Issue #48- September 19th-25thSister Janice gets forgiven
Jesus and a Shotgun
Are the Scottish such a joke ?
One Hundred Percent Red
Far From Me
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Sister Janice And The Rays Of HopeSister Janice is the Friends Of The Heroes agony aunt. She used to be a nun, but after becoming involved in an accident at her convent involving a papal emissary; the mother superior; the convent dog and a bottle of 'citrus fresh' bleach, she decided it was time to find herself a new career. These days she travels through the galaxies in a converted garden shed. Write to Sister Janice Slejj care of Friends of the Heroes. She will answer your problems and questions with the insight unique to a disco-loving alternative-gardening defrocked clergy member and cosmic adventurer... Or she would, if she wasn't currently residing At Her Majesty's Pleasure. Roger is a bloke she met in a burger bar. He wants us to tell you he's a serious, sagacious soul and poet, but we don't know if he's just one of those dodgy people Sister Janice picks up from time to time. I never thought this would happen. I look to the left of me, and there walks a column of women. I look to the right of me, and there walks a column of women. They are stern, impassioned, burning with - Oh, perhaps I should explain Hello there my friends, I am making my way to the prison where my former interstellar travelling companion is now held captive. This, in itself, would not be unusual. I have visited as often as time, and double shifts at RankBurgers allow. In recent weeks, Sister Janice has been unable to receive visitors, residing instead in solitary confinement after an altercation resulting from the theft of her retrospective dance music collection. However, it seems she is now back with her fellow prisoners, and in a situation to appreciate what is about to happen.
That, my friends, is the unusual part of this visit. With me, I have as many of the members of Sister Janice's former convent as I could persuade to undertake this mission. It is more of them that I could possibly have hoped and, amongst their ranks, is the Mother Superior - finally recovered from a nasty encounter with a bottle of lemon fresh in which my erstwhile excommunicated jailbird friend had an unfortunate hand. It was not easy: The Convent Of The Perpetual Glory Of Our Holy Mother, as Sister Janice's former residence is actually named (not, as she often told me, The Convent Of Perpetual Fucking Dullness, Whingeing And Generally Getting On People's Tits) is an austere, imposing building, with iron gates at the entrance - perhaps to dissuade the curious, perhaps to dissuade those wanting to leave. Above the iron gates rises a huge grey clock tower, and a brick wall runs from either side of this, looming above the potential visitor, making him feel small and insignificant, in the manner that ancient cathedrals and churches were designed to dwarf their inhabitants and inspire an awareness of the vastness of the eternal.
They didn't want to let me in at all to begin with - apparently convents aren't particularly welcoming to male visitors. Sister Janice had informed me of this, of course, but I assumed it was just bitterness on her part. This convent, it seems, is welcoming to nobody. When they found out why I was there, they were even less keen on meeting me. Persistence paid, however, and after three days of waiting outside the bolted oak doors, they relented, picked me up from where I had fallen due to lack of sustenance and sleep, revived me, and took me to their leader: Sister Mary Ambrosia (not Sister Bastard-Features, as I had previously been informed) is built in the same mould as the establishment she controls. Austere, imposing and unforgiving - at least on the exterior. To my surprise, within both the convent and the mother superior, there is a warmth and a kindness that Certain People appear to have managed to overlook during their years of residence. Her smile faded quickly as she beckoned me to sit.. her first words.. 'You're here because of the woman that tried to poison me'. I explained that it was a mistake, that cooking never had been one of Sister Janice's specialities (I've seen better chefs in the burger bars in which I constantly find myself employed) and that she really had only been trying to make Spicy Lemon Cous-Cous With Vegetables but had, unfortunately, mistaken a bottle of Jif cleaning fluid for a bottle of Jif lemon juice and slipped rather too much in. 'She's not a bad woman, she just makes mistakes she didn't mean to hurt you and...anyway... you're not supposed to be alive... I mean, its great that you are, but she said...-' Sister Janice, it seems, is held on charges of aggravated assault and not, as she appears to believe, of murder. Everyone recovered, even the convent dog, little Julia Andrea. There are also several charges of petty theft which appear to have been levelled at her, mostly involving the disappearance of a large number of bottles from the convent brewery. I remembered the vat of cider in the corner of The Space Shed and chose not to comment on these. Sister Mary Angelica walked about the small stone, room, frequently pausing in front of the small, narrow window to allow the sunlight to touch her face. Disappointingly, at no point did she attempt to sing 'Climb Every Mountain' - a lot of what I have been told about this place appears to be untrue: 'Sister Janice Slejj was a..... difficult charge. We had a great deal of trouble with her, before this incident. She could be...most inconsiderate. There are times of silent contemplation at this convent... they are not an appropriate time to be playing loud, thumping and frankly rather unpleasant music.
'She has...changed...' 'I doubt that very much. I tried everything I could, sharp words, exclusion, eventually even pretending she wasn't there, none of them worked. I doubt you could have attempted anything that I-' 'I tried friendship'. She said nothing for a while, staring at the desk before her, the cigar in the ashtray forgotten. Then, slowly... 'the Bible does teach that anyone may be redeemed...'. She looked at me, an expression on her face that I haven't seen often before, I didn't recognise it at the time.. 'You waited outside for three days?' She considered this for a moment, then... 'Then she has changed. I can see it, in you. In the fact that somebody would do this for her.' Not only did she agree to drop the charges, but, while I sat there, she summoned the rest of the women, gave a speech about failing one another, and helping those less fortunate, and asked them to accompany her on a Mission. The mission? To free Sister Janice. Apparently, the charges being dropped will not automatically result in her freedom. There are the legal actions pressed against her by certain cardinals who were also present at that unfortunate eating-occurence, and there are certain other, minor, misdeameanours committed since leaving the Convent that need to be accounted for. None of these, however, should be enough to keep her in there for any length of time. Not with a score of nuns on the case, anyway. So, here I am..... Several hundred yards from the prison gates, flanked by women in black and white, marching to free someone that two weeks ago they would have paid money, had they any of their own, to see locked behind bars. And, now, I recognise the look directed at me by the Mother Superior as she questioned me. At the time I had thought it was curiousity or, perhaps, an unforunate bout of wind. It was neither of these. It was admiration. It has been a long time since I saw that. This week's letter: 'Dear Sister Janice, I have this dream about killing my boss with a smoked hadock, but just as I am about to strike the final blow the hadock turns into a snake and starts to choke me so I kill the snake but my boss turns into Darth Vader and we have a duel to the death. What is that all about? and is there any way to stop it as I keep on waking up screaming and it is making me tired during the day. please help, Mad as Hell
Dear err....Mad..,
You have my deepest sympathies. When I tell you that I have worked in fast-food for many years, you must know that I have shared your feelings.
On the other hand, they might sack you, this is the risk you take. As for the dreams, I recommend you abstain from hallucinogenic drugs for at least two hours before retiring to bed. Whilst it may be true that Darth Vader is a classic example of the Jungian archetype of.. err...ahem...Nasty Thing, the haddock representing your inner freedom and the snake representing your suppressed instincts, there isn't much to be gained from going into this. A lot of your dream is about sex. For tiredness at work, try having a nap. Or just don't go. You'll feel much better. Yours
So, dear readers, I say that Sister Janice will be back with you next week with some feeling of hope that I may be proved correct. The warders stand before us, rather in awe, it seems, of the forces facing them, as for a while they say nothing and then, eventually, they leave us. We have been waiting outside the prison gate for nearly an hour when they come back and tell us the news. Sister Janice no longer resides at the prison. Last night, she escaped. Have a good week, dear readers, and try to be kind.
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Jesus and a ShotgunJesus took a shotgun and he put it to my head and told me, "the world's one big sin, time for you to show the way," and I said "Jesus, what's worth fighting for? The crack? The whores? The crack whores? What's the point in keeping up when living's gotten so damned hard?" He shakes me and I feel my world start falling under, falling under, giving me a reason just to try to keep the breath in lungs. "Just give me a reason, give me a reason, give me a reason to shoot this gun . . ." I wake up sweating, shaking, needing dope to keep my heart from beating itself to death. Sweat mingles with fear and loathing in the land of sinners. Finding my way's just so goddamned hard when every dollar buys another ounce and my whole life's wasting away. If Jesus really had a shotgun, I'd put it to my head and I'd pull the trigger. One less drugged out fuck on welfare wasting air. The darkness holds me down as humid breath breathes down my sentence. I'm reaching out, I'm grasping, flailing . . . failing. Nothing's what I always find. Jesus takes his shotgun and he puts it to my head and tells me, "the world's one big sin, time for you to show the way," and I say, "Take me to your leader." Nothing left to say except maybe hallelujah. +++Back to top+++ Back to current issue+++
Are the Scottish such a joke ?I am a Scot, a biker and proud of it but I some times sit and wonder if we are taken seriously. Just the other day I was out and about and ended up in Peebles. For those of you who don't know it, it is a nice little town in the Borders. Unbeknown to me it was their annual Highland Games which you will find in any number of Scottish towns throughout the summer. Anyway, I was walking through the town and I spotted this chap walking along the road in a kilt, nothing unusual about that, but to my shock and horror as I looked he was wearing a pair of flip flops on his feet and speaking in a rather odd manner ie with an English accent. He was strutting along like he owned the place and this made me think are we such a joke that he can take the mickey out of our national dress in broad daylight. I decided to take a look at Scotland in general and have came up with some pointers as to why we may be taken as a joke. Number One- Scottish folk music. We always sing about being miles away from Scotland, fighting the English, or some rubbish about love that no one but ourselves can understand, for example Robert Burns’ ‘My love is like a Red Red Rose’. Most of the people who sing this stuff are blokes in big fisherman style jumpers and corduroy slacks who know nothing about the country and just make half the songs up, or you get the other kind who stand in full Highland dress and rant on about how good it is to be a warrior under William Wallace and Robert the Bruce but would run a mile if they got within five feet of a fight. Number Two- Films about Scotland's history. (for example ‘Braveheart’ or ‘the worst Scottish accent I have ever heard’ as I like to call it.). Hollywood! Why not come along and takes a chunk of Scottish history and say lets mix it up with another chunk of Scottish history and get an Australian to play the main character. Then to make it worse at the Wallace Monument just outside Stirling build a statue that is supposed to be William Wallace but looks just like Mel Gibson with a mullet. Number Three- Bagpipes. I know that a lot of people like them but they sound like someone standing on a cats tail to me, and they look downright stupid. When you see somebody marching down the road playing them it looks like a bloke wrestling with an octopus and losing badly. Just imagine if you where an alien and you landed in Scotland and the first thing you saw was a bloke playing the bagpipes: what would you first thought be? mine would be "What the hell is that all about I'm going back to the mother ship and never coming back to this madhouse again. That blokes hunting for his dinner with his bare hands and blowing up the poor creatures ass at the same time". Number Four- Scottish sports fans- the Tartan Army(and yes I do support Scotland in all sports). When you see the fans on the t v they are always drunk and taking part in all three of the above points, one singing the songs, two quoting Braveheart ie the Freedom line and three playing bagpipes usually very badly and basically acting like a bunch of madmen and women. So just to round off, I love Scotland with all my heart and am proud to be Scottish. I am born and bred of the MacFarlane clan, but are we a joke? Are we? Come to Scotland and see the real Scotland- not the mass market tins of shortbread and small pots of Dundee Marmalade stuff, but look at the countryside and find out about the true history and I think you will find that you will go away saying "What a place. It's like Heaven on earth." And even if you don’t like it, you can always get drunk on the whisky.
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One Hundred Percent Red'I am not here as the accused, I am here as the accuser of capitalism, dripping with blood from head to foot…' John Maclean, 1918. There was a period between 1915 and 1932 when the city of Glasgow was witness to an unparalleled wave of working class protest and political agitation which challenged the forces of capitalism and also, on occasion, directly challenged the state itself. The events and people who shaped this period forged an enduring legacy which still remains part of the political and social fabric of the city to the present day, and which is known quite simply as Red Clydeside. From 1915 onwards the Clydeside munitions workers had become the vanguard of working class resistance to the war effort. Out of their struggles, a new kind of working class organisation was born--the Clyde Workers' Committee. Based on shop stewards' organisation and under rank and file control, it provided the model which militant workers across Britain would follow during the war. The changes wrought by the war economy in both the workplace and on the already overcrowded housing estates had made Clydeside fertile ground for militant trade unionism and socialist agitation. In these conditions politics and economics began to fuse together, creating opportunities for anti-war socialists like John Maclean. In May 1917, 90,000 workers marched to Glasgow Green in support of the February Revolution in Russia. On 1 May 1918, 100,000 struck against the war. And then the war ended. Suddenly Britain was awash with strikes and mutinies in the army, the navy and the police. There was a 40 hour mass strike in engineering and the threat of an all out strike by 1 million miners for workers' control of the mining industry. Every other key group of workers were disaffected. With the war over and unemployment set to rocket, the mood was bitter and moving left. Both the miners and engineers were voting heavily in favour of all out strike. The 40 hour strike began on Clydeside on 27 January. The strike call came from below and had been opposed by the leaders of the engineering union, the STUC and the TUC. Yet the bureaucracy's attempt to prevent the strike failed, and within a few days mass flying pickets had brought the Clyde Valley to a standstill--with over 100,000 out indefinitely. Probably one of the most famous and enduring images of Red Clydeside is the raising of the red flag above 35,000 striking engineering workers massed in Glasgow's George Square during the 40 hours strike. The day is etched in history as 'Bloody Friday'. Under secret Cabinet orders mounted police launched a savage, unprovoked baton charge on the demonstration. However, this was no group of pseudo-socialists, or knitting circles wanting the Bomb banned, or middle-class students hollering about globalisation; This was Glasgow, this was 35,000 very angry men from deprived Glasgow housing estates. They duly fought back and routed their attackers. Time and again, Sheriff MaKenzie, the leading Glasgow law officer, tried to read the Riot Act. The reading of the Riot Act was the traditional method used by police authorities to disperse crowds of protesters. Anyone left loitering with intent after the reading of the Act was liable for arrest. This cut no ice with the strikers: His attempts to read the Riot Act during the Battle of George Square proved unsuccessful when the crowd tore the Act from him as was in the process of reading it. The rioting between the police and the crowd continued in the square, in the surrounding streets and onto Glasgow Green. What happened the next day, however, is described in this eyewitness account: 'Next morning Glasgow was like an armed camp. Throughout the night trainloads of young soldiers had been brought to the city--young lads of 19 or so who had no idea of where they were or why they were there. The authorities did not dare use the local regiments billeted at Maryhill barracks, in case they supported the strikers. The whole city bristled with tanks and machine guns.' The high point was Bloody Friday. Once the army had occupied Glasgow, attacks on the strike by the press and the union officials mounted. The strike committees in Glasgow, London and Belfast were suspended by the executive of their own union, the ASE, and strike pay was withdrawn. The mass picketing was called off by the local leadership and the strike petered out with Glasgow like an armed camp. The Labour and trade union leaders claim these events show that workers can never challenge the power of the armed state and that reforms through parliament are all that can be achieved. But John Maclean was perhaps nearer the truth when he pointed out that 'the strike was defeated more by lack of working class ripeness than by tanks and machine guns.' In other words, in our modern vernacular, it was a lack of working class political savvy that hindered the strike. Willie Gallagher, a revolutionary shop steward and one of the key leaders of the strike, claimed, 'We were leading a strike when we should have been leading a revolution. A rising was expected- a rising should have taken place.' If Gallagher and the local leadership had led the strike as revolutionaries, and not simply as trade unionists, then who know? If the local leadership had maintained the mass picketing instead of calling it off, if they had sent delegations to Maryhill barracks to fraternise with the troops, if they had sent committees out to the coalfields, into the pit faces of Wales, and into the steeltowns and port cities of England, then they could have won. And perhaps I would be sitting here writing this in a far more just and egalitarian society. And we all have dreams, right?
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Far From MeThe forest leaves formed a canopy of red and gold, as Colin walked through, but he was not really looking at them. The pure majesty of the trees and leaf in colour could be taken for granted, when he’d lived there all his life and had no intention of ever leaving. But it was peaceful there too, in its depths, away from the day-trippers, and it had an almost tangible air of loneliness, which suited his mood to the ground. At times like this, it was as if he and the forest were one and that took the edge off his desolation. Colin had friends, but they were miles away, across the country, and even when they came home, it seemed that the gulf between them was ever-widening. They were in a band, of which he had no part, their lives caught up in a crazy whirlwind of interviews, photo shoots, studio and concerts. And the fans. Always the bloody fans. It was a whole world which they inhabited and which he could not, and would not, ever experience. The band were due back any day now, all of his childhood friends in one commercial package. Perversely, it was now when he felt most keenly the isolation and the sense of being left behind. Whenever they left, he could brace himself, head down, go to work, parry questions about his association with them, promise vaguely that he would get an autograph or arrange a meeting for the boss’s niece once they were home. His worth judged by only by his knowing them, never sure if new friends were there only to touch reflected stardom. His life underscored by the quietness of the forest. Colin walked deeper into the forest, breathing in the solitude, clearing his head. Behind him there was a sudden crack and he spun round, sensing rather than seeing the fleeing deer. He grinned, honoured, and continued inwards, finding peace in solitary mysticism, which ran the dark thoughts from his mind. From another perspective, he had left them behind, because there were no deer and no forest reflection in the concert halls of Europe and Japan. He stiffened suddenly, barely hearing the cry from an area generally to his right. Straining to hear, he received no more clues, but decided to casually explore in that direction anyway. It could have been an animal or a bird calling for their mate, or it could have been someone in distress, a woman being raped and gagged… Colin began to run, crunching over dying foliage, trying to work out precisely where the call had sounded, when it came again. Indisputable this time. It was human and it was panicking. Within seconds, he was at the edge of the quarry and didn’t have time to wonder at how far he’d ventured out, because he could see the child now, its hands red and white in desperate clinging. The little boy was screaming out in heart-rendering fear, as he balanced precariously on the branch overhanging a two hundred foot drop into mud and clay. “Ok! Ok! Hang on, I’m coming…” It was nothing for an adult to reach the branch and once up there to grasp the child, who kicked and froze like a struggling drowner. “Let go now, I’ve got you, you’re not going to fall.” With a deep push of courage, the boy let go and allowed himself to be rescued, and brought back to the ground. Sobbing and wailing, flailing out, while simultaneously trying to be held. Colin stared at him in shock, an aroused paternal instinct dealing with the emotive aftermath - the boy was only about five or six years old! He lifted him, gazing around from the dense forest to the bright, vast emptiness of the disused quarry. There was no sign of an adult, or any other child, who could the be guardian his tiny charge. A muffled sob came from the depths of his jumper, followed by words which Colin couldn’t catch. “Say that again?” Colin asked gently. The child sniffed deeply, but that didn’t help the streaming nose at all and Colin searched quickly for a piece of tissue. Of course he didn’t have one, but a similar search in the boy’s own jacket pocket revealed the tattered remains of a bit of loo roll, which would have to do in the emergency. “What did you say?” “I want my Mommy!” He cried out again. “Ok. Where is your Mommy?” There was a choking gurgle and the child coughed painfully before spluttering, “At home!” His hazel eyes spilled hopeless tears. “Is anyone with you?” “No!” The hysterics began again. Colin cuddled him close. They were still on the edge of the quarry and, glancing down, it made him shiver to realise that the kid could well be dead now if he hadn’t… it was better not to think of that. “What’s your name?” “J-Jamie.” “Ok. Jamie, where do you live?” “Smill.” That’s how it sounded through the childish tones and snuffling. It took several repetitions before Colin made out the words Summer Hill. “Listen Jamie, if I take you to Summer Hill, will you be able to tell me where you live?” At a vigorous head nodding, Colin smiled reassurance and began walking through the trees to the short public footpath, which led directly into a housing estate on Summer Hill. The child wrapped small arms, padded sleeves wet with tear and mucus, around his neck, his sad-eyed face resting on Colin’s shoulder. Colin grinned despite himself. They reached the stony path and strode down the alley to the road. Colin’s arms were aching now, realizing how heavy a child could be when carried up a hill. He placed him on his feet, holding his hand, “Ok, walk now. You’re safe, look.” He smiled. “Which way now?” The boy sniffed staring woefully down the street, gave a sniff, then disappeared. Literally. Colin’s shocked hand still curled around non-existent fingers. He could still feel the warmth of where he’d held him. His neck was still wet! But Jamie had gone. Into thin air. Colin reeled back and fell against a garden wall, gasping aloud a half-screamed, half-expletive sound. It was incomprehensible! The child couldn’t have been a ghost! He’d been solid! Colin couldn’t help it. He fled. Colin and the lads did a tour of the local pubs and clubs, before the inevitable party. Now, in the warming early morning, they wandered through the trees, losing themselves in re-acquaintance and feeling like the distance had never occurred. Colin had been reluctant to enter the forest, and that had been noted. It took them hours to tease the information from him, but as soon as they knew about the ghost, they all wanted to have a look. Safety in numbers and all that, besides most of them obviously didn’t believe a word of it. It was just an adventure. Eventually the six of them stood there, on the edge, by the tree in which Jamie had clung. Joking around, laughing, but Colin didn’t feel like joining in. He admitted to himself, as he never would to them, that he was scared. Richard grabbed him, “Tell your Mum I saved your life!” “’Kin heart attack, you…” Colin actually lunged at his friend, nerves shattered. But Richard dodged the punch and they all stared at him. “Come on…” Ferret muttered from behind them. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand this place either.” “You pair!” Caroline sneered. “Scared little babies…” Colin tutted and joined the singer, glad of moral support. “You lot never saw a ghost here. You’re alright.” Colin felt his friend shiver beside him. “Ferret? You saw a ghost here too?” “No!” “What then?” Colin knew he was onto something here. Ferret had seen a ghost, he knew it! “You did, didn’t you? Come on! These lot’ve have me down as mad!” “It’s not that!” Ferret sniffed, staring down at the moonlit pit. “I nearly died here when I was a kid… lived up on the estate…wandered off and nearly fell down there.” Caroline was there, flirting again, “Did you? You poor man, what happened?” “I climbed the tree and nearly fell in. A bloke rescued me.” Colin felt cold inside and out. “Fer… James…?” The singer looked up and Colin stared into those familiar hazel eyes. Suddenly, he understood it all. |