OLD hacks often say they never lose the thrill of seeing their byline. I can believe that when it applies to an important news story or scoop.
It doesn't apply to columns. My heart sinks whenever I see my name (cue cynical remarks from the cyber-psychos on the internut). It's worse when they put it in a front-page trailer, invariably with a photograph so gruesome you wonder if the publicity
is worth such pain. I just want to shrivel up and die.
I much preferred the old days, when a caricature was used. It was an instantly recognisable logo, and the readers liked it. But, alas, nothing lasts in newspapers, and it was removed to be replaced by unpleasant pictures devoid of personality.
The only time I got a thrill from seeing my name in recent years was when I placed a small ad in the classified section. It was strangely moving. I was also proud when my name appeared on the back of Andrew Nicoll's novel, The Good Mayor, recommending it.
But best of all, lately at least, has been the sheer joy at having a poem dedicated to me. I was already familiar with Robert Crawford's work. The St Andrews Uni professor had written a splendid history of Scottish literature. But I first heard from him personally after I'd written light-heartedly in a column about his apparent claim that Scottish literature was too working-class. I don't recall my memorable words now. But Prof Crawf wrote to me, saying my comments were based on a grievous misrepresentation of his views in The Sunday Bowdleriser, and that he'd been disappointed, particularly since he'd dedicated a poem to me in a forthcoming volume.
I was mortified, as you might imagine. In the good old days, when print was print, nearly everyone out there appeared kindly and well-disposed. However, with the advent of the hateful internut, a whole cage of loonies was let loose and, suddenly, the world for writers became a frightening place. Hence, one cherished every print reader with the love one might otherwise have reserved for homeless orphans.
And now I'd gone and hacked one off, as it were. I wrote a sincere letter of apology, but also expressed my delight and gratitude at having a poem dedicated to me. Being me, of course – the man with the memory of an elderly, drunken goldfish – I soon forgot about it, and it was only the other day, when preparing my monthly Amazon order (I'd be ordering every day if I didn't discipline myself), that a few synapses in my dusty cranium sparked into life and I added Full Volume to my list, along with a DVD of the Smallville TV series (great checked shirts), a Bix Beiderbecke CD, a biography of Paul McCartney, and a children's book called Sea of Trolls.
Naturally, when Full Volume arrived, I turned first to "Cooled Britannia", subtitled "Prime Minister Tony Blair's Farewell Speech to His Native Land", with the dedication – wait for it – "for Robert McNeil". Jings. What an honour. Here's an excerpt from the poem:
The Hour Approaches. Check your fly. / It's almost time to do or die. / All Scotland knows England expects / No independence. Sacred texts / Are trotted out: Neighbours, Macbeth, / Our glorious canon. Pale as death, / Balmoral royals and chat-show stars / Kneel in House of Commons bars; / Great Britain falters, all at one / As if arranged by Trevor Nunn.
Brilliant! I was so pleased my name was even vaguely associated with something so good. OK, you may think me biased and, fair enough, I'm not qualified to comment properly on poetry. So, to quote literary critic Tom Adair's words on the cover: "Intellect, wit and word-playfulness enter the personal, emotive terrain of heritage and of implacable stones and acoustic ghosts, of heart and intellect poised and yoked."
The poems provide much pabulum for thought, and made the Burd pine for the voes when she read:
I swear by the unfallen broch of Mousa, / I swear by fallen Snarravoe on Unst / That it is possible to rise above them / Over the rainbowed green nub of The Knab, / And sense way out at Earth's circumference, / Sceptical London, Laramie, Honk Kong.
Several poems take after ancient Gaelic lyrics which, to my mind, were so much more beautiful and appreciative of nature than were the grim, back-stabbing tales of the Norse sagas. There are also verses after the Latin of George Buchanan. But not everything here is archaic. One poem addresses broadband ("where the lost are found spellbound at their screens"), another the digital library at St Andrews ("this tip-tap Aladdin's Cave").
Poetry expresses deep insight in concise words, using talents not vouchsafed to me. But at least I got mentioned, and it thrilled me even more than seeing my name on a small ad.
The full article contains 824 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
