Raynor Winn's memoir describes a middle-aged, Middle English couple setting off on an arduous journey across coastal paths after ending up 'on the street.' In Mairi Anne Elliott's adaptation, set against enchanting landscapes, flawless performances by Gillian Anderson and Jason Isaacs gives their story depth. Raynor Winn's The Salt Path (Penguin 2018) Here’s a stark statistic posted by homelessness charity Shelter England: “Half of working renters are only one pay cheque away from losing their home.” Adapted from Raynor Winn’s bestselling memoir, Mairi Anne Elliott turns an everyday story of eviction into an enthralling odyssey set against England’s fabulous southwestern landscapes. Propelled by wonderfully understated performances from Gillian Anderson as Ray and Jason Isaacs as her devoted husband of 32 years, Moth, we see how thin the veneer really is between the home comforts most of us take for granted and destitution. Ray and Moth’s reaction to losing most of their worldly possessions is to head off on the 630-miles trek along the longest uninterrupted path in England, Minehead to Poole, snaking around the coasts of Somerset, Devon, Cornwall, and Dorset. Trying to get by on a weekly budget of £40 is remarkable enough. That they are doing so after Moth’s diagnosis with Corticobasal Degeneration (a rare, life-limiting degenerative brain disease) injects their cross-country journey with a purpose beyond A to B. You almost feel every painstaking limp as Moth gamely struggles up steep stairwells carved into rockfaces centuries ago; about turning is not an option. They encounter various reactions to their homeless state. Initially, their attempts to find emergency accommodation or access government hardship payments are dashed against the wall of faceless bureaucracy - in a soulless DWP office, Moth is asked whether or not he expects to live longer than one year. As no definitive timescale can be placed on his degenerative condition, this disqualifies him from making any claim. Dogwalkers are irate about coming across their tent pitched nowhere near camping sites. Londoners who own a plush West Country retreat believe Moth to be a renowned poet who has hit hard times. After inviting him back for selfie opportunities and a massage, upon discovering he is just some random down-and-out, he and Ray are summarily sent on their way. At one point, Ray and Moth trudge through what their guidebook informs them is the site of a former leper colony; the irony is not lost on them. On the other hand, they are also unexpectedly generous offers from strangers. It’s bad enough the tent they are living in fails to prevent crippling cold, or shelter from high tides. Technology also conspires against the plucky couple. Forgetting to cancel the home insurance leaves them at a cash point stating £1.38 is available. Their daughter phoning to complain she’s stranded en route to a holiday job in Croatia reinforces the powerlessness they feel having been forced to go off-grid. But in facing adversity, Ray and Moth never sink into abject pessimism. Quite the reverse. Detached from the rat race, strolling along headlands overlooking majestic seas, dining on noodles while being scrutinised by a falcon, and those occasional encounters with Good Samaritans crossing their path, give them a positive perspective. Their sense of hope, especially ever-sanguine Moth, and the enduring love they have for each other, shines brighter than any of the life-affirming Devon sunsets they are fortunate to experience every day. 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.
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 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.’
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
'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
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Rick Buckler's pinpoint drumming drove The Jam's innovative meld of soul, punk and pop. I first saw him performing on TOTP on 21/7/1977. In the wake of his passing, revisiting their diverse, mesmerising back catalogue reminded me just how powerfully music can resonate.
The Jam, their drummer Rick Buckler centremost. Credit: BlazeTrends
Rick Buckler, drummer with iconic English rock band The Jam, passed away on 17 February 2025, aged 69, following a brief illness, surrounded by family. He leaves behind his wife, Leslie, and their two children, Jason (born in 1986) and Holly (born in 1993). His former bandmates were quick to offer their condolences. Paul Weller said, "I'm shocked and saddened by Rick's passing. I'm thinking back to us all rehearsing in my bedroom in Stanley Road, Woking." Bruce Foxton wrote, "I was shocked and saddened to hear the very sad news today. Rick was a good guy and a great drummer whose innovative drum patterns helped shape our songs."
As seems to be happening more and more these days, the death of any venerated musician, particularly one whose music chimed with my own youth, invariably sends me down a nostalgic rabbit hole. For the past few days I've been revisiting albums and singles on my turntable, as well as taking a deep dive into YouTube, where the self-effacing drummer was the heartbeat of The Jam through countless gigs, videos accompanying their Top 40 singles, invariably promoted on TOTP, right up to their final live TV appearance on seminal Channel 4 music show, The Tube on 4th November 1982.
Playlist
I've also cobbled together a playlist from my streaming platform of choice, featuring some of my favourite songs by The Jam.
In The City (1977)
Like many mid-teens, my introduction to The Jam's full-throttle guitar pop came during the seismic musical and cultural shifts prompted by ‘punk rock.’ Despite (or more aptly, because) hysterical red top editors were equating this emerging music/fashion scene with the decline of Western civilization, a small, cultish underground movement was soon surfing the zeitgeist (although The Jam had first formed as far back as 1972 when three enthusiastic young Woking lads started composing songs in Paul Weller's bedroom.)
Influenced by mod, soul, Northern Soul, and souped-up R&B, The Jam went on to stoke a firebrand reputation on the back of incendiary gigs before being snapped up by Polydor in February 1977. Continuing to build an avid fanbase courtesy of their electrifying teenage anthems, their first appearance on Top of the Pops (TOTP) occurred three months later on 19th May 1977, when they tore through their debut single, 'In the City.' I was immediately struck by their youthful attitude - Weller was 19, Buckler and Foxton 21 - and also their appearance. The three-piece wore matching sharp suits, collars and ties; behind his kit, Buckler oozed cool in shades. Their single effortlessly balanced Weller's strident Rickenbacker guitar lines with dynamic melodies and heartfelt lyrics. Although still fixated on heavy rather than punk rock at that point, I became a fan.
Like many mid-teens, my introduction to The Jam's full-throttle guitar pop came during the seismic musical and cultural shifts prompted by ‘punk rock.’ Despite (or more aptly, because) hysterical red top editors were equating this emerging music/fashion scene with the decline of Western civilization, a small, cultish underground movement was soon surfing the zeitgeist (although The Jam had first formed as far back as 1972 when three enthusiastic young Woking lads started composing songs in Paul Weller's bedroom.)
Influenced by mod, soul, Northern Soul, and souped-up R&B, The Jam went on to stoke a firebrand reputation on the back of incendiary gigs before being snapped up by Polydor in February 1977. Continuing to build an avid fanbase courtesy of their electrifying teenage anthems, their first appearance on Top of the Pops (TOTP) occurred three months later on 19th May 1977, when they tore through their debut single, 'In the City.' I was immediately struck by their youthful attitude - Weller was 19, Buckler and Foxton 21 - and also their appearance. The three-piece wore matching sharp suits, collars and ties; behind his kit, Buckler oozed cool in shades. Their single effortlessly balanced Weller's strident Rickenbacker guitar lines with dynamic melodies and heartfelt lyrics. Although still fixated on heavy rather than punk rock at that point, I became a fan.
Dreams of Children (1980)
In a dazzling career which saw 18 consecutive singles hitting the top 40, 'Going Underground' became one of so many high tide marks for The Jam. Released as a double A, this rocketed straight to number one, the first of their four chart-toppers.
I turned 18 that summer, and shortly afterwards, the family headed down to St Abbs for our annual holiday with cousins and friends from Manchester, Middlesbrough and Haddington. After a long day of arsing about around Coldingham Bay, all the teenagers would adjourn to the local campsite bar to drink and dance until last orders.
Although 'Going Underground' was all over the airwaves that summer, the flipside, 'Dreams of Children,' a familiar Weller trope reflecting the naïve but perennial optimism of youth, was originally intended to be the sole A-side. A pressing plant mix-up created its double A-side status, with most DJs giving airplay to the more upbeat 'Going Underground.' But I preferred the swirling harmonies and wistful rumination of 'Dreams of Children,' so that was my automatic jukebox choice. After the bar closed, a gang of us - mates in parkas and Jam badges, myself in punk drainpipes and a Jam badge nestling amongst Killing Joke and Poison Girls - would purchase carryouts to swig around camp fires by the North Sea, below spectacular starscapes, devoid of light pollution. Staring into the limitless heavens, joking, laughing, sometimes pairing off; dreaming like children on the cusp of adulthood.
Related blog: Quadrophenia, a nostalgic road trip
Funeral Pyre (1981)
This single, a standalone unavailable on any album, was only the second song by The Jam to be co-written by all three members (the first being a track on fifth album Sound Affects, 'Music for the Last Couple.') Originating as a studio jam between Buckler and Foxton, Weller added his input later. That the rhythm section created the building block is apparent in Buckler's powerhouse performance, his mesmerising, swirling, crashing drums driving the emotive song. The accompanying video was filmed at Horsell Common, near The Jam's hometown of Woking; the sandpit used for the pyre in the video also featured in H.G. Wells' 'War of the Worlds.'
As ever Weller’s lyrics from almost 45 years ago resonate.
"And as I was standing by the edge
I could see the faces of those who led
Pissing theirselves laughing (and the flames grew)
Their mad eyes bulged, their flushed faces said
The weak get crushed as the strong grow stronger..."
Related blog: Spellow Library, Literary Phoenix
This single, a standalone unavailable on any album, was only the second song by The Jam to be co-written by all three members (the first being a track on fifth album Sound Affects, 'Music for the Last Couple.') Originating as a studio jam between Buckler and Foxton, Weller added his input later. That the rhythm section created the building block is apparent in Buckler's powerhouse performance, his mesmerising, swirling, crashing drums driving the emotive song. The accompanying video was filmed at Horsell Common, near The Jam's hometown of Woking; the sandpit used for the pyre in the video also featured in H.G. Wells' 'War of the Worlds.'
As ever Weller’s lyrics from almost 45 years ago resonate.
"And as I was standing by the edge
I could see the faces of those who led
Pissing theirselves laughing (and the flames grew)
Their mad eyes bulged, their flushed faces said
The weak get crushed as the strong grow stronger..."
Related blog: Spellow Library, Literary Phoenix
That's Entertainment (1980)
In London, 'after having had a few,' Weller strapped a capo to the third fret of an acoustic guitar, and began strumming a plaintive G to E minor riff while jotting down a random list of the mundane scenes outside. 10-minutes later, he had crafted the final track of side one of Sound Affects, and although this was never released as a single in the UK, its imported version remains the biggest-selling import single ever.
Weller explained in an Absolut Radio interview: "Some songs just write themselves. It was easy to write, I drew on everything around me."
These slice of life observations juxtapose perfectly with wistful melodies to propel the song's sublime irony.
"A police car and a screaming siren
Pneumatic drill and ripped-up concrete
A baby wailing, stray dog howling
The screech of brakes and lamp light blinking ... That's entertainment."
In the final recording, the only time the lugubrious refrain alters is during one verse, when Weller switches to his trademark Rickenbacker, the guitar line playing in reverse, creating a psychedelic vibe.
'That's Entertainment' takes me back to 'empties' in the early 80s. You would discover somebody's parents were out that night. Long before mobile phones, word nevertheless spread like wildfire through the teenage grapevine: in the school playgrounds of Tynecastle and St Augeys, around Harrison Park greenkeeper's shed, or the bench next to the police box on Shandon Crescent overlooking the railway, that someone's parents were away for that weekend. Cheap cider and blow would be purchased. Gangs would congregate, including gatecrashing friends of friends, and neighbours would be noised up into the small hours to a soundtrack of The Jam, The Clash, The Specials, Madness, Dexy's Midnight Runners, Northen Soul, occasional disco, especially Michael Jackson or Donna Summer's 'Love to Love You Baby,' whoever was in charge of spinning the 45's involuntarily sending teenage hormones into a equally insistent whirl.
'That's Entertainment' always reminds me of later. Bottles and cans would be strewn everywhere, the air reeked like an AC v Inter derby's pyrotechnics replaced by Red Lebanese fumes, and couples would be sprawled over every available couch, floorspace, or bed, while Weller sang soulfully, Foxton harmonized, and Buckler kept the pot boiling with a laid-back but insistently shuffling rhythm.
"Days of speed and slow time Mondays
Pissing down with rain on a boring Wednesday
Watching the news and not eating your tea
A freezing cold flat and damp on the walls ... I say that's entertainment."
Once again, in his '10-minute to create' masterpiece, Weller bottled teenage angst, anxiety, and passion.
In London, 'after having had a few,' Weller strapped a capo to the third fret of an acoustic guitar, and began strumming a plaintive G to E minor riff while jotting down a random list of the mundane scenes outside. 10-minutes later, he had crafted the final track of side one of Sound Affects, and although this was never released as a single in the UK, its imported version remains the biggest-selling import single ever.
Weller explained in an Absolut Radio interview: "Some songs just write themselves. It was easy to write, I drew on everything around me."
These slice of life observations juxtapose perfectly with wistful melodies to propel the song's sublime irony.
"A police car and a screaming siren
Pneumatic drill and ripped-up concrete
A baby wailing, stray dog howling
The screech of brakes and lamp light blinking ... That's entertainment."
In the final recording, the only time the lugubrious refrain alters is during one verse, when Weller switches to his trademark Rickenbacker, the guitar line playing in reverse, creating a psychedelic vibe.
'That's Entertainment' takes me back to 'empties' in the early 80s. You would discover somebody's parents were out that night. Long before mobile phones, word nevertheless spread like wildfire through the teenage grapevine: in the school playgrounds of Tynecastle and St Augeys, around Harrison Park greenkeeper's shed, or the bench next to the police box on Shandon Crescent overlooking the railway, that someone's parents were away for that weekend. Cheap cider and blow would be purchased. Gangs would congregate, including gatecrashing friends of friends, and neighbours would be noised up into the small hours to a soundtrack of The Jam, The Clash, The Specials, Madness, Dexy's Midnight Runners, Northen Soul, occasional disco, especially Michael Jackson or Donna Summer's 'Love to Love You Baby,' whoever was in charge of spinning the 45's involuntarily sending teenage hormones into a equally insistent whirl.
'That's Entertainment' always reminds me of later. Bottles and cans would be strewn everywhere, the air reeked like an AC v Inter derby's pyrotechnics replaced by Red Lebanese fumes, and couples would be sprawled over every available couch, floorspace, or bed, while Weller sang soulfully, Foxton harmonized, and Buckler kept the pot boiling with a laid-back but insistently shuffling rhythm.
"Days of speed and slow time Mondays
Pissing down with rain on a boring Wednesday
Watching the news and not eating your tea
A freezing cold flat and damp on the walls ... I say that's entertainment."
Once again, in his '10-minute to create' masterpiece, Weller bottled teenage angst, anxiety, and passion.
Beat Surrender (1982)
The Jam's final single (and fourth number one) was previewed during their last live TV appearance, on the first episode of The Tube on 5th November 1982 and released just over a fortnight later. While Weller had already made his decision to fold The Jam (with rumours leaking to the press), intending this swansong to plant a defiant flag stating 'this is it, no turning back, the future begins today,' bandmates Foxton and Buckler were understandably less enthusiastic about the demise of their massively popular band. Interviewed in MusicRadar magazine in 2023, Foxton commented about the rug being tugged from beneath his trademark two-tone shoes, but with a wry chuckle, "We were Number One in the single and album chart at the time. I've only just got over it!"
Adamant the band should go out on a high, Weller was keen to avoid them plodding on like some latter-day Rolling Stones, the youthful vibrancy which had galvanised their incredible success giving way to jaded predictability. Eventually teaming up with Merton Parkas' keyboardist, Mick Talbot, he already had his sights set on a much looser combo, using a conveyor belt of talented backing musicians, saying of Talbot, "he shares my hatred of the rock myth and the rock culture." Thus, The Style Council was initiated.
'Beat Surrender,' with backing vocals provided by Weller's 17-year-old protégé, Tracie Young, takes me back to a similar pivotal moment in my own life. Having turned 20 that July, no longer a teenager, I'd packed in my monotonous insurance clerk job after being accepted on a Diploma in Publishing course at what was then Napier College. A two-year teenage romance had hit the rails when we mutually agreed we were far too young to be discussing marriage. As an uncertain emotional vacuum opened before me, I (too) enthusiastically embraced the laddish binge drinking culture that would eventually contribute to triggering violent bipolar swings in my later 20s. Again, The Jam were signposting my life, providing me with snapshots covering every teenage emotion.
Until Buckler's passing, I hadn't listened to The Jam for an age, preferring to embrace the statement of intent Weller posted in the sleeve notes to his 1998 compilation album, Modern Classics, "Don't be scared of the new, don't get bogged down in the cliches of, 'Oh, it's not as good as ... ' or you'll miss out on what is NOW."
But with the glorious subjectivity of musical taste, NOW and THEN can resonate with equal poignancy. And Weller himself was the first to acknowledge the extent to which Rick Buckler's supreme percussive skills contributed to the legacy of The Jam, one of Britain's most successful rock bands of all time, and by extension, his own glittering and continuing career.
Related blog: Paul Weller on Sunset
The Jam's final single (and fourth number one) was previewed during their last live TV appearance, on the first episode of The Tube on 5th November 1982 and released just over a fortnight later. While Weller had already made his decision to fold The Jam (with rumours leaking to the press), intending this swansong to plant a defiant flag stating 'this is it, no turning back, the future begins today,' bandmates Foxton and Buckler were understandably less enthusiastic about the demise of their massively popular band. Interviewed in MusicRadar magazine in 2023, Foxton commented about the rug being tugged from beneath his trademark two-tone shoes, but with a wry chuckle, "We were Number One in the single and album chart at the time. I've only just got over it!"
Adamant the band should go out on a high, Weller was keen to avoid them plodding on like some latter-day Rolling Stones, the youthful vibrancy which had galvanised their incredible success giving way to jaded predictability. Eventually teaming up with Merton Parkas' keyboardist, Mick Talbot, he already had his sights set on a much looser combo, using a conveyor belt of talented backing musicians, saying of Talbot, "he shares my hatred of the rock myth and the rock culture." Thus, The Style Council was initiated.
'Beat Surrender,' with backing vocals provided by Weller's 17-year-old protégé, Tracie Young, takes me back to a similar pivotal moment in my own life. Having turned 20 that July, no longer a teenager, I'd packed in my monotonous insurance clerk job after being accepted on a Diploma in Publishing course at what was then Napier College. A two-year teenage romance had hit the rails when we mutually agreed we were far too young to be discussing marriage. As an uncertain emotional vacuum opened before me, I (too) enthusiastically embraced the laddish binge drinking culture that would eventually contribute to triggering violent bipolar swings in my later 20s. Again, The Jam were signposting my life, providing me with snapshots covering every teenage emotion.
Until Buckler's passing, I hadn't listened to The Jam for an age, preferring to embrace the statement of intent Weller posted in the sleeve notes to his 1998 compilation album, Modern Classics, "Don't be scared of the new, don't get bogged down in the cliches of, 'Oh, it's not as good as ... ' or you'll miss out on what is NOW."
But with the glorious subjectivity of musical taste, NOW and THEN can resonate with equal poignancy. And Weller himself was the first to acknowledge the extent to which Rick Buckler's supreme percussive skills contributed to the legacy of The Jam, one of Britain's most successful rock bands of all time, and by extension, his own glittering and continuing career.
Related blog: Paul Weller on Sunset
MARK FLEMING
EDINBURGH | SCOTLAND
EDINBURGH | SCOTLAND
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