Typewronger Bookshop: Open Mic

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