Monthly Archives: May 2014

…the Guest Blog season continues to sparkle… insights from Author Lockie Young on how and why he writes what he does… #TBSU…

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Lockard Young

…I used to think myself a pretty broad-spectrum reader… any kinda JONGRR yeez mention, and I’d be yer man… not so, Mabel… through the happy circumstance of having invited all and any of yeez Lads and Lassies of Blog Land to come and Guest Blog, I’m discovering I’ve only scratched the surface on JONGRR indulgence… fr’example, today’s pal, Author Lockie Young (Sunday name, ‘Lockard’) delights with such an uncomplicated opener for his web… this is how yeez tell yer blog followers what ye’re about… enjoy…

…this is his entrée…

RyansLegend_cover2 1200X1800

My name is Ryan, and this is the story of how I discovered a legend, and the biggest secret of my entire life! Just after Christmas, I saw these weird tracks in the snow, so I just had to check them out. You won’t believe what I found!

Deep underground, in a hidden cavern, I met the best friend a guy could have. The coolest thing of all was we used real magic to talk. He told me all about his life, and why I had to keep his secret.

I know keeping secrets from my family is wrong, but this is different. I just can’t have my parents or my annoying older brother figuring out what’s hidden in the old chicken coop. If anyone finds out about this legend, he might disappear from the world forever.

About L.F. Young

L.F. YoungIn 1995, Lockard Young, started banging away at the computer, and before long he had completed five chapters of a book.

Because the characters were named after his children, he thought it fitting to read the tale to them.

Enthralled by the story, they demanded more and so Lockard wrote. The end result was a story entitled, Ryan’s Legend. A book was born, and so was a hobby.

A plumber by trade, Lockard lives with his wife in the countryside of rural New Brunswick. Currently, he is working on the sequel to Ryan’s Legend. In addition to a number of stories he has “in the works,” Lockard also has an impressive poetry collection, inspired by his trip to South Africa.

For more information on Lockard Young, please visit his website.

Click the Store Logo Below to Buy Ryan’s Legend ($2.99)

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Filed under Blether, Scribbling & Stuff

…it’s a matter of a smatter of patter from Guest Blogger, Eric J. Gates… enjoy… #TBSU…

…one of the nicest men I know, with the capacity to deal with folks who may not be so nice, is martial arts expert, and superb author, Eric J.Gates… I am well aware of the lurking humour that abides in that crime-novelist’s literary armoury… in this sparkling Guest Post, yeez’ll readily see what I mean… let the chortling commence… the floor, the walls, and the ceiling are yours Maestro…



The perils of writing a Guest Post… from Eric J Gates

As usual, I find I’ve been outwitted! There I was, quietly hiding behind my keyboard, when Seumas appeared and asked me for a guest post for his blog. I was feeling a little lazy and decided to use my ingenuity to thwart the erstwhile petitioner. “Alright, That Man,” I said. “If you can guess how many coins I’ve got in my pocket, I’ll do a guest post.”

Now, just in case there’s someone out there who doesn’t know, Seumas is a canny Scot and his response was not long in coming: “If I guess right, yer’ll do the post and I get to keep one of the coins.”

This was too easy.

“Look, laddie,” I said, “if you guess right, I’ll do the post, and you can keep both of them!”

So here I am

What I didn’t expect was that the post had to be written in situ. For the Greek scholars amongst you, that means in Seumas’ writing pad (photo on right). So I hopped onto a plane, drawing strange glances from the crew, until I told them the ticket said it was a one-leg journey, and here I am in Abu Dhabiland.

My first culture shock was at the airport. No taxi rank; or rather there was one, but no taxis. Just one flea-bitten camel. Now I’ve heard a thing or two about camel’s bad tempers, and I’m old enough to have seen that Swatzen, Swurtzen, Shortzen (oh dammit!) Arnie’s Conan movie, so I asked the man alongside if his camel bites. He assured me it didn’t, so it was much to my surprise the bluddy thing took a nip at me when I got closer. Of course I recriminated the man. His response: “That’s not my camel!”

Finally made it to my meet with That Man and he was a little surprised I’d brought my furry foot-warmer with me (it’s a West Highland Terrier and I thought I might need a translator). “Ay, that wee animal dunna look too good,” pronounced Seumas. “Let’s take him to the vet’s.”

So we parked the post and made our way to the local veterinary office. They had warned me the Emirates were expensive and high-tech, but what happened took me by surprise. The vet lay my dog on the examining table then disappeared to another room. He returned a couple of minutes later with the scrawniest feline I’ve seen in a while. He placed the moggy on my hound and it proceeded to walk all over the inert form of the poor creature. After a short while, the vet grabbed the tabby and disappeared again, only to return with a sheet of paper. “Your dog’s dead!” was his verdict. “Here’s the bill.”

I looked at the bottom line on the sheet: 3000 United Arab Emirates Dirham! I looked at Seumas aghast. “3000 AED, that’s aboot 830 dollars,” he announced, though when he used the abbreviation, for a second I thought he was talking about Improvised Explosive Devices (it’s the Govan accent, laddie).

The vet just nodded, before adding “that’s 100 Dirham for the visit and 2900 for the CAT Scan.”

Chastened by my loss, we adjourned to the laddie’s writing corner.

I had no idea what to write for the guest post. “That’s easy, man,” prompted my host. “Tell us why you wanted to become a writer?”

I thought deeply about that for at least two seconds before replying. “When I was a lad, I wanted to write stuff the whole world will read; stuff that will move people on a truly emotional level; stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!”


“I started writing error messages for Microsoft.” I responded.

“Be careful what you wish for,” said Seumas sagely. “Then what?”

“Well, it all started with a dream. I dreamt I died and was given the choice to go to Writer’s Heaven or Writer’s Hell. Not being clear about the choice, I said I wanted a peek at both places before I decided. I got taken to Hell first: row upon row of writers chained to their desks as they scribbled page after page, year after year. Then I was taken to Heaven: row upon row of writers chained to their desks as they scribbled page after page, year after year. ‘I can’t see the difference,’ I said. Well, Saint J. Peterson, my guide, cleared it up for me in a heartbeat. Up here, he said, your work gets published! Then he added, ‘with my by-line’.”

Well things went downhill from there on. I scribbled this piece and Seumas said his Publisher would give us a ride back to the airport, but I’d have to share the car with his previous guest, a writer from a central-European country. On our way there, the vehicle in front skidded and toppled over. We all rushed out to help but that turned out to be a big mistake. You see, it had been transporting a pair of huge Bengal tigers to a private zoo. These broke free and the male, always the more aggressive, pounced on Seumas’ other guest and swallowed him whole. We all scrambled back to the car and locked ourselves in until the Police arrived. Then our driver wound down his window, pointed to the tiger and told the cop what had happened. Much to everyone’s amazement, the policeman drew his gun and shot the female tiger.

I was shocked and looked to Seumas for an explanation.

The wise ol’ Scot just nodded and clarified everything in a concise question.

“C’mon, laddie, would you believe a publisher who told you the Czech was in the male?”


..thanks for the post, Master Eric… and so yeez will know the range of this man’s talents, here’s a coupla links to show yeez the lad’s ability to write in more than one JONGGR…

the CULL - Blood Box cover
‘The CULL – Blood Box’ (Boxed set) Global Amazon Link :
How not to be COVER
‘How NOT to be an ASPIRING Writer’ Global Amazon Link : don’t mess the man around, just start following his stuff :

check out to read extracts and discover the inside secrets

follow Eric on Twitter: @eThrillerWriter  and on his Blog

[Eric J. Gates @]




Filed under Blether, Scribbling & Stuff

…K.A.Brace’s poetry makes for an intriguing Guest Post… enjoy… #TBSU…

…it’s amazing and gratifying to welcome a range of content on the Guest Post roster… today, enjoy the thoughts of my good friend, K.A.Brace, with this offering :

This Road

No road takes you any place out of kindness
Or wishes you ill along the way to a destination.

This road is just a road now, no longer goes
The places I know to be waiting around some bend
Over a hill, beyond some trees, down this road.

I can think of a hundred other ways to go,
Roads that hold out promise of a kind to know.

Then this road comes to mind again and I realize
I have studied it so closely now I can tell by touch
When the weather is about to change and distance
Goes on forever the closer you get to it and remember
Just how long this road can be when it no longer
Is the way you are sure of takes you home.

There will be other roads taken by habit, out of love
And most from curiosity for things to be seen
For other than what they are or can be.

I will find the road that will be perfect for a time
But will grow tired of its familiarity and finally go
Off of roads completely, across fields into meadows
Through forests, mountains, perhaps a desert too.

All my traveling will bring me to the great ocean
And I will see that all directions are possibile
Held out to me however I decide, realize
No one and final road I have looked for actually exists;
It is enough to be on a journey to find where you are.

To Travel Without a Map:
Poems: Mr. K. A. Brace: 9781493643004: Books

…you can find more of this good material by following his blog on

… thanks for sharing yer WURK with me, K.A.,
…see yeez all later… LUV YEEZ!…


Filed under Blether, Scribbling & Stuff

…happiness is Curly-Wurly-Shaped Fries… #TBSU…

…some, who probably know much better about these kinda things than this ol’ Jurassic, say ‘yeez are what yeez eat’… and I can’t say I totally disagree with their assertion… in my Twitter header self-description I even include the phrase, ’TV football couch potato’… my ancestry traces ‘way back to Ireland, where the humble spud was so much a staple of the nation’s diet, when the potato crop famines came, the people left… thus enriching greatly the rest of the planet, notably North America… my own folks descended from these good Irishers, and have been frightening the daylights out of Scotland ever since… a Scotland which baffles the WURLD with its culinary specialties… the inimitable Haggis, which continues to perplex gourmets everywhere…  and of more recent invention, Fried Mars Bars… which causes just about equal consternation to the International College of Heart Surgeons… but let it not be denied… in my own infancy and youth, I hardly recall a single meal without the presence of the ubiquitous King of the Vegetable Planet… mashed, with or without butter, for those back then who could afford it, or more usually mashed with or without margarine… real chips, sometimes as wee skinny excuses for the name, more frequently as solid slab slices, fried in deep batter, or better still fried twice in deep batter or lard… (watch the double-flip again with the aforementioned mob of heart surgeons)… and if yeez haven’t tried fried fritters, browned almost to a toasted remnant, epicurially yeez haven’t lived… roasted tatties, burnt as close as yer stomach can stand, should be mandatory accompaniment for every Sunday lunch meat of yer choice… comes now, the latest entry into the Royal Culinary lineage… the Curly-Wurly Fries… manufactured it seems from sum’thing Harry Potter and his gang would dream up… these splendid plate-fellows have taken modern pride of place in my menu-favourites… go on, give them a go… but don’t blame me if yer health insurance premium goes through the roof… see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!




Filed under Blether, Scribbling & Stuff

…a double-step back in time with a delightful Guest Post from Sarah Vernon… enjoy… #TBSU…

…when this ol’ Jurassic asked for Guest Posts from yeez Lads and Lassies of Blog Land, I expected nowt but the highest quality of off’rings… the wonderful Sarah Vernon serves up the following gem… yeez’ll note the first step back in time is to a quite recent date… last November to be precise… her ‘go’ at the NaNoWriMo’s fiction produces the second step back in time, to her infancy, and simultaneously brands her as a NoNoWriMo Rebel inasmuch as it’s a personal true piece… I’m glad she did, and delighted with the content… yeez’ll see what I mean… read and enjoy… thanks, m’Lady Sarah…


This is the start of a memoir that is being submitted as part of National Novel Writing Month. That it’s not fiction makes me, I’ve learned, a NaNo Rebel for they are asking for fiction in any genre. I care not since I’ve always been a bit of a rebel in my way.  Fifty thousand words is required which is doubtless beyond me as life has a predictable way of flipping me upside down and inside out, especially when I need to concentrate most.  Why? This memoir will explain all.  Eventually!  I can’t quite believe I’m opening myself up by posting my progress on this blog but I know it is what I need to get back to writing.  Constructive criticism is positively welcomed.  All such posts are drafts; with that in mind, read on…


My father has died. I think I did not greatly care for him but I cannot stop crying. And when I have placed a few letters and photographs into my bag, I want to ring my mother and cry in her arms and wail, ‘He’s dead, my Daddy is dead. My Daddy!’ But how can I?


I’m up so high sitting on the sofa and yet the porthole’s even higher. Mummy’s soft brown calves and the hem of her cotton frock are all that’s visible. She’s forgotten something. She’s forgotten to say goodbye to me.

She wants her sunglasses and Daddy is doing something in the bows of the barge and won’t get them for her.

‘Darling,’ she says.

I swivel round on my bottom to find her stroking my brother Tom’s brow as he lies grizzling in his cot. ‘He’s so pretty, even when he’s mewling,’ she says. Mewling? Why can’t she use ordinary words?

She picks up the glasses from the shelf and goes back up on deck. I don’t know if she’s coming back; I don’t even know where she’s gone but she looks very happy.

With my hand I trace the stripes of the ticking that covers the sofa, and I press my lips together. Mummy can’t see me but I’m here. I know I’m still here because I can feel the stinging in my eyes.


“Quickly, quick!”  The black and white television shows the long, narrow boats skimming along with Cambridge ahead. “Come on, Oxford, come on!”

“Why on earth do you support Oxford? Think of your great-grandfather rowing for Cambridge.” Mummy makes one of her disparaging faces at me and turns away.

“But, darl…,” Daddy starts to say and then thinks better of it.

“But Daddy went to Oxford,” I say, “and he’s closer to me than great-great whatever he is.”

“Dear lord,” she says. Tom and I look at Daddy and Daddy looks at me and Tom. It’s an early conspiracy.

I picture my father in a brown, monk-like cell studying clever books even though I have never in my life seen him reading a book. After that, he and Winnie went off to fight the Jerries. I know about Winnie because there’s a huge picture of him on the wall at school, and I can see the two of them crouching behind a fence, twizzling their guns, cocking their hats. How proud I am that it was my Daddy and Winnie who beat the baddies single-handed. Are they aliens? I’m not sure because there’s a Jerry at school and he says he’s English.

Wait! Here they come, here come the boats, and we rush to the telly in the sun house on deck to see ourselves but the cameras are facing the opposite bank. Oh. Well.


It’s hot outside and I don’t want to go up on deck because Mummy and Daddy are fighting about Tom. He’s been stung by a bee and he’s screaming his head off. I feel sorry for him but not that sorry. How can you tell when it’s ‘bee sting’ screaming or ‘I want’ screaming?

I wish Anne would come. Wednesday Anne. I want to help her today: I want to use the dustpan and brush. She’s broken her arm again so she can’t do any cleaning without me. I love her. How pretty you are, she says. I couldn’t do any of this without your help, she says. How I love her. She’s been around for ages and is even older than Mummy and Daddy. She used to clean for Ellen Terry and Ellen Terry was very famous and from very, very long ago. Charles-Who-Had-His-Head-Chopped-Off was around then. I think. I want to be Ellen Terry.

There’s lots I want to be. I want to be grown. I want to be able to wash my hair. I want to be a girl who Mummy and Daddy find lovely and pretty. I don’t want Tom to be the only one everyone goes ga-ga over.


I’m screaming now. My knee hurts like billyo and there’s blood all over the grass. No one comes rushing down the gangplank because Daddy’s gone down below to call Mummy. And then she’s there and everything’s all right. She strokes me and wipes away the blood and cleans it with something that stings and I try not to scream again because I know she doesn’t like it. And then she puts a plaster on and cuddles me and tells me I’m a brave little thing and I love her. A brave Mam’selle Michelin. I don’t know why she calls me that but it makes everyone laugh so I think it’s good. I’m going to have a ‘normous scar.


We’re doing a test. Sums. I wish Mummy had kept me and my knee on the barge. I’ve managed to copy most of Jerry’s answers but he’s got his hand over the last one.

They’re all wrong. Jerry got them all wrong so Miss Burns knows what I did. I wish I could be on my own and could read all by myself. I still need help with reading.  But it’s okay now because we’re having an end-of-term pressie-giving. We’ve all had to bring something wrapped up in pretty paper to put in the Christmas bin and we’re all going to go up in turn to choose a surprise package. I’m the last to go up and there’s only one thing left. I bend over to look into the bin and there it is. And I recognise the paper, and I recognise the shape, and I know what it is. I don’t cry.  I just pick it up and go back to my place on the floor.


The most magical thing has happened, the best present ever. It’s so beautiful I can hardly bear to put anything in it. The sides of the bag are matt plastic tartan and the handles a sludgy beige. I’m holding it by my side and looking at it and me in the mirror. It’s the most beautiful thing in the whole wide universe. Oh thank you, I say, oh thank you. Look, Mummy, the handles match my shorts!

No-one’s listening.


“No, no, Tom, it’s a boat, not a car,” says Daddy excitedly, and pushes the tiller on the model yacht from side to side.

“Leave him alone,” says Mummy.

Tom tries to pick up the boat but it’s too big.

“I don’t know why you bought him that. We don’t want another bloody sailor in the family.”

“Why not?” says Daddy, perplexed.

Later, when it’s low tide, we’re allowed to trudge through the Christmas mud in our wellies. They tell me not to take the bag but now I’m not listening. I clasp it to my chest and breathe easily as I push the tips of my gumboots through the giant turds of the river.

Tom is chanting tunelessly. “Updiddle diddle, down diddle diddle—” He lifts up his arms and swoops towards me. But his feet can’t keep up and before I can shout or move, he falls splat! into the mud. Serves him right.

My bag is covered in muck. I don’t care about the mess on my clothes but Mummy does. “I told you not to take that bag,” she says, hauling me out of the bath and scrubbing me up and down with a white towel. It hurts when she rubs between my legs because my legs are podgy and they chafe when I walk.

Tom is tucked up in his cot now. He’s too old for it these days but there isn’t anywhere else. I’ve got the built-in bunk beside him. When I come in he’s lying in the cot, his bright blue eyes following me as I go up the wooden steps and flop onto the mattress.


‘Shuddup!” I want to punch him but I don’t.

“Be quiet!” shouts Mummy. “Don’t wake him up.”


“But can’t I stay and help you? Please?”

“No, dear, I have to take you to school. You have to be at Miss Gwynne’s this morning for all your school work.”

“But you won’t be here later and I won’t be able to help you.”

Wednesday Anne holds my hand as we walk along the street with all the big houses with tall windows where other people live.

“I tell you what, I’ll leave a little bit for you to do this afternoon. How’s that? You can get out your dustpan and brush when you get back.”

“Yes, please.” I rest my head against her. “Of course it won’t be the same with you not there,” I add gravely. And mean it.

“Never you mind, dear, I’ll be back next week, and the week after and the week after that. Now just be careful,” she says, taking a tighter hold of my hand as we reach the main road.


Wednesday Anne didn’t come last week because she’s broken her arm again but she’s here now for my birthday party. She’s right behind me when I blow out the candles on the pink-ribboned cake. Her arm is swollen with plaster and hung in a sling. I’m wrapped in the frock that Mummy made, the red one with squiggles of black; it’s got white knitted cuffs and a white knitted collar and matching red knickers which itch. The girl opposite is wearing silver ballet pumps and a pink dress and she’s got frilly blonde hair and a little upturned nose but I don’t care because Anne doesn’t think she’s a little darling: I heard her say ‘no manners that one’.

“I want cake,” Tom cries and reaches out to get another sausage from the hedgehog.

“There, there, little darling, you’ll get some soon enough, there’s a good boy,” says Anne and strokes his hair.

I turn my face towards her. “Am I a little darling?”

“Of course, poppet,” says Anne. I don’t think I can be a little darling because Mummy cuts my fringe and it’s very short and woggly and she only calls Tom a little darling.  Not me.


We’re moving. We’re going to a house, a proper house like normal people. I don’t know if I’m going to like it.

My parents [c1955]

You can follow the blog of Sarah Vernon, with the simple click on here:


Filed under Blether, Scribbling & Stuff

…is Literature just a load of crepuscular?… great Guest Post from Author Kevin Brennan… #TBSU…

…here’s a ‘thinking’ piece Guest Post from my pal, Author Kevin Brennan… thanks for coming aboard, that man…


Yes, literature is elitist… thank God!

A while back, Salon’s Laura Miller asked the musical question, “Is the literary world elitist?”

My short answer? Yes.

Because it’s supposed to be. The word “literary” has a certain connotation, after all. In fact, the first definition of it in my dictionary says, “Concerning the writing, study, or content of literature, esp. of the kind valued for quality of form.” A few synonyms include: scholarly, learned, poetic, artistic, intellectual, cultured, erudite, and highbrow. Oh, and “bluestocking.” (Not sure what that is…)

Anyway, yes. The literary world is by definition elitist, but to my mind there’s nothing wrong with elitism. If we pretend to care about quality and cutting-edge, then it figures (to me, anyway) that elites in the various fields of endeavor — from the military to the academic to the creative — will be the ones to lead us. What am I not getting about this?

Miller’s essay is a consideration of a piece by New Zealand novelist, Eleanor Catton, who wrote about a reader’s objection to the word “crepuscular” in the Paris Review, of all places. Happens to be one of my favorite words, crepuscular, but in our culture, apparently, its use is likely to get a writer trolled to death in her Amazon reviews. You can read Miller’s piece and Catton’s piece and contemplate the arguments about what all this means. You might read Catton’s novel, The Luminaries, and decide for yourself whether it’s elitist or not. (I haven’t read it.) Or you can just spout an opinion of your own, like I’m about to do.


Literature is an art form. All writing is not art. All fiction is not art. But writing that is conceived to be part of a culture’s creative, perpetual impetus ought to be allowed the flexibility to use any and all tools in its creator’s kit — including a word like crepuscular, for shitsake. (Try ostentiferous on for size!) The minute you let readers dictate the content and style of art (as the corporate publishing biz seems inclined to do), you drive art straight into a brick wall. This is what worries me about the whole Oyster thing, with algorithmic analysis of where in the text readers bail on a novel. Only a matter of time before the readers are basically writing the goddamn books….

It could be because readers don’t like to feel inferior, as Miller suggests. Rather than, for instance, getting excited over a word like crepuscular and looking it up, the anti-crepuscular among us call the writer an elitist and label his book “boring” or “too complicated.” The American gut reaction to lots of things seems to be, “What, you think you’re smarter’n me?”

Again, the short answer: Yes.

According to Miller, there could be a deep psychological wound behind these anti-elite reactions. “A teacher, a parent, a romantic partner, a friend, a roommate, even a co-worker has made them feel ashamed over a book or genre they enjoy or admire.”

I don’t buy it. More often than not, they should feel ashamed (Bigfoot erotica? Really?). But liking some kind of lowbrow pulp fiction is no excuse for not looking up crepuscular. A little initiative please?

Why can’t writers help readers get smarter? Why aren’t brilliant young novelists on television? Instead it’s authors of almost-porn (you know who I’m talking about), popular thriller hacks, celebrities, and the occasional multi-culti novelist with a compelling personal story from someplace like Chad. The last time I saw Jonathan Franzen on TV, it was a few days after 9/11 and Ted Koppel made a fool of himself trying to think of something to ask the guy.

But let’s say the knee-jerk reaction against seemingly elitist writing can be at least partly blamed on a reader’s deep-seated anxiety, isn’t it fair to ask why the whole culture has to be dumbed down? As Miller puts it at the end of her column, “Even if we’re not to blame for our insecurities, we are responsible for recognizing them for what they are. And for growing up and getting over it.”

Amen to that.


Filed under Blether, Scribbling & Stuff

…my new programme… Bloggers’ Idol/Bloggers Got Talent… yer open invitation to Guest Blog with the ol’ Jurassic… #TBSU…

…it’s some of the best fun yeez can have with yer clothes on… Guest Blogging… as a Category in ‘gift-giving’, it’s right up there with doing reviews for yer fellow scribblers… blessing those who give and those who receive (would make a neat epithet that, Mabel)… I ask only one tiny, wee ROOLno offensive material, if yeez don’t mind… all else is fair game… content, style, number of WURDS… with or without photographs… I would welcome, and expect, plenty of exposure to yer own masterpieces… links for readers and others to check them out… bio information, should yeez so desire… tell fibs about yerselves if yeez wish (Interpol will not be in the loop)… in short, use the page here however yeez like… and just so yeez are aware, I link every one of my blog posts to my own SOSYAL NETWURKS on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, Digg, Tumblr, Stumbleupon, Google+,… that equates to 15,000+ direct contacts… add to that the algorithmic multiples from ‘on-sharing’ via Re-Tweets, Shares on Facebook, and all these other channels… and all of this will cost yeez absolutely NUTHIN except yer time and thought to sculpt a Guest Blog for inclusion… there are rich veins of talent out there amongst yeez Lads and Lassies of Blog Land… I’ve enjoyed the two-way exchanges of these missives for the last couple years, and it’s great fun… it broadens yer reach to like-minded quill-scrapers… and gets others in front of new eyeballs too… a veritable Win/Win… so, come on in, send me yer stuff on my email at … be part of the Bloggers’ Idol/Bloggers Got Talent idiom with this ol’ blogging idiot… see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!



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…if yeez can write like a child tells a story, yeez are on to sum’thing… #TBSU…

…regular supporters of this blog will know this ol’ Jurassic spends most early mornings writing in the lobby of the Jumeirah at Etihad Towers Hotel… it’s next door to where I live in Abu Dhabi… but there’s more attraction to my ‘writing den’ than just its proximity… the lobby is a fascinating place to watch and listen to people… and learn stuff… today was no exception… near the table where my laptop perches, a young Arabic family sat on a lounge settee… the daughter, who must be all of at least three years old, and smitten by the ‘can’t-sit-still-for-more-than-twelve-seconds’ virus rotated around her parents and older brother (an ancient lad of prob’ly five or six years vintage)… then, oh, the pleasure of it… she began to tell him a story… it matters not a jot the content of her tale… the beauty was, he was totally focused on her telling of it… and so was I… in the way that only a child seems to possess, a matter-of-fact series of statements became a saga… each elevation of the story was punctuated by a pause, the voice became a little louder, and the clincher, the bits in between her thought process and delivery,  where she says … ‘and..and..and…’ while her eyes grew wider and wider… then almost shrieked the punchlines… all the technique of the natural storyteller imbedded in one little child… sum’where along the way, I think most of yeez Lads and Lassies of Blog Land also have that in yer genes… the ability to build the expectation levels in the formation of the plot lines… to hold the reader or audience entranced with the ‘business’ of raconteurment… and the evident joy and delight the wee girl showed in getting to the end of her tale, well, we know what that feels like, right?… it was a great nudge to me and a reminder that the best stories often just go ‘free flow’ where yer imagination takes yeez… I’m just wond’ring if her parents would let her co-write for me?… just a thought … see yeez later… LUV YEEZ!



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Support an Author: Grab that Book You’ve Been Wanting ~ #saam14

…another sound piece of advice from Cate Russell-Cole 🙂

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…Georgie Best would have been 68 years old today… 22 May 1946 – 25 November 2005… the greatest football talent I’ve ever seen… R.I.P. …TBSU…

…I’ve shown this piece before, but on the man’s birthdate, I wanna run it again… with this year of the Football World Cup in Brazil, and much chatter about who’s the best player around, none of them consistently matches this man… the finest footballer of his own and possibly any generation, that I’ve ever had the delight to watch… Georgie Best

George Best


…simply the BEST…

…it’s not just because I’m a Manchester United nut…(I was born six years later in the same street in Govan, Glasgow as Sir Alex Ferguson)…fifty years ago, as lads in the school play-grounds, and on the dirt pitches around Glasgow, we played a different sort of football from the modern stuff currently served up on the television screens every weekend…no fancy coaching…up to twenty-a-side street teams versus neighbouring street teams…a tennis ball or rubber ball no bigger than a cricket ball (whatever that was) served the purpose, until the cheaper Mouldmaster real-football-sized versions became accessible…I often wonder if the pedigree athletes swanning around on the deck every TV match I watch are capable of using the ball for more than a one-touch pass…’dribbling’ we called it back then…and tackling wasn’t a dirty word…no less so ‘shoulder-charging’, including the goalies, most of whom, by the way, could look after themselves very well physically, thank you very much…little wonder, when I worked in London (as a Scot, I told them I was there as a missionary) that I look back on the few occasions I had the chance to watch LIVE, the great Georgie Best, and realize just how good the man was…at one match at Crystal Palace (yes, they did populate the top flight at one time before now…), the pitch was doing a passable imitation of a mud-bath obstacle course …remember the balls back then were heavier beasties than the featherweight ping-pong balls they seem to smack 1,000 yards nowadays… it didn’t matter that there were ten other United players on the field that day… George swiveled and turned the whole ninety minutes …the old cliché is that with one body swerve he could send the entire crowd the wrong way… be that as it may, what I saw him do all day that day will live in my mind forever …he may have played in grander matches and scored umpteen goals, captured in reels elsewhere… amid the mud and desperate lunging tackles, he danced away every time, as if the ball was part of his toes… and we, we of a certain age, ballet-danced through the mire with him… back on the play-grounds, scoring through the piled jackets of goal posts in countless open-scrub yards in cities up and down the country… I’m a grown man, supposedly a hard product of the docklands in Govan, but the day Georgie Best died, I sobbed my guts out… the world had lost an icon… one of the finest, if not the finest, exponents of the beautiful game… his back story and struggles are well recorded and I’ll let others dwell on that… but for me, the most magical player I’ve ever seen play live… simply the Best…


Seumas Gallacher

Abu Dhabi

April 8th, 2013




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