Defence from the robot threat won’t come from governments, desirous only of what machines have to offer
Bernanos 1947
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Whenever Leith Festival & Gala day comes along my thoughts always turn to Mary Moriarty; more so now as her house is on the market. The beginning of some kind of an ending
In typical Mary folklore, the estate agent who is selling the property added the fact Mary had lived there to his prospectus.
Early on in my time at Leither Towers, Mary summoned me to The Alan Breck lounge and, whilst tossing cards to all corners of the globe during a game of bridge, tried to show this rookie the ropes vis a vis Leith Gala day…
“The Lord Provost is going to assume the mantle of (mock) Lord Provost of Leith for the day, he’ll lead the procession down to Leith Links and make a wee speech” and, knowing Mary, she’ll get him to spend some serious Edinburgh money before he scarpers back up the hill. Clever politicking!
Later during a break in play, she shimmers over and regards me with that gently quizzical ‘over the glasses’ look that was so effect for Miss Marple, whilst running rings round the local plod while dead heading roses.
their best for this particular Festival and Gala Day and this particular coming together to celebrate Leith’s diversity and Leith in all of its coordinates.
Revellers will want to queue up to take a picture of the “Leith police dismissing them”. Whilst also remembering Mary’s penchant for snogging rozzers.
The sun will shine, it has to shine, otherwise The Dockers club will resemble the storming of the Bastille. It can make the difference between up to 10,000 happy bunnies and 500 drenched souls.
(A quick shufti through the advanced weather forecast suggests a buttercup yellow sun with a broad smile on its face.)
And while you are minded, when are The Proclaimers coming on?
“Did you ever mention all the lovely people who helped make last year’s Leith Festival such a success?” Squirming in my seat I reply: “goddammit it completely slipped my mind.”
She favours me with that radiant smilewhen she could have been spraying my eyes with pepper - and repeats the conversation verbatim.
“I asked you to thank Leith Docker’s Club; Leith Athletic FC, and Lorraine Rourke’s award for fundraising, and…” she finishes with a flourish “the people
Of Leith.”
As she got up to leave I grabbed a pen and bookies slip and asked, “who would you like to thank this year?” She thought for a second… “the same people as last year.”
A decade and more on, we’re at that time of year again, the days of boom and bust have gone, but everyone involved will give of
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Welcome, then, to Leith Gala day, you’ll have followed The Pageant, starting at Taylor Gardens down Kirkgate to Tolbooth Wynd, thence The Shore and Tower Place. All gaudy colours and brass band parping.
Hopefully the Links will be en fete. Tents billow, stalls bustle with bric-a-brac, political parties ask yes/no/mebbes. In the refreshment marquee, tea urns belch clouds of steam before dispensing a tar thick brew. Outside girls dressed as cheerleaders and flappers, twerk and shimmy along to a PA playing Taylor Swift.
At this point if you have any sense, you’ll want to lose it completely. So remember To box clever and pick up a crate of beer at a supermarket on the way.
When you get here open one and yo-yo between the stalls. Buy some fluorescent liquorice bootlaces at the fun fair. Get sunstroke (a cheaper high than any opiate). Then bag yourself a grandstand seat by the stage. Or if you are feeling frisky get yer arse over to Messenger Sound System or Chaplin’s Boogie Stage.
You may even be party to an unveiling of a
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new bright eyed and bushytailed Master of Ceremonies (nee Chair) – brimming over with vim, pepper and barely concealed optimism.
You of course, will swiftly burst those bubbles by collaring someone on their way to Phil Attridge’s Cuba: The Untold Story
Where they’ll ask, “Why is that stall over there charging a tenner for an I Love Leith T-shirt?
It’s a diabolical liberty. And, while your minded. When are The Proclaimers coming on?”
So there you have it my idea of the ideal festival. Yours, no doubt, will come from many different angles.
Therein lies the beauty of the thing:
Something for everyone.
Hopefully you will have noticed we have made a few changes to The Leither magazine this issue. Please get in touch with your thoughts.
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Cover 167: George Bernanos published France against the Robots in 1947. Illustration: Charles Taylor/Alamy
Like a lot of people, I’m a big fan of gangster films. Well, let me qualify that a bit. I mean the classics…
Imean the classics - Godfather I and II, Goodfellas, Casino, Once Upon a Time in America, Miller’s Crossing, Get Carter, and the first French Connection to name a few favourites.
There are also others, from France; Breathless, Leon, Rififi The Red Circle, Add Boiling Point from Japan and City of God from Brazil. If I’ve omitted any of your favourites, shoot me. What most of these films have, just like hundreds of others in the genre, are the classic elements which are required to drive and steer the narrative until it all comes crashing down in a hyper-stylish blaze of greed, betrayal, and blood-soaked glory.
A lot of gangster films depend on a ragsto-riches-to-rags narrative whereby the bad guys have to do a lot a of seriously nasty stuff to drag themselves up through the cesspit of organised crime, finally make it to the top or not too far from the summit, only to perish on the end of a meat hook or the thick end of a baseball bat. What’s intriguing about a lot of gangster films is that at some point, you actually find yourself rooting for the bad guys in spite of their penchant for casual violence, corruption, and their amoral rampage through life.
Come on, who didn’t feel slightly pissed off when Joe Pesci’s ‘Tommy’ got whacked by the made guys in Goodfellas? And didn’t you want to throw your arms around Robert de Niro’s ‘Jimmy’ as he cried his eyes out and wrecked a phone booth when he heard the news? All this in spite of them being psychotic, murdering nut-jobs who sat down
for dinner with Tommy’s apple-pie mom while made guy Billy Batts was locked up and about to be executed in the boot of their car in the driveway.
Right now, there is a gangster movie being streamed into our houses every day. In classic fashion, it involves an amoral, narcissistic psychopath who has embarked on a monumental grift which even Martin Scorcese would struggle to get past the commissioning editors in Hollywood. Let’s call him “The Don”. This convicted felon has surrounded himself with arse kissing morons who will say and do anything to ensure that the boss remains untouchable as he stuffs every pocket he owns with billions of dollars gleaned from the very people he claims to represent. One of those morons, a thick-as-mince hillbilly by the name of JD, has his head so far up the boss’s ass that he could lick the fried chicken debris from his molars.
In classic gangster fashion, the boss loves to hang around with other psychos. On a recent trip to the middle east, he fixed a deal to supply $142 billion worth of weapons to a megalomaniac dictator who recently oversaw the murder and dismemberment of a journalist who was getting a little too close to uncovering and revealing mountainous levels of corruption and state-sanctioned violence in that particular neck of the woods.
Bateman
“flying palace” from the head of another dictatorship whose track record includes a list of human rights violations too lengthy to go into detail here. A ban on political parties, abuse and exploitation of foreign migrant labour, arbitrary detention for dissent, and the subjugation of women should be enough to paint the picture.
In classic fashion, it involves an amoral, narcissistic psychopath who has embarked on a monumental grift
The boss also took delivery of a $400 million
The boss in this particular movie almost lives up to the rags-toriches narrative. He inherited a lump of money from his racist father, invested it in real estate and then went bankrupt a few times. Although you wouldn’t know it as he has continued to grift his way through life seemingly unhindered by a complete lack of any intelligence or morality.
But this guy has always had access to money and a coterie of poisonous billionaires willing to put him up as their stooge so that they can avoid any form of regulation, transparency, and scrutiny. Show him the money and he will fix it. Spend absolute fortunes convincing millions of people that he is a decent guy who will have your back and therefore you should definitely trust him and legitimise his whole stinking operation by installing him as your president. Even though your back has a knife in it. Who could possibly root for this guy?
And the title of this particular movie?
It’s up there at the top of the column…
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Leith is buzzing, that’s part of the attraction, lots of people living close together
Sometimes it’s nice to escape the buzz and instead hear the buzz of bees, and tweetling of birds. If you wander down to the Seafield end of Leith Links, in the far corner just next to the bridge, you’ll find a peaceful community orchard free for all to visit. It’s maintained by Leith Community Growers, and they run gardening events too. linktr.ee/leithcommunitygrowers
Further along Leith Links you’ll find the Leith Community Croft. The charity Earth in Common run this urban croft, complete a wonderful café with plenty of space outdoors for wee uns to run about, or meetings to take place. You can see the veg beds where community groups and individuals grow their own produce (also for sale at the café). Get involved at growing food on a grassroots level, check out www. earth-in-common.org
My favourite plant shop in Leith, and in fact Edinburgh, is the legendary Quirky’s. Well, Stuart is legendary to planty fans, and you can even take your empty decorative plant pots and he’ll find you a plant to fit. Really good prices, and a fab wee shop. Stuart is a font of horticultural knowledge, so go to 12 North Junction Street with questions and cash. He’s just off the Water of Leith and dog-friendly too.
There are a number of fancy indoor plant shops popping up, however I’ve not had any luck keeping their exotic specimens alive in my drafty tenement flat. I do love growing sunflowers from seed (you can do it on your windowsill) and then planting them out in unexpected places. A temporary tram planter outside of Woodland Creatures (now Satyr) was the first installation in 2021. Each year I’ve been growing sunflowers and planting them in random places. Some survive, some don’t, that’s life.
The ‘shaggy Heron of Lochend Park
wee hill and lovely views of big old trees. I love this park, so much that I was guest on an Edinburgh Outdoors podcast all about Pilrig Park. Listen online edinburghoutdoors. podbean.com
Leith Links: the home of golf and Leith Festival gala day on Saturday June 14. Soon, hopefully home to some public loos. Hallelujah!
I’m curious to see the new skate park at Coalie Park
This year, we hope to have giant sunflowers in the Arthur Street planter. It’s a windy and exposed spot, so we’ll see if they do OK.
Leith parks ranked Pilrig Park: with the benches on top of the
Lochend Park: understated, under visited and with the reputation of being antisocial. It’s got a lovely loch with birds and a very shaggy heron that just stands there. Loch also features an occasional upturned supermarket trolley.
St Marks Park: stunning views of Auld Reekie from the park benches. A sunny hill for sunbathing, wild flowers, a wooded area with willow arches, a Gormley and the Water of Leith.
Calton Hill: The Friends of Calton Hill are reseeding the hill – it has become denuded, losing the grass to Instagrammers traipsing around seeking the perfect selfie. Will the turf ever thrive again?
Coalie Park: on the Water of Leith and new on the list, mainly as I’m curious to see what
happens with the skate park, that leads me to…
Dalmeny Street Park: Dog park on one side, skaters on t’other. Featuring a big tree full of shoes. I don’t know why either.
Montgomery Street Park is lowest on the list as it confuses pug Coco. Is she allowed, is she not? Plus, the helter skelter is gone. Pah to health and safety!
Allotments are as rare as hens’ teeth, and the waiting list is growing. Edinburgh has one of the longest waitlists in the UK - about 50 years! However, the Council is building more plots (slowly) and if more people join the waiting list, hopefully the Council will understand the demand and act accordingly (one would hope). Federation of Edinburgh and District Allotments and Gardens Association is an umbrella organisation, that does what it says on the tin: Of interest too is the Caley (or Royal Caledonian Horticultural Association as it’s properly known) that hosts lectures and events.
The best way to get started is with a pot, some dirt and some seeds, combine, add water and pop on a sunny windowsill. It’s the perfect time to get growing, you can do it… Let’s make Leith greener.
Bluesky: @tracygriffen www.griffenfitness.com
Adventurer Tom
Wheeler gives us a partly accurate guide to the West Highland line
With the summer holidays here, many of us will be planning a getaway – but with air fares rising in line with sea levels, there’s much to be said for enjoying what’s on your doorstep rather than jetting to foreign climes. And there are few better ways to do that than taking the West Highland Line to Mallaig, whizzing past extraordinary vistas of lochs, mountains and nuclear facilities at speeds approaching 25mph. So may I present my officially unofficial, intermittently accurate guide to one of the greatest rail journeys in the world. Built in 1901 to take herring to London, in an era when fish had much higher disposable incomes than they have today, the line today is geared more towards human tourists. On departure from Glasgow, the spectacular algal blooms of the
Clyde only begin to hint at the further wonders that lie ahead. The train continues through Helensburgh and Garelochhead – handy for stopping off at the Faslane naval base, where the excellent gift shop sells fully functional scale replicas of its nuclear submarines, guaranteed to liven up any bathtime.
The next station, Arrochar and Tarbet, lies on a narrow isthmus between two lochs. During the Scottish-Norwegian War of the 13th century, Viking invaders would haul their longboats across this stretch of land to continue their passage. Warriors who completed this arduous task were rewarded with extra pay and rations, known as an Isthmus Bonus. The train then proceeds north past Loch Lomond which, despite its proximity to Glasgow, remains an oasis of serenity, punctuated only by a few hundred passing speedboats, jet skis, cruise ships and supertankers.
Crianlarich, best known for once having had a Little Chef, is where the Mallaig and Oban lines meet, which means a wait of around ten minutes while the train divides. As a result, the station has long been beloved of smokers, who gather on the platform and attempt to consume as many cigarettes as physically possible before the scheduled departure. The all-time
record is held by the late Willie ‘One Lung’ Jackson of Lochailort, who on 23 October 2004 managed 13 roll-ups and a cheroot before being ushered back to the train. Nowadays, smoking is officially prohibited even on the open platform. Much like the rule outlawing on-train alcohol consumption, this is both warmly endorsed and religiously observed by regular users of the line.
In the wilderness of Rannoch Moor, there are no roads for miles around, and the surrounding moorland is wet and treacherous, illustrated by the many abandoned, half-submerged rail replacement buses visible from the train window. Corrour station is the location of the ‘Great Outdoors’ scene in Trainspotting, in which Renton and friends get off the train and decline to climb a mountain. Rumours that the same train also inspired the film’s ‘Worst Toilet in Scotland’ scene remain unconfirmed.
Observation
Coach Train at Lochy Viaduct near Fort William
The train continues north to Tulloch, where it dawned on the railway’s engineers that they’d missed Fort William by about 15 miles, so the line takes a sharp left and proceeds southwest. It passes the Commando Memorial, which honours a local regiment who helped conserve scarce textile resources during World War II by going into battle without underwear. Their sacrifice became a symbol for British stoicism and led to the coining of the term ‘crack troops’. Approaching Fort William, the twin landmarks of McDonald’s and Ben Nevis come into view, and no trip to the area is complete without visiting at least one of them.
As the train crosses the Glenfinnan Viaduct, it slows to allow passengers to admire the glorious view over Loch Shiel, which is of minimal interest to the thousands of grown men and women who visit each year solely to follow in the footsteps of a fictional schoolboy wizard.
On the station platform, local entrepreneurs flock to sell Harry Potter-themed postcards, keyrings and gimp masks to enthusiastic tourists –whose children, meanwhile, remain on the train, valiantly trying to get TikTok to work with one bar of mobile signal. They have no idea who Harry Potter is.
At Tulloch, it dawned on the railway’s engineers that they’d missed Fort William by about 15 miles
At Arisaig, the line affords stunning views of the islands of Rum and Eigg, named after the two most popular breakfast items in the West Highlands, before the train reaches its final destination of Mallaig.
The once mighty fishing industry here has declined from its 1960s heyday, but the sea continues to play a vital part in the village’s economy, and species as diverse as prawns, haddock, salmon and mackerel can be found in the Mallaig Co-Op to this day.
Holly’s mum, Maxine, was just 54 when she died of cancer. For Holly and her sister, Emily, facing such a loss so young was heartbreaking - but thanks to hospice care, they didn’t have to face it alone.
Maxine’s diagnosis, discovered during emergency surgery, left the family devastated. Chemotherapy began on her birthday, but her body rejected it and her health declined rapidly.
Then, Maxine was referred to St Columba’s Hospice Care, and everything changed. There, she found comfort and dignity, enjoying hot meals, jacuzzi baths, and even a fresh haircut.
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Her daughters were welcomed too, with space to rest and be together as a family. Holly said: “We had the constant support of the most compassionate team. The Hospice wasn’t just a place of care, it was a home, filled with love, joy and dignity.”
With their help, Maxine returned home for Christmas—something they never thought possible. Though she passed away weeks later, the Hospice gave them time together they’ll always treasure.
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Athens’ streets groan with oranges, unexpected in a cacophonous car dominated metropolis writes Charlie Ellis
Green spaces are exceedingly rare. As summer temperatures climb into the late 30s visitors might be tempted to pluck an orange for refreshment, that was my instinct when I first spied them.
The fruits on these trees are nerántzi, too bitter to eat. Nerántzi can be used for marmalade or syrupy Greek ‘spoon sweets’. However, the abundance of car fumes render the nerántzi on Athens’ streets unsuitable. They are left to ripen and drop where they are squished by pedestrians and flattened by cars and motorcycles flooding every corner of the city. The oranges are emblematic of a place where things should never be taken at face value.
There is much to be unpeeled. Athens as an ancient city captures only a fragment of the history and one aspect of this mosaic like city of 48 municipalities in the Athens metropolitan area. From the elegance of Kifisia and Kolonaki, to edgy, political Exarcheia and cool postindustrial Gazi.
Modern Athens soon makes itself apparent. The Airport thrusts you onto the National Highway towards the city centre, fully 33 km away. Arriving during a rare rainstorm is an
unnerving mix of speed, overtaking, and undertaking - with some ferocity. As you leave the airport, olive groves and vines slip past, prior expectations of Greece are met. The scene recalibrates and you are aware of the vast commercial centre modern Athens is. Parts of the National Highway run over the river Kifissos, one of the great lost rivers of Athens. Its disappearance beneath a concrete sarcophagus speaks of an obliteration of nature in much of 21st century Athens. The enshrouded river adds to the feeling of being funnelled down a valley, inexorably. to the city.
A city of vast, often perplexing contrasts, the ancient zone around the Acropolis, is justly world famous, not reflective of the wider city. A concrete sprawl largely formed after a population explosion during the 1950s and 1960s. Dominated by the squat ‘polykatoikia’ multi-housing apartment blocks, buildings from earlier eras still endure, but are increasingly under threat. In all, 80% of 19th and early 20th-century buildings in Athens have been destroyed, time is running out for what’s left.
This loss is captured in elegiac essays by the committed urbanist Nikos Vatopoulos, In Walking In Athens he lingers in the back streets of ‘deep Athens’, contemplating the lives lived by those who spent their days in the now crumbling buildings. There is a
growing ‘silent list’ of ‘sad houses’ in the city, ‘double locked and ruined, like forgotten and unwanted geriatrics’.
As with the tempting oranges, things are not as they first appear. Behind charming facades, nothing is salvageable, just rotting holes waiting to be developed. Respect for heritage manifests in the ways parts of the ancient city skilfully restored, sit alongside neglect and ceaseless demands to develop. Building back bigger.
The desire to pick up a bitter orange and hurl it still lies under the surface. There’s a long history of demonstrators using projectiles – against occupying German soldiers, junta policemen, or contemporary riot police. As the economic crisis deepened, many trees in the city centre were divested of their fruit in an attempt to deprive protestors of ready ammunition. An art project by Ino Varvariti and Persefoni Myrtsou in 2012-13, involved harvesting nerántzi from the trees that line the roads of Athens and Thessaloniki. The aim was to identify ‘the taste of the economic crisis’.
Wake Up Rise Up slogans on the walls of buildings in Exarcheia
The National Highway was built over the river Kifissos, one of the great lost rivers of Athens
The bitterness of the nerántzi is echoed in the political realm, where mistrust and cynicism reign. Evidence that the authorities covered up aspects of the 2023 Tempi train disaster again brought violent clashes to Sygmata Square (Constitution Square)the scene of many bitter political protests over the decades - and home, incidentally, to several orange trees.
Viewing the bitter oranges as a waste is simplistic. They are planted because their crown remains dark green throughout the year, producing sweet-smelling blossoms in the spring. Their small size and hardiness are deal for the narrow pavements of Athens, where they provide cool shade during the summer. This is absolutely essential in making Athens vaguely liveable during mid-summer which is increasingly marked by ‘heat episodes’. The tree-rich squares dotted throughout Athens are absolutely essential to the city’s life, providing ideal spots to sip your iced freddo espresso and contemplate the culture and dramas around you.
In 2025, the nerántzi and Athens, have many clandestine qualities and reasons for being.a fragment of the history and one aspect of this mosaic like city of 48 municipalities in the Athens metropolitan area. From the elegance of Kifisia and Kolonaki, to edgy, political Exarcheia and cool postindustrial Gazi.
We’re all guilty of bad choices. But, perhaps some are more guilty than others, reckons
Colin Montgomery
Now, before I start, I assure you… I’m in no mood to poke the hornet’s nest. Been there, done that. No, I mean literally. Actually, that’s a poor choice of words; it wasn’t hornets but wasps. And if I chose to ignore the distinction, entomologists with a keen interest in vespids will be giving me a buzz to express their displeasure. So again, damned by poor choices. Just as I found out in the woods by my house, back in the summer of 1983. This was pre-internet. Or mobile phones. Or anything really. I mean some of the richer kids in the street had hand-held games like Donkey Kong or Snake. And I think one person’s dad had an Amstrad ‘home computer’ that blacked out the entire neighbourhood when it was plugged in. But other than that, you ‘made your own entertainment’. Which for us that summer involved throwing bricks at a wasp’s nest.
Not known for their zen qualities, the vespid hordes took exception to our twisted version of Enid Blyton’s juvenile japery. And they stung f*ck out of us. I recall running home in agony, with the yellow barbs sticking out of my arm like spiky sweetcorn. Wee pricks for a wee prick. Fitting. For, and I return to my gambit, I had chosen…poorly. And I bet right now, you’re thinking of that old knight from ‘Indiana Jones & the Last Crusade’.
Cracking scene. But trusting a Nazi to select the goblet of Christ is quite niche. Poor choices come in a variety of common or garden flavours. And I’ve tasted a lot. I chose poorly when going on a boozy bender with no sun cream on in the scorched hills of Gran Canaria. I chose poorly when sticking my finger into the pet gerbil cage at primary school. Heck, I chose poorly when necking tequila from the bottle last Hogmanay.
All very mundane. And forgivable too. Unless you were the poor bastard sat next to me on the plane back from Gran Canaria – I was wriggling like a puce piglet the whole time. So, I paid for my poor choice. And so did they. But at least there was accountability
in play. Something that seems conspicuously lost on so many in a world where fessing up, admitting you were wrong, and showing contrition is seen as a poor choice in itself.
Yes, I know the old aphorism; to err is human, to forgive divine. But that involves acknowledging being in the wrong in the first place. And in our public life that seems increasingly rare. Those twats who chose to chainsaw the tree at Sycamore Gap for example. No remorse. No humility. Not even a flicker of recognition re: what this meant. Banging them up will do nothing to change that, I fear. But I hope to be proved wrong.
All so grim. How about I make a better choice as we harrumph our way to the last dregs of this lesson in the obvious? Let’s choose to extract some fun from the idiocy of the world of poor choices, as envisaged by yours truly. You can choose to read on without being turned to dust. I promise you. It’s not exactly the Holy Grail of comedy
Colin in Grand Canaria 1983
Trusting a Nazi to select the goblet of Christ is quite niche
writing. More like a Tupperware selection of light gags to accompany your beer and crisps.
The time Sean Connery was invited to be voiceover for a Citroen ad. Try and read the car’s brand name in your best Sean Connery voice. Poor choice.
Hosting a global arts festival in a city with not nearly enough accommodation. Ha ha… no one would try that would they?! Oh… wait a minute. Poor choice. Blithely ordering a coffee with milk, in the afternoon, in Italy. I did this last summer. And now I’m in witness protection. Poor choice.
Reducing any major decision affecting a nation to a binary ‘Yes/No’ question. Referendums. Of all types. Cause nothing but rancour. Poor choice/s. TBH, the more I think about this, the more I like it. So, I’m calling this a wise choice instead. And with that, I shall make another. To wrap this nonsense up. Before you choose to roll up the Leither and batter me round the bonce. Choose wisely my friends.
Sunnyside, off Easter Road 0131 661 3157 leither@hibsclub.co.uk Two
Christian Weir is a writer keen to take you someplace sometimes
There were only three things Linda preferred over shopping in the Lidl Middle Aisle. One of them was fixing her brother’s dating problems.
“You’re so picky.”
Gregg flicked his eyes from his ever present phone, giving his older sister the look. She responded by prodding Gregg in the ribs with the drill she was considering. Linda already had one, but this model had an inbuilt clock, came in a fetching yellow and was on sale.
“Consumer Review says it breaks after a couple months,” he said.
Dejected, Linda squeezed the drill back between the off brand Bratz dolls (Honeyz) and voice activated frying pans, “how abouts we stop looking at drills and find you a man?”
“Och, your obsessed,” responded her brother, “besides Lidl doesn’t sell men.”
Linda beamed at her brother and grabbed his hand. She skipped off so forcefully, he almost let go of his mobile phone. Now she could introduce Gregg to the second thing she preferred over shopping in the Lidl Middle Aisle.
“Hey! I hadn’t agreed yet.” It was no good, Gregg had been swept up in his sister’s wave of enthusiasm.
“Tada!”
Gregg tried to form words, but found himself struck dumb. And no wonder, for between the soy milk and the eggs floated a shimmering vortex.
“It’s the Lidl Diagon Aisle. They just finished it last week. Haven’t you seen the press release on your precious device?”
The vortex’s gravity pulled on their clothes, urging them to spend their hard-earned money on the innumerable deals found inside.
Gravity wasn’t the only thing pulling. Before he knew it, Linda was disappearing into the vortex pulling him closer and closer till he felt a cool tingle from his fingertips to his toes to his wallet.
“...But it’s full of.... men?” said Gregg as they entered. Rows of fully stocked blokes standing at attention. Baskets of Barrys, heaps of Henrys, and stacks of Stephans, all waiting to be picked up.
“Of course, it’s full of men! The
Original version of film Uomini Uomini Uomini directed by Christian de Sica, released in 1995
She screamed and chucked the purple monstrosity at Gregg, leaving 50% off Fred to take the blow
Diagon Aisle scans your brain and stocks what you’re looking for, but at MAJOR discounts!”
“How could I have possibly missed this…?” He started Googling.
“Ohhhh, how about a Sebastian? Let’s see the label. Sebastian likes fine dining, water skiing, and is an accountant.”
Gregg’s eyes were on his phone. MenMenMen, says he hides your money in the Canary Isles.”
Linda continued down the aisle, scrutinising the deals. “Benjamin. 6.2... movies... gym... graphic designer! And may I say, quite a hunk.”
Gregg’s eyes were on his phone. His lips already pursed whilst reading MenMenMen’s Ben review. Linda grabbed his device and pocketed it.
“No! You’ll always find fault if you look hard enough.”
“Well, you’d have had me running off with a crooked accountant.”
Linda held up an index finger and gave him, her look. He sighed and offered with a shrug, “Fine.”
“Excellent!”
“Ben’s too... unsymmetrical.”
Tutting, Linda gave Gregg a long stare
before hooking his arm and sweeping him down the aisle. She stopped at a man wearing a gilet covered in clearance stickers. Whilst Gregg peered inside a colourful basket.
“Mike here is either a farmer or lives in the new town...”
Hands behind his back, Gregg returned, “Listen Linda, Edinburgh has dozens of Mikes, Bens and Sebastians, but there’s only one you - so how about I get you this?”
Bringing his hands round, Gregg handed Linda a dildo. She screamed and, on instinct, chucked the purple monstrosity at Gregg, who ducked, and left 50% off Fred to take the blow.
“Gregg, you are officially in trouble!”
Gregg wrapped an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Come on you!” he said smiling down at her, “if I got a fella then I wouldn’t get to spend all this time with you! I’d pick you every time, Linda, and just so you know I’m serious, let’s hit the Shore bar, and the first rounds on me.”
“Oooh, I love getting pints with you. That’s my absolute favorite.”
medium.com/@weir.christian
o’clock
it
This troubles me more than it ought to but is the thing that troubles me more that it looks wrong writes Rodger Evans
When previously I thought it looked right or that there are many worse things to be troubled by in this troubling world that it seems not quite right to be troubled by this one thing rather than by other things, things like, the human condition, the demise of the dark chocolate Toblerone, or how Neil Innes could copy Beatles songs without copying Beatles songs, and by the way, it’s becoming troubling in itself, when will this sentence ever end?
Does o’clock look wrong to you? Google tells me it’s not wrong but what does Google know that some tech sister or bro hasn’t told Google or trained Google to know? And is four Googles a Google too much? And do I mean the use of the word or an ask of the search engine? Leave it ambiguous. Sure? Trust me. Right-o.
Among the prompts the o’clock search brings up is “o’clock and half
past worksheets”. This makes me smile an inward smile like someone with children who’ve grown up in what seems to be the time it takes to make a cup of tea and locate the remote control. Which, since you ask, is under one of the cushions, you know, the ones the cat doesn’t like.
At this point in the piece I can’t help but wonder why I’m mostly stuck in the present tense and writing about soft furnishings, why I’m not writing about what I set out to write about (that what being my great grandmother who’s buried in Easter Road cemetery) and why the clouds outside my window look like the clouds in the opening credits of The Simpsons.
On an imaginary blackboard I take an imaginary piece of chalk and imaginary me writes ‘Grammar is not a time of waste’ over and over. Repeatedly. I prefer over and over. You’ll exceed the word count. Fair enough. This is when the thought enters my mind that I may be a minor character in a Muriel Spark novel and cursed – or blessed, you choose – with no agency to speak of. Of which to
speak. No agency of which to speak. But I dismiss the idea because 1) I can’t hear the great novelist tapping at her typewriter keys in a nearby room, doubtless one a far cry from Kensington and 2) somehow the idea isn’t nearly as disturbing as when I read whichever of her novels it is in which she plays that splendidly meta and Sparkian trick.
I could Google it but guess I’ve exceeded my Google quota for today, an arbitrary number I’ve yet to declare, perhaps more than four, but will do by the end of this sentence and it is with great self-importance that I can inform the world wide web, whatever happened to that, and the information superhighway, ah yes I remember when it was all WC Fields around here, haven’t you used that line before, it does sound troublingly familiar, like a comfy pair of flippers, slippers surely, or a dog that barks in the night, a previous century my dear Holmes, and that quota is 17. 17? It has a nice feel to it, I reckon you could cuddle up to 17. That sounds wrong. You’re right. Usually am. Make it 71.
My great gran? I don’t know if she was great because she died seven years before I was born but I have a sense she was. Probably formidable too but not in the way that folk describe women as formidable meaning they say stuff and won’t wheesht and go and hang the washing up. Matriarch may be better.
boxes in Tuscany
I can’t hear the great novelist tapping at her typewriter keys in a nearby room
She was married to a man served with a restraining order following an incident involving a pistol as reported in an Irish newspaper in the 1890s. He was a groundskeeper in Torridon, also a poet, conjuring up quite the romantic image for those who like that sort of thing, but an Australian relative having shown us that newspaper cutting changes the whole, I know you’re going to say it, changes the whole, you are aren’t you, changes the whole narrative.
You said it! But it does for the story now is not about a man. The story now is about a woman, a formidable woman, the wife of a presumably serially abusive husband, the mother of 12 children, a matriarch, who outlives my not so great grandfather by 48 years after he’s struck by lightning –which sounds very Sparkian – and gets her kids, the youngest of them being my mum’s mum, back to Portsoy from Applecross two years before a morning in Sarajevo when Gavrilo Princip shoots the Archduke and precipitates the world’s first industrial scale war. What time?
Google tells me it was about 11 o’clock.
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An unfamiliar experience has unfolded: everyone seems to agree with me
The unstoppable march of AI has our very humanity under threat. Nothing seems to be able to stop it. It is, frankly, terrifying
Are we on the cusp of a robot takeover? What if ‘bad actors’ gain the upper hand in the race for global AI supremacy and harness its power with destructive intent? Selmer Bringsjord, an internationally recognised specialist in AI reasoning, claims that:
“AI that merely approaches human-level intelligence, and is both autonomous and kinetically
powerful, would be enough to end humanity. It doesn’t need to be superhuman to be dangerous.”
Collectively we seem to have sleepwalked into a scary state of dependency. Recent news of the scamming of M&S and the Co-op, alongside Spain, Portugal and Heathrow being plunged into blackouts, shed a harsh light on our hapless vulnerability to attack without warning.
Yet in a time when we can’t help but be focused on the humandestroying wars on our screens in Ukraine and Gaza, we seem to be giving the Robot assault on the future of the human species scant attention. Some attempt is being made to laud the positive aspects:
Starmer has pledged to transform the UK into an AI hub with the promise of plentiful employment as a result. Headlines announce astonishing new medical and scientific breakthroughs with life-transforming potential. Claims such as these are not enough to alleviate the fear around what is anything but a fringe issue. There
are decisions that need to be made.
So, who is fighting back? Step up Portobello High School who have recently introduced a ban on smart phones. Now pupils have to hand over their devices to be locked away into magnetic pouches until the end of the school day. Everyone I’ve spoken to applauds this initiative. Other schools in Scotland are due to follow Porty’s lead. Many in England already do.
That’s one way of fighting back - compulsory restraint. A long tradition that often works –smoking bans, seat belts, speed limits, etc. And when it comes to protecting the maturing process of the up-coming generations from an obvious threat, then yes, such measures are absolutely essential. Hopefully it will become the norm and all young people in Scotland will grow up knowing what a break from their constant robot companion feels like.
What I particularly like about Portobello’s decisive manoeuvre, was that they didn’t wait for legislation to solve the problem. They did what they could for the children in their care locally and carried the community with them.
We know this whole AI thing is too big to stop, and therefore have no choice but to learn how we’re going to live with it. That’s the nub of it! What are the
human choices we are making for ourselves? At Logan Malloch at the Foot o’ the Walk, their artworks are on sale with: ‘made by human intelligence’ labelled onto the packaging. A few doors up is Ancient Robot Games, where young people flock to play board games – with no computers in sight. Small businesses in Leith are making their choices - to be on the side of humans!
Then last Saturday I got talking with a ‘reunion’ of five young men in their early 20’s, all mates from
school: Trinity Academy. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon and we got chatting sitting outside the re-born Volley Bar on Leith Walk. We quickly discovered that we are all Hibees and Leithers and the banter flowed, without a smart phone in sight.
When I threw in my robot questions, they had plenty to say. They’re worried about the future of their jobs and whether the skills they’ve acquired through study and hard graft will soon become redundant. And like everyone else, they are fed up with how much it intrudes into everything.
One of them, Dwayne (next to me in the photo) told me about the old-fashioned Nokia mobile he’s switching to – because it’s not a smart phone. Dwane is a young man from the old Fort. He is a joiner and loves his work, particularly because the act of working with his hands gives him a break from the tech-mania on tap everywhere else. Now with his new Nokia he’s taking it a step further. That’s the kind of individual action we can all take. Catherine and I are off to France this summer. We always travel by train and have noticed how quiet the carriages are. After some digging (courtesy of the robots), I discovered Article R2241-18 of the French Transport Code, which states: ‘it is forbidden for any person to use, without authorisation, sound devices or instruments, or to disturb the peace of others by noise or disturbances’.
economic invasion. Today both Amazon and MacDonalds have a hard time. Tesla showrooms are burned down. Meanwhile the state uses its power to protect French businesses. The result: local bookshops are aplenty and Amazon delivery vans are a rare sight.
The end of the Second World War saw the release of unforeseen levels of American technological, nuclear, and political power across western Europe. At this time, France, under the inspired presidency of General De Gaulle, was desperately trying to rebuild its tarnished reputation, and reassert its global presence following the humiliation of Nazi occupation and collaboration. Into this scene came Georges Bernanos, a former soldier in the First World War and a writer, later becoming a supporter of the Free French. After Liberation, he watched as his vision of a national spiritual renewal, was overwhelmed by the clamour for industrial and technological growth. In response in 1947, a year before his death, he published: La France contre les Robots (France against the robots).
If Bernanos could express such fears nearly 80 years ago, is it any wonder that we, today, are scared witless by what’s coming
Just imagine what it would be like if that Code was adopted by Lothian Buses. But it wouldn’t and couldn’t work in our culture. The French code was there long before the advent of smart phones. It’s a reflection on the standard of common courtesy that is, and has been, expected in public spaces; just an intrinsic part of being French.
France comes across to me as a country that has the capacity to take on the robots. The French embrace their revolutionary past. They can take to the streets to bring the country to a standstill with envious efficiency. They are united in standing up to what they see as a toxic American cultural-
Bernanos describes how he, “fears the impact on humanity in a world where an everincreasing number of men, right from infancy, are desirous only of what machines have to offer.” He goes on to say, “We are witnessing the birth of an inhuman civilisation whose only manner of establishing itself is in the immense and universal sterilisation of the higher values of life.”
If Bernanos could express such fears so passionately nearly 80 years ago, is it any wonder that we, today, are scared witless by what’s coming. Defence from the robot threat is not going to come from any governments, “desirous only of what machines have to offer”.
No, it can only come from a deliberate shift in culture where individuals make the choice to live differently as sentient, flawed, and unwired human beings. And leave the robots to rust, gathering dust in the warehouses of West Lothian.
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You don’t have to be a Catholic, or even a Christian, to hail the election of Pope Leo XIV as welcome good news
Here we have a man in a position of real international leadership who supports the workers of the world, the poor, and migrants. He also has an acute awareness of the human damage being done to the natural environment.
He has spent many years among the poor in Peru. He is a mathematics graduate, speaks five languages, and has a global perspective. He has a multi-ethnic ancestry, and his parents and grandparents moved around a lot. So, like the rest of us, he’s a mongrel and a migrant.
Here in Leith, it was the immigrant Irish community that significantly boosted the Catholic church. From the early years of the 19th century there were many Irish seasonal workers on the farms of Scotland.
The Martello Tower (the Tally Toor), built in 1809 as a coastal defence during the Napoleonic Wars, has the Irish harp and ‘God save Ireland’ scratched deep into the stonework. Although a protected monument, now it is half-buried within the restricted docks area.
The census of 1841 revealed that 1 person in 26 in Leith was Irish-born. Immigration intensified during the mid-century potato famine. Many were itinerant workers, living in camps, building the canals, the railways, the bridges. The camps moved on with the work.
On the whole, they didn’t get on very well with the static Scottish population. But Leith has its own marker of much better relations. Over the door at no 2 Yardheads is a stone tablet marking the building of the ‘first artisans dwellings’, part of the Leith redevelopment scheme of 1885.
The thistle at the top says we’re in Scotland. The shamrocks on either side and the medieval Brian Boru harp are clearly a tribute to Ireland and the Irish. Maybe they built that block. Maybe the flats were first occupied by
Irish families. If so, it would be the first secure accommodation many of them had ever lived in.
I don’t know of any other contemporaneous positive recognition of the Irish contribution to 19th century Scotland.
To the beleaguered Catholic population in post-Reformation Scotland, they not only bumped up the numbers, they also brought well-educated and confident priests. The Presbytery house at Stella Maris church on Constitution Street was the first house built for Catholic men in Scotland since the 16th century Reformation.
They formed their own football club in 1875. Hibernia is the Latin name for Ireland. There was a clause in the constitution requiring all players to be Irish-born and Catholic. They were chucked out of the Scottish Football Association for a year because, as it was bluntly put, ‘the SFA is for Scotchmen’. Fair enough. The clause was removed.
‘A hero who died for his country’, or as Renton prefers, ‘a prick in a uniform’?
Poor though they were, Hibernian FC played a generous and creative part in the formation of modern club football in Scotland.
But it seems the Catholics couldn’t get away from trouble of some sort. As recently as the 1950s John Cormack, on his soapbox at the Foot of the Walk, rounded off his weekly anti-Catholic rants with ‘One, two, three, no Popery’.
And down to the 1980s the Orange Order used to assemble on Leith Links for their annual march along Duke Street, up Leith Walk, and on to the city centre. On one occasion, the minister of South Leith church Rev Jack Kellet said, his wife nipped smartly across the street between marching units, to howls of ‘Feinian bastard’. The minister’s wife! In Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting, Mark Renton’s father is a lapsing Orangeman. His brother Billy joins the army and dies in Crossmaglen, well known as border bandit country during the Troubles. Is he a ‘hero who died for his country’, as his Orange uncles describe him at the funeral, or as Renton prefers, ‘a prick in a uniform’? Readers are left to come to their own conclusions. Elsewhere in the fiction there is a brawl in the Persevere pub between Orangemen and the selfconsciously Catholic/Irish Spud Murphy and his mixed-race uncle. After the Good Friday Agreement of 1998, this has mostly faded away. But as a portrait of Leith in the 1980s, Trainspotting would be incomplete without bringing out these community tensions.
Diversity and migration are built into our world. They are healthy and creative. Suppression of them is poisonous.
We pray every blessing on the papacy of Leo XIV. May he bring peace to a troubled world.
What is required of an American President in these astonishing times? Asks Lawrence Lettice
‘Rabbit… Rabbit… Rabbit…he won’t stop talking, why don’t you give it a rest…”
Every time I look and hear Donald J Trump spouting incessantly in front of the cameras and microphones these days: this Chas & Dave song comes to mind.
Taking all political stances and considerations out of the equation, you could say that Trump cuts a rather bizarre, grotesque and tawdry figure. His face looks as if it’s been marinated overnight in a vat of liquid turmeric. While his hair resembles wispy, whipped up candy floss; the sort of substance you would often find on Portobello beach during a summer’s day!
Trump certainly loves the sound of his own voice - especially when surrounded by an obsequious audience (note the inevitable fawning presence of the three wise monkeys sitting on the couch beside him). Take for example his recent meeting with Canadian premier, Mark Carney. He hardly drew breath, and spoke constantly about his favourite subject – himself.
The new Canadian leader looked irritated, bored, uncomfortable, and could hardly get a word in sideways. Yet, he somehow managed to maintain his composure and dignity throughout,
on what must have been a somewhat painful experience. No doubt he was wishing he was somewhere else, talking with someone else; especially with Trump’s voice droning on and on in his ears. Perhaps Carney had inadvertently discovered an instant cure for insomnia…or decided that not removing ear wax was a wise move
As on so many other occasions,, Trump dragged up Joe Biden’s name and the previous administration, blaming them for all of America’s current ills. By this time his ego, vanity and self-delusion were running rampant, as if he had been plugged into the mains and was now operating on hyper speed.
Usually during press conferences, he would accuse some poor journalist of representing the ‘Fake News’. I await the day when someone from the American Press Corps takes the bull by the horns and bravely bites back with –‘Fake Tan’!
Even taking into consideration his status as US President, he loves to talk non-stop about just what a great guy he is – and no one has the temerity, or nerve to disagree with him? Obviously, humility and grace do not exist within his DNA.
Talking of Joe Biden, I was curious to see how Trump would react to the former President’s recent cancer diagnosis. A rather bland statement was received from the White House, which could have been written by anyone.
Will Trump now be dissuaded from badmouthing poor old Joe with the unrelenting ferocity he has regularly unleashed in the past? Certainly, over the past few months, Trump has never let up on his savage castigation of the former President.
So now that Biden’s health is in a bad way (if truth be told, it has obviously
Donald Trump received a Golden Raspberry for his cameo in 1989’s Ghosts Can’t Do It
Note the inevitable fawning presence of the three wise monkeys on the couch
deteriorated for all to witness over the last couple of years) could we see a massive sea change in Trump’s demeanour towards his former political rival? I wouldn’t hold your breath, as sympathy, compassion, guilt and contrition, appear to be alien concepts in Trump’s world view. Speaking personally, a friend once observed that perhaps I had been watching far too many old Hollywood movies when it came to my own personal assessment of the necessary characteristics required of an American President. Perhaps he had a valid point, as naively, my idealised image of an American President should look, talk and behave like an amalgamation of Henry Fonda, Gary Cooper and Gregory Peck. With a touch of Jimmy Stewart, Morgan Freeman and Harrison Ford thrown in for good measure.
A figure symbolizing moral stature, as well as exemplifying honesty, dignity, integrity, intelligence, nobility, while not forgetting a quiet but determined inner strength.
Virtues and traits you would like to think that our own Prime Minister might possess. I’m guessing especially at this moment in time, that may well be mission impossible! In other words, a man (or woman?) you could look up to and hopefully aspire to emulate in a small but significant way.
Sadly, that bar has been lowered to such an extent in recent times, that the highest office in the land of the free and the home of the brave, lies almost close to the gutter.
Yet you never know, that with patience, and a fervent belief in truth, fair play, and common decency, future occupants of the White House, will once more shine a beacon of light upon the world.
Fingers triple-crossed!!!
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Barry Fish
62 Shore, Leith Phone: 0131 625 0000
‘The cooking is barry, and so’s the chef”, I chuckled to myself, understanding the joke that the proprietor is playing. It’s one for the locals, of course: only Edinburghers and Romani speakers use the word “barry” to mean “good”. But good it means, and Barry Fish is barry. Barry Bryson is an accomplished chef, cutting his teeth in private dining, pop-ups and high-scale events. He’s the kind of person Rolls Royce used to call up to cater for a big shindig, and he has flown south to cater for the British ambassador in Uruguay – a chap who now lives in the city too, co-incidentally. Now Barry has set down roots in this wonderful part of Edinburgh, right on the Shore. (Is this correct? Or should we say “on Shore”? Proper deployment of the great
Continued on Page 26
Continued from Page 25
single-word Edinburgh street names has not been definitively established. I was chatting to someone about this on Mound only the other day.)
Anyway, enough filler and at Barry’s Fish there is plenty of killer. It is a startlingly good fish restaurant and perfectly relaxed, with a sense of fun about it. The building housing Mimi’s Bakehouse has been cut too, much like it were a Victoria sponge. On the right, Mimi’s continues in a smaller form, although the cake sizes remain dauntingly impressive. On the left, Barry has moved in and decorated the resultant new space wonderfully. When we walk in, it feels bright, airy and exudes a confident sense of style. An influencer is posing at the next table. The seats are comfortable, which is important if you are likely to spend a lot of time in the place. And I, reader, intend to do just that.
For most of the week, there are three menuwaves. A “low-tide” menu runs through to 3pm, ideal for a late lunch. So called “Big Snacks” float out from 4.30pm to 6.30pm, and you could eat very well from these. Dinner itself starts at 6pm, offering a short set of mains; the big snacks from earlier may now be ordered as starters. My first visit was on a Sunday, when the rules are simpler and a brunch menu runs long into the lazy afternoon.
As we order, I notice just how well the restaurant has been designed. Someone has thought about the space and décor and reflected on what makes for a good meal. The tables have pleasing round edges; the banquette is in a shade of aquamarine that would look terrible in a domestic setting but works here; the wireless table lamps operate on recycled fishbones, or perhaps some kind of LED. And draping across the stylishly pale walls, three enormous wire artforms of boned fish grace the room. They are delightful Yes, I am guilty of coveting my restaurant’s artwork. If one goes missing Barry, you know how to find me.
catering, where every canape needs to carry a punchy flavour, shows.
This is the kind of food you could eat every day, perhaps several times a day
Being a Sunday brunch menu, we order everything on it except the oysters which had been rudely scoffed by someone else. No worries, because the standard of cooking is extremely high and this is a place where you want the food to have more involvement from the kitchen than the prising of an oyster chuck. Barry and his team know how to handle a fish. His experience of event
There is a lot of fish, cooked with much finesse, yet the flavours are big and the flavours are bold. Smoked haddock kedgeree was saucy, spicy and set off with a forest of diced chives which brought necessary freshness. What could have been a simple dish of asparagus and egg was elevated. The asparagus, early in the season, came from an excellent Perthshire grower, the eggs were clearly the hen’s finest, and the wild garlic puree covered the plate in reassuring quantities. Superb ingredients, deftly cooked. Barry’s fish pastrami was also good. I’ve seen similar crop up on menus a lot recently; it’s the new cheffy thing to do. But again, the combination of sourcing and preparation elevated this to top levels, with aioli, grapes and capers helping. I loved it.
sacrifice of the said tuber. On top came salt, of course, and a punchy wild garlic pesto. This is the kind of food you could eat every day, perhaps several times a day, but please seek medical advice first.
Next came “The Big Fish!”: not just any fish, but a fish!, apparently. It’s a species whose chief characteristic appears to be that it is yummy. Or perhaps that should be yummy! I do not know how a chef can make
The Big Fish! so soft and melting on the inside, but crisp as a crispy thing on the outside. I suspect this is achieved through rapid and fierce heat. It was beautifully plated up whole, with charred greens and a ramson and herb sauce. We ate every morsel and licked every bone.
A short dessert menu is cleverly done. The rhubarb trifle was on-point and the chocolate mousse with blackberries looked damn fine. Marmalade ice-cream completed the list; all things the kitchen can prepare in advance and focus service time on getting the fish cookery as good as it is.
One dish was called Eyemouth Crab Focaccia Toast, which does what it says on the tin but with a hidden Mull cheddar bechamel. Cheesy crab, basically; a refinement on lobster thermidor. Now, a word about the potatoes, which arrive in the Lyonnaise style. That is to say, they have been fried until an inch of their life in a way which made me thankful for the
Service was tremendous and friendly. Wines were sensibly-priced and covered all the bases one might want. This is a great place to come with friends to eat, drink and be merry. I have an inkling that this one is a stayer and that Leith will fall in love with Barry and his fish.
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In June 1832, the editor of the Lancet thanked Dr Thomas Latta for: “..... the intrepidity, scientific zeal and assiduity he has displayed.” in response to Dr Latta’s letter reporting on his treatment by intravenous saline infusion of moribund patients in the final stages of cholera. He had brought the virtually dead back to life.
A sense of excitement and hope filled the editorial—not just because of the scientific perceptiveness which underlay the treatment nor the technical competence with which Dr Latta carried it out, but for the courage he showed in undertaking it afresh. He was an extra-ordinary and admirable man.
Thomas was born in the last decade of the eighteenth century in Jessfield House in Newhaven. From his house he could look out over the Forth and run down the Whale Brae into the village and the society of the fisherfolk.
He was the fourth of five sons sired by Alexander Latta, a Leith merchant, who died in 1807. Alexander was an elder of the Kirkgate Church, a dissenting Presbyterian congregation,
so births and deaths were not systematically recorded about the family. Therefore we do not know Thomas’ date of birth nor of his mother’s death though we know she predeceased her husband. Nevertheless we can presume that Thomas spent the formative years of his childhood in Newhaven.
After his father died, he lived with his elder brother—also Alexander and a medical student in Edinburgh at the time. When his brother set up in practice in Perth, Thomas moved with him, returning to Edinburgh in 1815 when he himself became a medical student.
As a young man he was adventurous. When a medical student he had gone on an expedition in 1818 to Spitzbergen as a surgeon companion to Captain William Scoresby, a contemporary expert in exploration of Arctic regions. Evidently he was considered competent enough to work as a doctor on his own before graduating M.D. in 1819.
Certainly he was physically able, scientifically observant and curious and went on exploratory and specimen gathering expeditions on the island.
His experience there was put to good use, drawing on it both to illuminate aspects of his M.D thesis “On Scurvy” and to demonstrate his capacity to draw his own conclusions. His recommendations on the treatment of scurvy show particular consideration for the welfare of seafarers.
The epidemic of cholera was advancing inexorably west from Asia. Leith, a major port trading with Eastern Europe, was well prepared. Specific cholera hospitals were set up and the general public persuaded to use them as the only places to nurse cholera cases.
Local doctors were organised to provide supervision and care, working one week in four on continuous call night and day. Thomas Latta was one of them. Confronted with the epidemic, Latta and his colleagues were trying to understand the nature of the disease and how it should be treated in the light of the prevailing medical wisdom of the time. They agreed that loss of water and salts was the major problem but could see that replacing them by ingestion or through enemas did not work for the worst afflicted.
Dr William O’Shaughnessy suggested that intravenous injection of the normal salts of the blood might be beneficial. Latta had the skill and bravery to act on that suggestion for the first time ever as a treatment of last resort with patients at death’s door often with miraculous results.
Latta’s investigations were described as miraculous
Latta embarked on an expedition to Spitzbergen with Arctic explorer Captain William Scoresby
In Latta’s hands it enabled recovery of a third of patients who formerly would have been mortally afflicted. Those who died either had demonstrably serious concurrent pathology (the doctors did their own post-mortems) or, on his own admission, were treated too late.
Within a year the cholera epidemic was already in decline and the need for this skilled and daring intervention was similarly diminishing. Intravenous fluid replacement fell out of fashion for nearly fifty years. Medicine complacently turned its back on the door to enlightenment that Dr Latta had thrown open by his brilliant example of the application of science to medicine.
In just over a year after the introduction of his revolutionary treatment Thomas Latta was dead. He died on the October 19, 1833 from consumption. Given the demands of his clinical work and the burden of disease among the people he cared for this was no surprise.
However, there is an immense debt of gratitude owed to Thomas Latta by patients who have benefited from this treatment ever since.
It’s hard to believe I’ve had the honour and responsibility of serving Leith as your constituency MSP for 9 years
It feels like it’s gone so quickly, but also a lot has happened – like Brexit, Covid, the war in Ukraine, and Trump’s election (x2)…
Closer to home, it’s fair to say Leith has changed in various ways in the last decade, maybe too much for some in a number of ways.
Whatever your view on the change we’ve experienced, what’s certainly true is our part of the world is increasingly attractive for people to move to, especially younger people. That is good news for many reasons, but it’s also created challenges. There is work to do to meet these challenges and, on your behalf, I continue to strive to address these, make a meaningful difference, and do what I can to help deliver positive progress.
I’ve always endeavoured to be a problemsolving, easily accessible type of politician and, most importantly, hardworking. I hope to continue to serve our area and get more done. Next year there will be a Scottish Parliament election and I’ve decided to seek re-election. Things will be slightly different as the constituency boundaries are changing from 2026.
Due to population growth in this part of Edinburgh, the Boundary Commission has decided to create two new constituencies out of my current constituency.
Edinburgh Northern and Leith becomes 1] Edinburgh North Eastern Leith and 2) Edinburgh Northern. I live in the first, and my Constitution Street office is here too, so I decided to seek re-election here and have been re-selected by my party to be a candidate again.
If re-elected, I’m excited about the possibility of working hard for another five years for our area and all of this new seat. Our part of the city is such a great place in many ways, with numerous remarkable independent businesses and hospitality venues, buoyant employment opportunities (especially at the port), a thriving creative and cultural scene, and a strong sense of community.
investment into the Shore and support for the businesses there. The Leith Jazz & Blues Festival is a great event and helps to highlight the many brilliant bars, independent shops, restaurants and cafes there are around the area.
I am also opposing any new student housing development proposals in Leith
In recent months I have been working closely with some of our fantastic local businesses to help promote the area as a great destination to socialise, enjoy and explore, all year round. There are some really good ideas afoot to celebrate and promote the Shore to an even greater extent - watch this space! This will also compliment the exciting plans being taken forward for the Customs House and the ongoing work I’ve been leading to try to improve the Water of Leith basins.
the making, as the re-industrialisation of the port moves forward in earnest.
In a similar way, I’m initiating a summit to bring the relevant authorities, local schools and youthwork organisations together to help tackle the issues we’ve unfortunately experienced over the last year with a very small minority of our young people engaging in some really serious and unacceptable behaviour. I will keep working hard on this issue until the situation improves.
As you would expect, at the moment I continue to focus on a number of strands of work to support all this. For example, I’m currently working to try to achieve more
One of the great things about being the MSP for our area is that I can bring people together in common cause. Recently, I hosted a successful roundtable event in Parliament to strengthen ties between businesses, educators and others, to ensure that our young people, and those looking to retrain, can access the many exciting career opportunities emerging here in Leith. There are thousands of renewable energy jobs in
Lastly, I know that one of the negative things that has happened over the last decade is that the cost of housing in our area has gone up too much. Addressing this remains a top priority for me. Recently I helped to secure new funding for more affordable homes to be built in Edinburgh and at the moment a Housing Bill is going through the Scottish Parliament that will introduce rent controls, which I support. I am also opposing any new student housing development proposals in Leith as, while students are of course welcome, we need to use any vacant land for affordable housing instead.
As always, there’s a lot more I could update on but contact me if you have any queries.
Enjoy Leith Festival!
Ben Macpherson is the MSP Edinburgh Northern and Leith
Tel: 0131 467 7879 Email: leithdockers@hotmail.com www.leithdockersclub.co.uk
Ken Wilson on a sweeping epic of the 1950s guaranteed to get people away from their TVs and out to the cinema…
Agiant by nature and Giant by name, based on a bestselling novel by Edna Ferber (a prolific writer, virtually forgotten today).
Giant (1956), directed by George Stevens, was a wonderful, widescreen, colour, three-hour family saga set over 30 years and had two of the most popular and glamorous stars of the era: Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson. And there was a handsome newcomer that showed much promise. His name was James Dean. All three stars were still in their twenties. Dean was to die at the age of only 24 – before the film was released – when his Porsche 550 Spyder (nicknamed ‘Little Bastard’) was involved in a head-on collision with a Ford saloon on a country road. Dean was moody and mesmerising in Giant, he was posthumously nominated for an Academy Award (Stevens won Best Director).
A new book on the bestselling book and film Giant Love (Pantheon), by Julie Gilbert (Ferber’s great niece), tells the story of the writer and how the film came into being. George Stevens famously made a slew of light comedies in the 1930s. The Rogers and Astaire
James Dean & Edna Ferber on the set of Giant
Dean was rumoured to be bisexual, Hudson was outed in 1985 when he was dying of Aids
musical Swing Time (1936) is a prime example. During World War II Stevens was in the US army and captured amazing colour footage of the D Day liberation of France and the horrors of Dachau concentration camp..
Stevens’s Dachau experience had a profound effect on him; going on to direct and edit a powerful documentary on the war, he never truly got over it.
When he returned to Hollywood his work was darker, more serious but no less popular. His A Place in the Sun (1951) had Montgomery Clift and Elizabeth Taylor as star-crossed lovers divided by class. His psychological Western Shane (1953) pitted saintly Alan Ladd against evil Jack Palance in an allegory of the anti-communist witch-hunts of the time.
Set mostly in Texas, Giant tells the story of cattleman Bick Benedict (Hudson) who marries high-spirited Yankee, Leslie Lynnton (Taylor). She’s brought up amid the green meadows of Maryland and arrives at the dry desert wastes of the West, an educated liberal in a rough-hewn, conservative farming community. She has to battle old-fashioned ways, snarky locals and Bick’s disapproving sister (Mercedes McCambridge).
Added to the mix is the surly ranch
hand Jett Rink (Dean) who holds a candle for Leslie. He falls heir to a parcel of land on which he discovers oil, becomes a millionaire and founds his own oil company. The old West is changing. Over the next few years Jett Rink’s wealth and power eclipse Bick’s. Jett is no longer the lowly nobody but all his money doesn’t buy him happiness. Meanwhile Bick and Leslie watch the farm boy’s astounding rise as they bring up their own family. Jordan, their adult son, is played by Dennis Hopper, Easy Rider himself.
We see the characters age and adapt. When Jordan brings home his Mexican wife-to-be there’s a Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner moment. But the Benedicts have mellowed and are strongly at ease with the changes they’ve seen in Texas during their lifetime even if the rift with Jett (increasingly erratic and prone to alcohol-fuelled benders) never heals.
Then in a memorable scene at a roadside diner there’s a scuffle between the proprietor and Bick when the former refuses to serve a Mexican family. All the while ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ plays jarringly on the jukebox. Texans hated the book which they found overly critical of stereotypical vulgar and money-grubbing Texas. But they took the film (softened in many places) to their hearts.
‘The movie was an unqualified smash,’ writes Julie Gilbert. Elizabeth Taylor’s performance was one of her best. It embodied ‘a subtle but no less powerful form of feminism’. Taylor was tired of being the ‘violet-eyed Aphrodite on the screen [that she’d been] since girlhood’.
Giant had a long legacy. The 1980s soap Dallas owed much to the Stevens’s melodrama. Come Back to the Fiveand-Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean was originally a play, filmed in 1982 by Robert Altman and 2009 saw a stage musical version. The movie holds a special place for the gay community, several personnel were gay or gay adjacent.
Dean was rumoured to be bisexual; Hudson was outed in 1985 when he was dying of Aids, Taylor became an advocate for HIV research, McCambridge hoovered up roles as gun-toting butch women and Sal Mineo was the first out gay Hollywood actor.
But it was Dean’s performance and his tragic early death that gave Giant a special and long-lasting resonance. For years afterwards James Dean became a symbol of doomed youth.
Giant Love by Julie Gilbert (Pantheon £30) @kenwilson84.bsky.social
DELI • CATERING • DELIVERY
DELI • CATERING • DELIVERY
DELI • CATERING • DELIVERY
MONDAY-FRIDAY 8AM–4PM
SATURDAY 9AM–4PM
SUNDAY10AM–3PM
Click & Collect @ embodeli.co.uk Mon-Fri 8am–3pm
Sit in @ 29 Haddington Place, Leith Walk
Sit in @ 29 Haddington Place, Leith Walk
Click & Collect @ embodeli.co.uk Mon-Fri 8am–3pm Saturday 9am–4pm
1 In a stair rig a test on water (8)
Sit in @ 29 Haddington Place, Leith Walk
Click & Collect @ embodeli.co.uk Mon-Fri 8am–3pm Saturday 9am–4pm
5 Girl that is a canine star(6)
10 Off set, Fed baked bran here? (3,3,9)
11 Good French shot for conflagration (7)
12 Crushed over broken inn surround (7)
13 Means of protecting back fours (8)
15 & 18 Queen pulls chain with big hand (5,5)
18 See 15
20 Meddler has lively corpse (8)
23 Part of leg I bled to read (7)
25 Two for tea primarily old jacket (7)
26 Cry and cry for cabbage and potatoes (6,3,6)
27 Ships used in bins? (6)
1 In the climb ibex made for drink (6)
2 Act from Hull gets the bird (3,3,3)
3 Kind I included for non- Jew (7)
4 Short re-set shattered (5)
6 Saver OK maybe to come to tea (3,4)
7 Flight of sitar perhaps (5)
8 Hospital department article with broken leg in complicated circumstances (8)
9 Gives way about lets (8)
14 Two vehicles the French separate for one (5,3)
16 Oiled Olly Reed’s Swiss mountain singers (9)
28 He values a ship with scattered roses (8) Answers crossword 141
17 Ring very loud for tag on drug that’s not on perscription (3-5)
19 Shoe repairer changes from cold to hot for limper (7)
21 British and American and what French think as short (7)
22 Dracula writer tends the furnace (6)
24 The African state of good French (5)
25 Losers without oriental beaus (5)
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