Come In, Come Out Of The Rain.

The quality of pop music in Britain goes through a pretty regular cycle; a zenith when Scottish bands are the best in the world, and a nadir when they are not.

It's pretty easy to cite examples and case histories. Bay City Rollers invent glam pop. Skids invent punk. Big Country invent cliff-top rock, then sell it on for stadium use. Cocteau Twins invent shoegazing. Jesus and Mary Chain re-invent punk. Lloyd Cole takes cultural literacy to the 7-inch single. Glasgow en masse creates celtic blue-boy soul. Primal Scream invent ravedancebluesrockthing. Franz Ferdinand re-cast the lot as their own. Any obs? Answer came there none.

I have recently discovered the fantastic website The Great Jock 'n' Roll Single, which aims to build an authoritative chart of the best 75 scottish singles of all time. There's a discussion forum that tries to sort out questions that have floored many a pub music fan; when did the Simple Minds get to be so pish? John Martyn - better with or without legs?

It is clearly written by obsessives, but remains accessible and is especially good if you share the authors' tastes; late 1980's soul-flecked pop from Glasgow. So Blue Nile, Big Dish, and Postcard Records get the lion's share of the plaudits. But for me, it's still Sam and Dan, The River Detectives, sounding fresh as ever, the celtic Everly Brothers with the Springsteen heart.

I would heartily recommend that you go there and take a flip through the best jukebox in the world.

Andrew Mishmash

This Is Shame! This Is Shame!

Brendan Gallagher reports this morning in the Telegraph that it was the All Blacks themselves who refused to do the Haka at Cardiff Arms Park on Saturday; Brian Moore blames the WRU for demanding that they could sing their anthem last.

I was taught the Pacific Islands Haka by Fijian players John Kama and Mick Saku when I went out for my father's army side, The Hameln Saracens [popularly known as The Drowning Rats]. The current Pacific Islands tourists made their own war-dance challenge to the Irish on Sunday, but it didn't save them.

The cliched advice repeated to us as young players - take your game to them, eyes on the ball, give it to the extra man - never stops being true. Unfortunately both the All Blacks and the WRU have forgotten the one about the difference between winning and taking part. I say a plague on both your houses. Your marketing money, your childishness and your lack of decent manners have spoilt the game. My game.

Andrew Mishmash

Kamate! Kamate!

I’m awarding myself a momentary reprieve from my week of Caledonian posting in honour of Saint Andrew. And I’m doing so to let you know how disgusted and angry I am with the Welsh Rugby Union.

If commentators are to be believed, the WRU told the All Blacks they could not perform the Haka before their match with Wales yesterday. And I want to know why.

The Haka is the Maori war-dance shown to adversaries before a fight; it has the same chivalrous quality as throwing a gauntlet. It announces that those present on the field of battle are champions of a country, and asks the opponents to send their champions. It is a promise to behave honourably in combat; it is not an insult.

Several years ago the All Blacks, on their regular British tour, took up on the half way line at Twickenham to show the Haka to the England team. The English captain took his fifteen to the far end of the park, where they turned their backs on the challenge from the Maori warriors. Such was the offence given by this that, having trounced the English, most of the All Blacks refused to shake hands on the way off the field, and did not take part in the post-match festivities.

A fortnight later the All Blacks came to Murrayfield. They took up position on the half way line, and found themselves eye-to-eye, one man each, with a tall, unsmiling Scots champion ready for battle. And as they joyfully chanted "Kamate! Kamate!" [trans. This is war! This is war!] they knew they were meeting with men of honour and gallantry. Then, of course, they trounced us too.

My very good friend Dr Bruce Dalbrack has argued most eloquently on his website for an end to the Haka on the grounds that it gives an unfair psychological advantage; I think the Scottish standoff disproves this. The rugby ‘tradition’ that provides the largest advantage is the dreadful pre-match song adopted by the Irish side; coming after both countries national anthems, it can leave the visitors standing stock-still on the receiving line for five minutes, slowly seizing up.

I think the Welsh Rugby Union havecome to an ill-considered decision, which threatens an unpopular precedent; the All Blacks want to show the Haka, the fans want to see it, the players want to face up to it. The Haka ergo should remain; can we get on with the game now?

Andrew Mishmash

My Hen Laid a Haddock...

I have occasionally said to one or two of my nationalist compatriots that my favourite National Anthem is the Welsh one, Land Of My Fathers. "Her warriors are gallant and brave; her poets of great renown", says the powerful refrain. And while I watch Scotland's First XV put up a gallant fight against Australia's, I thought I might take a moment to explain.

When I was young I loved my rugby union football; I still think it is the finest sport in the world. In the late 1970’s though things were even better. The game, from top to bottom, was still amateur; the gentlemen who pulled on their national colours [and no shirt sponsors either, just a crest] did so for no other reward than their mother’s pride.

In those days, Queen Victoria School’s pipe band, cited by many as the best juvenile band in the world, played before every game at Murrayfield; and quid pro quo the School had access to a plentiful supply of “schoolboys’ enclosure” tickets. This area ran as a perimeter round the field of play, with the long, sloping terraces behind. Murrayfield nowadays tops out at a capacity of about sixty thousand, and has trouble selling out. Back then, before the re-development of the 80’s, it regularly held crowds of one hundred thousand. The trick, from a schoolboy’s point of view, was to get onto the terraces with the adult supporters. There one could ask men for cigarettes, pester French visitors for wine from gourds, and learn to swear.

The Welsh came to Edinburgh every second year, and brought with them the best rugby players in the world. They rucked, mauled, kicked and ran with fearlessness, stamina, and a beauty often missing from the modern, professional game. And the Welshmen could sing; winning, losing, or as an inspiration to their champions; but they sang loudest with Land Of My Fathers. As my pipe band struck up the notes, fifty thousand of them would come in, in tempo and in tune. Their song, in their own language, rises to a huge climax; and as this chorus rang all around my national stadium, I felt, in the truest sense of the word, terrified. It stuck in the throat to have to sing God Save the Queen after that.

And having sung their hearts out, the Welsh, with players like JPR Williams on the sheet, would usually hand their hosts an instructive thumping.

Andrew Mishmash

It's Your Flag, So Fly It With Pride!

In 2003 the Scottish Parliament took some time out from it's programme of hard work to decide on the official colour for the National Flag of Scotland.

This flag, generally known as The Saltire, is the oldest in the world, and celebrates the legendary defeat of Athelstane of Anglia by King Angus of Scotland. According to the tale, Saint Andrew appeared in a dream to Angus, and assured him victory in the morrow's battle. On rising, the Scots soldiers saw the cross of Saint Andrew in the sky, confirming his promise. Since this victory the Scots have gone to battle under this banner.

A millenium later, Saltires had been getting darker in tone for some time, and, in a curious reversal of cause and effect, had almost become the mid to navy blue used in the Union Flag. The Parliament settled on a colour called Pantone 300 for the field of the flag; this was lighter than had been expected, and there was some substantial muttering among those who, perhaps, didn't know the legend.

But now that it is determined, I like it. I walk a little taller when I see the Saltire, and I like to see my flag flown in unexpected places. A few years ago I saw it, alongside a Lion Rampant, flying on someone's front lawn in Martha's Vineyard. Americans have a fine tradition of respect for their flag, and I think that as a nation waiting to be a country, we Scots are nurturing such a respect too.

Next up; The National Anthem.

Andrew Mishmash

Whit a guy! Whit a guy!

It's about a week to go 'til St. Andrew's Day, when I will, as usual, wear the Kilt, shout abuse at sassenachs, and drink irresponsible amounts of alcohol, all in the name of my cultural heritage.

So over the next few days [and there's a modicum of optimism triumphing over experience coming here] I will be posting about how fantastic are Scotland, the Scots, and all other things Caledonian.

But I wanted to start on a down note by personally attacking something called Steve Richards. Steve is a journalist [of sorts] and works for The Independent. He might well be a nice man, who buys his mother flowers on her birthday and the like; and I don't know what country he comes from, but I suspect it starts with 'E', ends in 'ngland', and has 'patronising bastard' in between.

In his article Watch Scotland yesterday we see some tired old bigotries; watch out for the Scots, a tricky and mendacious rabble, subsidy junkies, but in the end they know what's good for them; kissing English arse. If he said the same thing about Nigerians he'd be arrested.

Richards belittles First Minister Jack McConnell's plans to boost investment in Scotland by cutting corporation tax as parochial; and four times refers to him as Jack McDonnell. Not a crime; just pisspoor journalism. Or perhaps Steve is in the habit of mis-spelling the names of heads of governments.

You might want to contact him at s.richards@independent.co.uk and let him know just what a prick he is; you might think he knows already; you might think that if he doesn't he is beyond help. But having dumped my load, I'll accentuate the positive from now on.

Andrew Mishmash

Trippelganger!

I was sitting around the verandah not so long ago [in Planter's Order of course, it being a Tuesday] reading The Just So Stories, and listening to The Enigma Variations, when I was suddenly reminded of a claim put to me by my very good friend Hugh a few years ago.

Hugh's longstanding contention was that Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936], Sir Edward Elgar [1857-1934], and Lord Robert Baden-Powell [1857-1941] were not individually Britain's greatest writer, composer, and child-rearing expert; but that they were one and the same person.

His evidence was not entirely convincing though - he simply asked whether one had seen any photographs of them together. I think I vaguely recall this being called ponendo non potens in the Philosophy Department's course Deductive Logic for Beginners.

Thinking that the information super-highway might be the ideal medium for empirical testing of Hugh's quirky epistemology I took a speedy recconoitre and found that - By Jove! - he is irrefutably correct!

Andrew Mishmash

I Can Sing A Rainbow Three

I haven’t been contributing to the blogosphere as frequently as readers may have liked; at least I haven’t been doing so on this blog, but I have been picking fights with writers elsewhere.

But I'm back – and firstly want to tie up the remaining issues around the spectacular rainbows above Camberwell. You will remember I wondered why rainbows should be so bright above South London’s number one murder hotspot.

I have had a fascinating reply from Douglas [no matter that he is my uncle and a bit brainy] and quote it below;

"Your grand rainbows are, almost certainly, due to the amount of airborne particulate in the air over the conurbation, carbon in particular. Carbon refracts the visible red in the spectrum more than the other colours. Red is generally the easiest of the rainbow colours to see in the sky, an effect that is added to by the inner, second rainbow having its colours reversed and therefore the two red bands nearest one another. But carbon is the key. You can carry out a simple experiment that is an analogue of the refraction of light through a saturated atmosphere. Take a clear glass bottle, fill it with water and add a few drops of milk to make it cloudy. In a darkened space, shine a bright, white light through the colloidal suspension towards your eyes. You see the light slightly bluish. Shine the light through the bottle from the side (at right angles to your line of vision). The light now has a pinkish tinge. The blue light has been refracted least and the red most, just like in a rainbow."

I have to say I am one of those Dads who love this kind of experiment; ripping open self-seal envelopes in the dark, and hitting sugar cubes with a hammer, are the fun way to learn. It's sad that the current political climate bars us from making small, safe, garden fertiliser based fireworks in the back garden. Welcome to Blair's Britain...

So my thanks go out to Douglas for his solution; Poincarre's Conjucture coming soon I hope?

Andrew Mishmash

L/Cpl Johnson Beharry VC

In the decades following the Second World War, British boarding schools provided good retirement jobs for veteran servicemen. My rural Perthshire alma mater was singular among these; it was still a Ministry Of Defence establishment. As a result, I grew up in the company of war heroes; I was taught chemistry by a Lancaster crewman; learned metalwork from an artificer on HMS Hood, hospitalised with peritonitis before the ship’s tragic last sortie. The fly-fishing group was mentored by a tweedy old Free Polish Army Captain, much rumoured to have been in Colditz; the School Commandant was a retired Brigadier awarded an MC for holding the lines during the terrifying retreat from Osterbeek, during Operation Market Garden.

Last week the Metropolitan Police Military History Society was taking an evening trip to see the Victoria Cross decorated soldier Lance Corporal Johnson Beharry speaking. A London bookshop had arranged the event for about 80 people. I was looking forward to hearing his story, and perhaps shaking his hand afterwards. At the last moment the event was cancelled, due to lack of public interest. I was disappointed and angered by this.

What Johnson Beharry and my old schoolmasters had in common was a sense of duty, and of comradeship. It seemed their courage had come almost as a surprise to them, and they were humbled by it. I haven’t got round to reading Beharry’s book yet [hint!] but I have seen him say he “couldn’t have looked his mates in the face if he hadn’t done his best for them”, which I think expresses the same sentiment. It’s the counterpoint of Hannah Arendt’s ‘banality of evil’ argument – the most ordinary of men rise to the occasion when they and their comrades are under fire.

I feel if London can’t get eighty people to listen for an hour to this charming, funny, and courageous young man, it is a shameful condemnation of our TV celebrity society.

And to Lance Corporal Beharry we say this – Well played, Sir! We hope your future service is as exciting as your time so far. But with fewer bullet-holes, eh?

Andrew MishMash

Pause For Reflection.

Over the past couple of months this blog has changed somewhat. Originally envisaged as a marketing tool for Mishmash Bookshop, it soon became more of a sounding board for issues affecting the business. From there it branched out into...well... just my take on life, and passing some hopefully entertaining comments on the world.

I've been looking at other blogs quite a bit, and I think we stand up. Personally, I like the literary ones, the quirky stuff, and the sites that look to push their readers' own thinking a bit. I don't like the titilating rubbish, and I don't have lot in common with malaysian teenagers and their shopping habits.

I would point you in the direction of two blogs today. The first is from a local community site about Camberwell. There was another of the all-too-frequent shootings earlier in the week, but this one seems to have given people more of a shock. Camberwell, I have to tell you, is a fantastic place.

The second is the well-honed-opinion blog of Dave, who has recently opened a watch shop in Broadway Mall. He's clearly a fascinating bloke, and I wish him all the very best in this new venture. I think he'll need it.

Andrew Mishmash

I've Started... And You're Finished!

For some reason I missed last week's Mastermind, and only discovered later that the round winner's specialist topic was Led Zeppelin. The myths about The Zepp are astounding - Faustian Satan worship; personal airliners with a shark tank in the back; diets comprised of Jack Daniels, M&S trifles, and grade-one heroin. Mishmash Bookshop are, naturally, big fans.

I wanted to see how I might score against MM's specialist question setters without the benefit of revision; but also wondered how many of the myths would be cited as fact.

But I freely admit my past performance on TV quiz shows has not been garlanded with laurels. A few years ago I took part in Channel Four's Fifteen-to-One, produced and hosted by the polymath William G. Stewart. Unsettled by the experience of wearing make-up for the cameras I dried completely.

WGS: Which honorary scientific post is currently held by Sir Martin Rees?

[thinks ok right there are two aren't there one is the astronomer royal and the other is...]

Me: Chairman of The Royal Society!

WGS: No, Sir Martin Rees is The Astronomer Royal.

WGS: Which Asian city is served by Chek Lap Kok airport?

[come on drew robert's dad built that runway* and at the time they were living in...]

Me: Kuala Lumpur!

WGS: No, the correct answer is Hong Kong.

I sat down, cheeks aflame, my career as TV brainbox sharply curtailed.

Andrew Mishmash

* Robert's Dad was in fact building the new monorail in Kuala Lumpur, after finishing the runway at Chek Lap Kok airport.