Lochaber No More

A dyspeptic Scot's letters from America

“You should start a Substack”, said my wife, again.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, who in their right mind would voluntarily sign up to get their inbox spammed with the mental diarrhoea that pours out of my skull? I mean, I don't write, not really. I just rant in a vaguely erudite way, dear.”, I sighed.

“Exactly.”, she said, “I'd sign up for that.”.

“Yes, but you're weird.”.

“A lot of people are weird. Try it.”.

So here we are, as I shuffle my feet in a slightly embarrassed fashion and wave nervously at you, dear reader, whoever you may be. Thank you; you're among the first, and hopefully not the last, to stumble across my first fumbling attempt at self-publishing. Over the years, a startling number of well-intentioned friends have read something I've blurted out, usually in a social media post, or one of my sporadic stints as a freelance contributor, and opined, “You should be writing for a living.”. My stock response is usually some self-effacing bluster followed by a swift change of subject, because, well... It's a nice idea, but actually getting people to part with money to read things is, for most of us, about as straightforward as raising money for, say, the International Puppy-Strangling Society.

This, however, is America (as I am reminded in a variety of colourful and occasionally unwelcome ways on a daily basis), and it's in that spirit of slightly-hysterical entrepreneurship (acquired vicariously from my American wife), that I've finally been persuaded to have a bash at putting some scribblings on the Substack hook and seeing if anyone bites.

What can you expect to find in this messy wee corner of the blogosphere? Let's start with the obvious: I'm a 52-year-old Glaswegian who's been living in the USA for less than 18 months. At the time of writing, this is the last day of President Biden's administration; tomorrow morning, the stage is set for Trumpnado II: The Sequel, as Mango Mussolini, the Nectarine Narcissist, pathological liar, convicted criminal, fraud, serial sexual abuser, multiple rapist and Hitler fanboy returns, unbelievably, to the White House to commence his second term. The great Glaswegian trade unionist and orator Jimmy Reid once observed that in the west of Scotland, you get your socialism from your mother's milk, so you won't find it difficult to discern my thoughts on the current state of US politics (and, indeed, global politics). Part of the reason for this blog's existence is my heartfelt need to do something, even if that something is just screaming into the void. At least I can try to create a little community where we can all scream together.

That said, it's my brain doing the writing, so don't expect anything even remotely resembling journalism, even if you squint your eyes and look away a bit. You will, I can promise you, find yourself down one of the random rabbit holes I frequently burrow into, and find yourself thinking, “What the hell am I reading?”. It could be Star Trek. It could be my beloved collection of vinyl LPs which I've been building for 40 years. It could (god help you all) be obscure 1970s progressive rock bands. It could could be something unspeakable one of our four cats did last night. It could be a deep-dive into my chequered past, sparked off by something random in the news. In short, I simply do not know what I'll be writing about from one day to the next, but the one thing I can guarantee you is that it will be entertaining, and always filtered through the peculiarly Scottish lens through which I view the world.

Anyway, that's the Mission Statement over and done with. Initially, I'll be aiming to put out a couple of pieces a week, because I work during the week attending to small children on a school bus, and I have another little gig writing movie reviews for the local free newspaper, but all that may change if there's enough demand for more content. I'll keep everything free to read for the first couple of months at least and see how many people are coming for the show, so to speak.

In the meantime, my humble thanks for reading this far, and, as my father used to say, may you live long enough to whistle through the knot-hole in your granny's wooden leg.

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