Kenneth Roy

The expert view is wrong.
These deaths could
have been prevented

Bob Cant

What does
'Tutti Frutti'
say to us now?


6

John Cameron

The great 'Chariots
of Fire' was the
purest hokum
4

7

Andrew Hook

Down with
everything: the new
American mantra
5

7

Ronnie Smith

Tanned and smiling,
Mr Blair arrives
among us
5

7

Islay McLeod

Villages of
Scotland:
(3) Thornhill
5

17.03.11
No. 380

Theatre

'Somersaults' is a new production from the National Theatre of Scotland which deals with the important issue of language, culture and identity. This is an issue of great debate in Scotland. particularly with reference to Gaelic where we spend up to £30m a year trying to protect a language spoken by fewer than 50,000 people.
     The play centres around James, a young man from the Gaelic-speaking islands, who has made a big success producing computer games. However, he feels that he is losing connection to his language and culture when he can't remember the Gaelic language word for somersault. When his business and relationship crashes he returns to the island to meet and speak with his dying father, beautifully played by the poet and actor A P Campbell. They conduct no doubt meaningful conversations in Gaelic, but, since there are no subtitles, we were left in the dark – no doubt a clever theatrical device to show how excluded Gaelic speakers feel in Scotland.
     Dialogue and debate were the most successful part of this dramatically thin and short play. In the last 10 minutes, the actors took their place in the audience and had an interesting dialogue about the place of Gaelic and identity. It was scripted dialogue which, although inviting debate, also excluded it.
     The play lasted an hour and cost £12. Earlier that day I saw a much more entertaining play and for £12 I got not only a play but a pie and a pint. Maybe the National Theatre of Scotland should use part of their £4m subsidy to make theatre tickets more accessible.

Hugh Kerr

 


Islay McLeod's Scotland

 

Springtime


3. The land

 

The third of three photographs from Springfield, Fife


 



Life of George

 

Mother

 

George Chalmers


To paraphrase Kundera, Betty and I became 'the allies of our own gravediggers'. I hold to a theory that a person's popularity can be measured in the length of time taken to find them dead in their house. Ten weeks passed before her neighbours complained of the smell.
     A young constable who broke down the door 'took afae no' weel', according to her sister, who identified the body by way of a dishtowel draped over its legs.
     'Betty always did that – tae cover her legs fae the fire – they four bars had been burnin' a' they weeks – Christ knows what the electric bill's mountit up tae'.
     People say odd things at funerals.
     I said something along the lines of 'Perhaps it can be settled out of her estate – ha ha'.
     Which didn't sound odd to me, but some focused hard on the sandwiches and sausage rolls. A spread laid-on by another of her sisters who tried to communicate regularly but always ended up repelled by the 'invincible ignorance' of Betty's tongue.
     There were no books in the house. She read aloud, again and again, tales of homicide and betrayal from the News of the World. Then, before another bout of deathly quiet, she'd replenish her 'botilla curada' of draught sherry at the downstairs boozer.
     When there was food in the house it consisted of stuff that could be fried, or maybe tinned mince. She wielded a mean tin-opener, amongst other things. Or frayed 'ootsiders' of Mother's Pride that even Camus would struggle to make something of.
     Elizabeth thought she dressed like the Queen. Acid-green or vitamin-deficient orange, two-piece suits made from fibres that combust in direct sunlight.