Beau Peep Notice Board
Beau Peep Notice Board => Outpourings => Topic started by: Tarquin Thunderthighs lll on April 13, 2014, 11:18:33 PM
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In a peculiar twist, totally unrelated to Lent, Roger and I will not be speaking to each other for pretty much the next forty days and forty nights. Normal service should hopefully resume some time after the Scottish Cup Final... hopefully... but you never know...
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Is that because you support opposing teams or that you will both have your gobs full of sticky taffy after lent?
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Yes.
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Diane, tell Tarks I'm not talking to him either. Add a "nyaah!"
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No point, he doesn't listen to me he doesn't.
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Diane, tell Roger I don't listen to you, I don't. :\
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I am very pleased to announce that following this week's Scottish Cup Final in which plucky St Johnstone succeeded in thwarting the challenge of gallant neighbours, Dundee United, in a thrilling encounter at an arena in Glasgow on Saturday afternoon, Roger and I, having exchanged gracious congratulations and commiserations in the aftermath, with great dignity and mutual respect, have now resumed normal communications.
Al that remains for me to add, is...
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Is there a smiley for huge round of applause ;D
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Wonderful stuff, Steve. I'm surprised that both bagpipes and bagpiper didn't explode during the latter stages of "When The Saints Go Marching In".
Enjoy the win---it was well deserved!
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Thank you, Roger (and Lil) - I'm doing just that. And commiserations again - having watched the highlights several times now, it really could have gone either way, and I think we got the rub of the green in front of goal for once, whilst there were at least a couple of United chances I can't believe stayed out. Funny old game...
I'm not a great believer in destiny, and it's easy to make claims in retrospect, but the day/date of this cup final will never be forgotten by Saints fans, even if the year may become hazy in the decades to come. For those who don't know the story (forgive me, Roger), Saints leading scorer and top player for this past season is a young local man with long curly hair, by the name of Stevie May, who has the squad number 17.
The date of cup final therefore, has been written large on the back of his shirt all season (May 17), and much has been made of this by Saints fans and the media since Saints reached the semi-finals, and Stevie May scored both of the goals that got us to the final.
I don't for one moment swallow all the Date With Destiny stuff that followed, and I was a little concerned about how the young man may handle the pressure, as well as possible resentment from the other players that so much focus was on him. Both worries appeared to be groundless in the end. And indeed, although the destiny talk made me cringe, footballers are very often a superstitious lot, and I do wonder if it all played its part in the fact that the team appeared to show greater confidence and spirit than I've been used to seeing over the five decades I've been watching St Johnstone. We'll never know, but right now, I'm such a happy bunny I don't care!
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Fantastic stuff indeed. It's amazing to watch stuff like that from origin to completion.
I do wish however, that you had chosen to draw the trophy. My own particular Glasgow side could do with a reminder of what one looks like.
:(
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Thistle?
I didn't want to be presumptuous, Sandy - that was drawn a couple of weeks ago, with only hope, not certainty.
But watch this space.... ;)
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Thistle...
Emmmm...aye...that's them! <-
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I love Partick Thistle, Sandy. By rights, I should support them. I was born in the Rottenrow, spent my first couple of years in Tillie Street, just a spit away from Firhill, and my wee Grannie lived in a Partick tenement in Kildonan Drive most of her life. As fate would have it though, my father's job saw us emigrate to Perth (Tayside), via a couple of years in Glenrothes, when I was two. So in order to be a regular supporter at matches, I turned to St Johnstone. But Thistle, or to give them their full name, Partick Thistle Nil, have a special place in my heart and roots.
True story, if I may...
Throughout almost all of my six-year stint drawing editorial cartoons five days a week for the Daily Record in the second half of the 90s, I failed to truly upset anyone through my cartoons. You'd think that was a good thing, but when politicians you had attacked using your sharpest satire, continually call you up to see if they can buy the original cartoons, that, in the world of political cartoonists, is considered a failure.
Then one day I received a letter of complaint, forwarded to me by the editor's secretary. At that time, Saddam Hussein had his back against the wall during the Gulf War, with only a matter of time before he was defeated by the allied forces. It was a hopeless cause, and on the particular day in question, I drew him in some situation where he was still trying to defy the overwhelming odds stacking up against him (I forget the exact scenario - forgive me). As a last-minute afterthought, among the medals adorning his military uniform, I also drew a 'Save The Jags' badge (the campaign to stave of bankruptcy at the club being in full swing at the time).
I meant it with great affection, as a symbol of fighting against seemingly insurmountable odds, but one poor Thistle fan interpreted it as an attack on Thistle as a club only worthy of being supported by sadistic murderous dictators. It seems the famous Partick sense of humour and self deprecation had deserted the poor fellow momentarily, and he felt moved to write to the Record to express his disgust. I wrote back to him, sincerely apologising for the unintentional offence caused, explained my own pedigree, and sent him an original cartoon (not the one he took umbrage at) as a peace offering. I hope it did the trick, but he never wrote back.
It was my one complaint, and I'd much rather have upset Michael Forsyth or Malcolm Rifkind. But I'll take it...
Horrible thought, as I typed that last sentence. It wasn't you... was it...? :-\
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Funnily enough, Steve, Andrew and I also contributed to the "Save the Jags" campaign. We were asked if we had any football-related cartoons to donate to an exhibition/auction. I still remember the gag we gave to them...
Two big, sweaty, mud-covered footballers are sitting in the dressing-room after the game, taking off their boots. One turns to the other. "All I'm saying is that, after I've just scored with an overhead kick, I expect more than a perfunctory peck on the cheek."
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I close my eyes, and it's there before me. I can even see your own sketch of it. Excellent gag, which I'm sure Andrew did justice to, Roger.
I'm glad the Jags were eventually saved, and that they're still in the top flight.
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It's funny Tarks, Plastic Whistle should be the best supported team in Scotland. Everyone has a certain soft spot for them.
When my apprenticeship was finished, I was moved to Ruchill hospital on Bilsland Drive. Slap bang in the middle of some of the worst areas in Glasgow, and some of the finest people (and some rogues) you could ever meet. Generous, helpful and as streetwise beyond belief. A short walk from the Drive, turn down Murano Street and you're soon on Firhill Street, casting your eyes on the famous stadium. I even used to hear the players training in Ruchill Park from the hospital (such language !!). I used to work nearly every Saturday morning then, and how many times did I go to see them? Once. Once in 12 years...and that was a preseason friendly against West Ham. Yet there's is still a result I will look for in a paper. A smile if they win, and an "ach" if they don't.
I'm not saying I should be a Partick a Thistle supporter, but I do have reason to be. Should I, and all the others like me, get off our backsides and show support for a team that has more reason to mean something than just a traditional, "them" or "us" mentality, the club would surely be in a far better standing.
Up the Jags. ;)
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Small world, I lived in Wynford Drive, just off Garrioch Road, Maryhill for two years and Firhill was my local football ground. I had no money, my dad didn't follow football and couldn't get to Parkhead, and in my local "Proddy" school, Shakespeare Primary, any mention of Celtic got you a kicking, so I became a genuine and keen attendee Jags fan. Never paid to get in, mind, I always used to sneak in round the north side, where the outer wall was crumbling and we could climb over easily.
Firhill was the first stadium I ever saw, and the emerald green of the pitch when I had cleared the interior was thrilling - much brighter than grass outside. There was no problem walking about either, crowds weren't huge, and kids could virtually go anywhere. This would have been about 1966 to '68, and I fell in love with the classic Partick Thistle red and yellow banded shirt with black collar and cuffs.
I was a Celtic fan going in, and this was also the time when Celtic won the European Cup, so my allegiance wasn't going to change, but the Jags were my secret crush.
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I had a few jaunts down that neck of the woods, Malc. The Wynford was quite a place. I loved the fact that McDonalds was just down from The Viking pub, and for those who had staying power, Roxy's nightclub could be staggered to when they got flung out the pub.
Me? After a few in The Viking, a quarter pounder with cheese, and a wayward stagger back to a bus stop, I considered that I had consumed close enough to my five a day and exercised amply without the need for dancing to top up my health drive. Glasgow...unhealthy? Not in my eyes.
;)
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Ah, there were nae McDonalds restaurants in my day...
I used to go to sleep at night with the sounds of the Tong, the Fleet, the Valley, the Young Cumbae and other gangs fighting each other on the disused railway lines going over the Kelvin river. Glasgow was VERY unhealthy then.
Happy days...
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Glasgow is much safer now. Sometimes the guns aren't even loaded...
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You used to see men walking around with facial scars they'd received in "slashings" in the late 50s and 60s. I did NOT like living in Glasgow as a kid. It was a terrible place.
Sorry, Glaswegians.
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That was the sloppy Glasgow when you got slashed with only a single blade, Malc. Now they double blade so you get a broad cut that's nigh on impossible to stitch neatly. Now that's the attention to detail that makes Scottish workmanship world renowned. :-[
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This is one of my McGookin family stories. My lot get up to make the tea as soon as I start, but youse are a fresh audience.
We lived in Glasgow because my dad took a posting as a recruiting sergeant. His job was to look imposing and military and all-round impressive, so his work gear was his "Twos" uniform - that's the smart tan suit with big black hat, gold badges everywhere - with a large red sash.
That's how he was dressed when he brought me to Shakespeare Road Primary School one cold morning circa 1967. The bell had just rung and every kid was lined up in their class rows as we walked in the school gate. Many of the little wags started saluting, and although he didn't mean to, my dad had lined me up with a fight every playtime for about six months.
Mine's white with two. Sweeteners if you've got 'em.
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Ow. Even from a distance, that smarts.
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Mine's white with two.
You want to get it out in the sun some more then. :-[
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Fnar.