. Might even be kinky. Into that necrophilia. You might get another ride yet, Betty, eh?’
Sophie tweaks the hair. When Laidlaw’s right at the door, she shoves it into her tunic. Laidlaw and two guys in black suits enter, the men wheeling a trolley, wheels squeaking. Sophie can’t watch them lifting Betty off the bed. Up till now, she’s coped with her lying still; imagining she’s like a coma patient where you can still talk to them. She knows it’s nothing like that, but also wonders if maybe Betty’s spirit’s still close by, if that’s what happens. But when these strangers position themselves to haul her off the bed, she’s not the person anymore. She’s just another of today’s bodies to get loaded into the back of their van, stacked into some container in a mortuary within the hour.
Sophie struggles to hold it together. Her insides are churning. Whether she’s on the verge of greeting or giggling, she has no idea. So, she stares at Kenneth’s handsome face in the bedside wedding portrait, recalls something Betty once told her. The Arctic Ocean contains so much salt, it doesn’t freeze, but still gets way below freezing point. Hypothermia only takes minutes.
‘Thanks, Sophie. You can head to the kitchen now. Start serving breakfasts.’
*
At the bus stop, Sophie sketches left and right, unfolds the Rizla paper. Breaking open a snout, enough for a oneskinner, she empties the baccy shards, then delves into her pockets for the last crumbs of the 16th. She notices the white hair stuck to the clingfilm. A sob rushes up out of nowhere and tears are streaming.
‘All I’ve got left of you, Betty. Know what? I’m popping it into the spliff. Dim would love that. When he’s stoned, he stares right through me, like he can see me, but can’t see me. Then he’ll mumble, Soph? I can see. Clear as a bell, babes. I can see how everything’s connected. We’re all the Cosmos, Soph.’
Sophie sparks up. As she sucks the first drag deep into her lungs, she hears the hair crackling. It adds an acrider scent to the smoke. She inhales even more, holding it in, holding onto this piece of Betty’s DNA long as she can.
‘Fuck me, mate … I feel the soles of my trainers leaving the deck … Feel like I’m levitating, Betty.’
A hearse halts at the junction ahead. Sophie recognises the two undertakers, the one driving now wearing a top hat. A bouquet is propped by the coffin in the back. ‘MUM.’ As she watches the black car driving off, heading for Mortonhall, she’s picturing Betty’s wedding photo. Betty radiant in white, hair long, auburn. Kenneth in his navy-blue uniform. Buttons polished. The biggest smiles of their lives.
She can see Kenneth in his tunic, but right at his end. Lifejacket keeping him afloat for his last few gasps. A tiny dot in a periscope, ship sinking behind. Kenneth not even watching the waves lifting him up, settling him down. Lifting him up. Settling him down. In his mind’s eye, focused only on his love, and a vision of her swanlike legs kicking into the spotlights.
‘We’re all the Cosmos, Betty.’

Signed copies of Heids Up (which has been praised by fellow Scottish writers, Ian Rankin, Alan Bisset, and Tommy Mackay) are available to order from TartanMoon for £7.99.

Heids Up by Neil Renton and Mark Fleming

World Book Day 2025 - Heids Up

6/3/2025

'Heids Up' is an anthology of 51 pieces of writing by Scottish writers, Neil Renton and Mark Fleming, who met at The Changing Room run by SAMH. Flash fiction. Longer short stories. Candid memoirs of mental health experiences. Essays on music that boosts their wellbeing. Available at TARTAN MOON, signed. £7.99.

Neil Renton

Mark Fleming

"Stories and memoirs that will entertain, enlighten, and occasionally shock. These lads are the real deal." IAN RANKIN

"Tough, tender, and crackling with banter, these stories take you through the highs and lows of everyday existence. Refreshing, open-hearted, with just enough bite." ALAN BISSETT

"Quality writing, throwing sucker punches, laughs, and honesty." TOMMY MACKAY

Front cover, Heids Up by Neil Renton and Mark Fleming (Tartan Moon Publishing)

Back cover, Heids Up by Neil Renton and Mark Fleming (Tartan Moon Publishing)

Heids Up: the authors give a talk to Edinburgh University students

8/2/2025

In March 2024, I was invited to give a talk about my mental health journey to BipolarEdinburgh. This prompted another invite: from the Edinburgh University Psychology Society.

Heids Up, discussed by Neil Renton and Mark Fleming with Edinburgh University students

Heids Up, discussed by co-authors Neil Renton and Mark Fleming with Edinburgh University students

Running over three Saturday mornings last Autumn, my creative writing sessions were a huge success, the BipolarEdinburgh service users experimenting with a variety of creative writing styles. Some chose memoirs, others fiction, chiming with the anthology which my friend, Neil Renton and I recently published, Heids Up.

One of the attendees, an Edinburgh University student, saw an opportunity for Neil and I to discuss our mental health journeys as one of the events run by the Edinburgh University Psychology Society. After duly receiving an invitation from the society's Rosie De La Torrey Carey, we were booked to give our talk, which was then promoted via the university's psychiatry and psychology societies, as well as literature and creative writing societies. The Psychology Society reserved a room in The Pleasance (near the courtyard always buzzing with creative activities as an Edinburgh Fringe Festival venue hub!)

Neil and I talked frankly about our respective journeys, touching on depression, hypomania, and suicidal ideation, and describing finding our way back from dark places. We also spoke about how we first met, at The Changing Room run by Scottish Action for Mental Health, and how becoming friends here encouraged us to collaborate on the anthology, Heids Up. Leading on from this, we took a deeper dive into the book itself, relating how cathartic it has been to write memoirs, essays about musical inspiration, and also short fiction, to explore our mental health, past and present. Following the near hour-long talk, attendees took advantage of the time we'd allowed for a Q and A session.

One of the most interesting aspects of our talk was having the opportunity to contrast our own experiences of mental health issues with Gen Z'ers. My own psychosis peaked in the 80s and 90s, a time when the subject remained deeply stigmatised. Even although Neil's worst depressive episodes occurred in the 2010s, he was still aware of persisting stigmatisation.

Today's climate may be far more objective, with support that was practically non-existent last century now being much more freely available. But given the added pressures faced by Gen Z - social media, fake news, unstable geopolitics, and many more topical sources of stress and anxiety - the potential for mental ill health remains constant.

Heids Up is available from Tartan Moon.

Alan Brazil with another Jurassic roar?

7/2/2025

Pundit Alan Brazil is trending on social media after a condescending rant about women's football. A while back he was even more disparaging about men's mental health.

Alan Brazil, long-running talkSPORT presenter

Yesterday, during an on-air discussion about Manchester United's new owners, INEOS, and their plans to rebuild the faltering club, talkSPORT broadcaster, Alan Brazil made controversial comments about women's football. What particularly drew Brazil's ire was that as well as setting their sights on delivering United's 21st league title (and first since Alex Ferguson's departure 11 long years ago), INEOS are also targeting the Man U women's team's first WSL title. Brazil suggested the Red Devils' fan base (and by extension, himself) are neither impressed or even interested in women's ability to excel at football.

Brazil has polarised opinions. On the one hand, some say he's simply stating the obvious: the majority of Man U's vast, long-suffering fanbase are focused on their men's team (who he played for between 1983 and 1984). Others despair at yet another example of ageing, entitled chauvinism.

Anyone who follows women's football can accept the facts of life. Biological factors like muscular strength and stamina will always result in male athletes being able to run faster and cover more ground. (Other aspects of the beautiful game, like soft tackles resulting in male players rolling around squealing like K-pop fans have zilch to do with X and Y chromosomes, and everything to do with cheating.)

The late, great Robin Williams. Photo credit: The Standard

Robin Williams, the award-winning comedian/actor who lost his fight against debilitating depression.

Stigmatising mental health

When it comes to churlish attitudes, Brazil has form. In 2014, Robin Williams' protracted struggle with depression culminated in his tragic death. Again, live on air, Brazil announced he had no sympathy for the American comedian. This 'diabolical' step had left him 'really annoyed.' I blogged about this at the time: Alan Brazil, stigmatising mental health.

In similarly ill-judged comments about severe depressive illness, broadcaster Jeremy Clarkson once used his column in The Sun to belittle people driven to take their lives, or as he referred to them, 'Johnny Suicide.' I previously blogged about this, too: Jeremy Clarkson: Top Bore. The latter instance was arguably far worse. Brazil is a football pundit, his expertise level hovering around 22 males kicking a ball across a pitch. His doltish views on Williams' demise prompted a response from fellow talkSPORT presenter, Stan Collymore, who has been open about his own experiences of depression. "You're not a doctor, Alan Brazil, so your opinion on mental health issues counts for nothing, to be fair."

Clarkson's opinions are formulated on a far more expansive range of topics, and he is the prolific and often highly entertaining writer of over 20 books. His hand will have been influenced by the platform he was writing for at the time, a red-top for which weaponising controversy is key to generating sales. (Although the usual hastily rescinded apology in a paragraph buried amongst the inner pages didn't quite cut it when The Sun blamed Hillsborough on fans. The tabloid remains widely boycotted in Liverpool.) However, Clarkson's comments in his article went way beyond the exclusion zone of 'merely being tongue-in-cheek.' Without a smidgeon of empathy towards loved ones left bereft by these tragedies, he described the aftermath of such events with comedic relish. That's borderline sociopathic.

The Samaritans' response

Catherine Johnstone, chief executive of The Samaritans (who answer a call for help every 10 seconds) responded. "While purporting to express sympathy for people who die this way, his remarks about their bodies constitute gross intrusion into the grief and shock of bereaved families and friends. His notion that suicide is a selfish act shows how little he knows about the subject because, if he did, he would know that when a person attempts suicide they are so distressed that they genuinely believe their families will be better off without them. The concept that their actions could be construed as selfish is the furthest thing from their mind. Fortunately, most of us will never experience the mental torture that leads someone to die by suicide."

The problem is, suicide has been the biggest killer of males and females aged 20 to 34 in the UK for every year from 2001 to 2018. That's no laughing matter.

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