Stranraer Folk Club

"Somewhere over the rainbow Bluebirds fly Birds fly over the rainbow Why then, oh, why can't I?" Because you're not a bird, Malcolm. But you can still spread those pretty wings and head to the Grapes at 8pm, on Wednesday. See you there?

We were in our final year of the Art and Design course. Josephine, the girl from Galway, Angeline (she was completing a diploma in fancy bakery) and I shared a bedsit on the top floor of “Innisheer”, a grungy terraced house on Callum’s Rd, in the shadow of St James Infirmary. From such a high level, the whole of Leeds spread out before us as long as you looked beyond the canal bank, down where the drunkards roll, beneath that old green iron lamp. We had some rare old times... there. Our bursaries didn’t run to red meat and whisky but a plate of Angeline’s kerripolkas dusted with maple sugar, and the occasional glass of some good old smooth red wine, saw us through that terror time before our finals. Angeline’s display was called King of the Fairies. The centrepiece was a shop mannequin in purple robes, holding a tray of tiny cakes, all decorated daintily. She brought along her family to help and it was inspiring to see that small devoted band, watching Angeline, in her piper’s hat, and copying her every swirl. Josephine’s exhibition of textiles was called For Ireland. The focal point represented the Curragh, a racecourse surrounded by heathland, with shades of green and brown, with the odd plain tree and occasional splashes of the yellow on the broom. I had been working on my collection, Fair Maids of February, for months. I had my hopes, as we all have hopes, of a good reception. My fabrics were corduroys and federals, in muted shades, but the cutting and tailoring was what made my clothes stand out. I crossed the tay (the front interfacing) at the minch (the underarm seam) and it made for a unique silhouette. Naomi, my older sister, was to be my model but, minutes before we were due to start, she came off her bike, ripping her knees, her hands and …my creation! Standing in the wings, I got my ticket in my right hand and I hear the drizzle of the rain. Someone touches my shoulder. “Close your eyes” I hear. “Close the door. You don’t have to worry any more.” Standing there is Johnny, Naomi’s fisher laddie. “Sorry?” I snap. What does he know about my worries? Then I open my eyes. Johnny is dressed in a liberty bodice, with his sea boots o’er his knees and his straps across his shoulder! Well, it’s not what I’d planned, but it's different! I push him in the direction of the cat-walk. When the judging is finished I’ll go and see Naomi in hospital and tell her “When your wounds all are healed and you’re back on your wheels, there’s something you ought to know about Johnnie!”
A jolly night with our friends from Girvan, and a good complement of regulars. Thanks to all who came...let's do it all again next week.
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"She's a big lass and a bonny lass And she likes her beer...." So hutch up and make room, upstairs at the Grapes, Weds, 8pm. See you there, Cushie?

Well, family matters come between us and the story again for a couple of weeks. Suffice it to say, there was an awful lot of Rabbie Burns last night (we're nothing if not previous), along with the usual fun and games. See you in a fortnight!

"John Anderson, my jo, John When we were first acquent..." ...you never took me to the folk club, and it's on every Wednesday at 8pm, upstairs in the Grapes. See you there tonight?

So here I stand in the castle in the glen, as some call it…one of the largest football stadiums in the country. There is no man in this wide world as happy as me. My wee team, the Blue Bonnets, were up against the pearl of Scottish football, in the 4th round of the Scottish Cup. I didn’t expect to make the team, but the gaffer looked at me and said there was space available. My wife of one year (yes, one year to the day) looked at me with a tear in her eye. “You know I l...
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I know my love by his way of walking And I know my love by his way of talking And I know my love in his suit of blue And if my love leaves me what will I do And still she cried "I'd go to the folk club and sing my heart out!"... Upstairs at the Grapes, every Weds, 8pm. See you there?
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It was in the month of January in a lonely part of town. Business was slow in Baron’s Hair, the gentlemen’s salon for the boys of Bluehill. Olaf Skate, the proprietor stood propped in the doorway, smoking. He blew himself a smoke-ring and he watched it disappear. “It ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe” he said, in his thick Norwegian accent. “It’s been 18 months of winter since we arrived here, and the last thing people are thinking of is a short back and sides and ...a close shave”. She was a lady, she came down from Bergen, she said. Her surname was unpronounceable so everyone called her Jeannie Illogical. She had originally arrived after answering Teddy O’Neill’s advert for a curling course. She was thinking Winter Olympics, he was a Velcro-roller and tongs man. He saw her first and knew that her dark hair was out of a bottle. She may not have coiffed it herself but she could learn, he knew. Teddy, on the other hand, would never make a barber, as had been obvious from his first attempt at shaving a customer. The razor blade was German-made but the sheet was Belfast linen. By the time he’d finished mopping the blood it looked more like a red apple rag, and the insurance pay-out increased his premiums to an unaffordable level. It nearly broke his heart when they’d no use for him in the town. He sold up, disappeared over the horizon and was never brought to mind again. “I had my hopes for this place” said Olaf “as we all have hopes. But I’ve realised this town needs more than just another barber’s salon. I’m buying up the whole block and transforming it…a pink hotel, a boutique and a swinging hotspot. The bar will be a marble stone as black as ink.” Jeannie narrowed her eyes. “I’d go black and blue, if I were you” she mused. “That would look classy against the pink exterior. Blue-black and frosted, one wall of silver, two of diamonds, like a starry night in Shetland, or the Arctic Circle. It would remind you of home. You can call the place “Walking on the Moon”. They’d be crossing the Tay and queuing up to get in.” “You’ve never spent a night in that land” scoffed Olaf. “I saw through that accent as soon as you arrived. It sounds more like East Sussex to me. And I’ll swear I saw you working behind the tills in the Morrison’s just off the Dundee bypass”. “When you change with every new day, you can be whoever you want to be” pouted Jeannie. “You carry on building your empire, dahlink…I’m off to California in the morning!”
It was good to be back after an extra-long break, and especially to be joined by real curling students (of the Olympic variety). It was an unusual night with spooky coinkydinks, and three-quarters of a raffle. Let’s do some of it again next week! Thanks to all who came!
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Do you remember me? Do you still think of me? Am I the one you see at night Everytime you dream? Am I the one you need... Or just a memory? Have you forgotten me Or do you remember me?
Well, after a 2-week break, we're back! Happy New Year to all our members, regulars, irregulars and visitors (especially ones who sent us a Christmas card all the way from Hull)! See you tomorrow (Weds) from 8pm, upstairs at the Grapes.
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It's always nice to know our guests enjoy an evening as much as we do! Thank you, Malt Whiskers!

Welcome to Question Time. I’m Bonnie Galloway. As a change from our usual format, I’d like to give our parliamentary candidates one last opportunity to win the vote of the local electorate before the booths open. Please make your statements brief and to the point. First up we have Frances Flatwater. Fran is the Jingle-bell party candidate.
Fran: “ It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees, putting up reindeer, singing songs of joy and peace, but in my constitue...
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The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I could smell smoke. Now, there’s always been a fire in the kitchen here in Baltic Street, Montrose, but this was aromatic, with the smell of kippers on the air. I sat bolt upright in bed, like a rusty shot in a hollow sky. I could see the glow through the thin curtains, as if I held the sunrise in my hands. But I’ve been east and I’ve been west, and my bedroom faces west. This was no sunrise. The wet fish shop was on ...fire! Mickey 2-legs (Why was he called Mickey 2-legs? Because he only had one arm!) had arrived in Montrose from the west coast of Clare with an accordion, the clothes he stood up in and a wild-haired girl from Galway called Eglantine. Wild-haired, yes, but so young (she’s but a lassie yet) and so brave, with such a peace behind the eyes. Yankee boots upon her feet she wore and a fringed suede dress, like a lost Indian maiden. Originally he set up his stall and sold his catch of the day, but eventually his savings went into a little shop here in Baltic Street. Mickey could make the accordion sing. He played it across his knee so the little kids could dance…boy, he could make the red poppies dance: Cradle Song, Farewell to Whisky, the Arran Boatsong, tunes that will linger forever in our ears (ok, the kids could only dance slowly, but who cared?). The fire crew arrived with the horse-driven carriage, and pumped water through the hoses till the drains were overflowing. I didn’t wait for the word, but rolled my britches up to my knees, and waded into the black mulch to look for Mickey and his Galway girl. But it was too late. I hung my head, then sat a long while, my head in my hands. They said it was a gas fault, but there’s no gas here. Oh, you can believe it if it helps you to sleep. I know Mickey had rivals, the herring barons, who wanted a piece of his action. I’ve told the peelers but they don’t want to get involved. They don’t care what is right or what is wrong by the law. But I care. Sometimes when I’m alone out here, I fear I am broken and I won’t mend, I know. I am going round to Turner’s Hall after dark tonight, and I’ll write some words upon the wall that everyone will see: Sorrow. Sadness. Bitterness. Grief. Oh, my friends, how I’m thinking of you now. I know we’ve said our last goodbye, and I miss him…dear old man!
As one weel-kent face departs, another returns...and sits in his seat. A jolly little night, with more Stuff on the Horizon, and news of a new instrument. Thank you to all who made it so merry.
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"We stayed awake while the whole world was sleeping I told you stories you didn't understand Walking the floor, well, it kept you from crying You held my finger in your tiny hand
... And I was so tired..." ...but it didn't stop me going to the folk club, upstairs in the Grapes, every Wednesday at 8pm. How's about you?
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On Grafton Street in November, Glenn Coe was organising his annual fundraiser in his seedy office above the Bon Accord public bar. “Eleanor” he bleated down the telephone. “Who have we got so far?” He listened for a moment then groaned. “Logan Water? The man who came 3rd on Song for Ireland? A blind man and his dog wouldn’t cross the Tay to see him”. (Glenn wasn’t hot on irony!) “Can’t we get Cliff? What d’ya mean he won’t talk to me. I know he talks to God!” Glenn mop...ped his brow. “Oh honey baby, can’t you see my tears? Stop fannying about and find me a big draw. This was supposed to be a summer dance and we’ll be lucky to put something on by Christmas. It makes each day a constant battle”. Glenn hung up the phone and sat with his head in his hands, not even looking up when the door opened, until a waft of perfume enfolded him. “I know that scent” he exclaimed. “Ganglat, by Lancôme. And there’s only one person I know who wears it.” He sat, eyes still closed, remembering. “Inêz…Inêz Sheer, always in a pencil skirt, black stockings and neckbreakers…oh, she was the star of the bar in her day. She was the best friend I ever did have. I wish I was in Carrickfergus, but those days are so far away and nothing, nothing is going right”. “Oh dear, oh!” came a voice that would crack the flagstones. “God bless the child, will you not be greeting an old friend, Glenn, ma wee darling?” He looked up to see that indeed it was Inêz Sheer, the black star of the Loch Tay Burlesque Club. “Oh, Inêz, I really need your help” he pleaded. “I have this show to put on, and need someone to bring the punters in. I know I asked Eleanor to ring you but thought “she’ll turn up her nose to a scruffy wee devil like me.” You turning up here was the last thing on my mind.” “Meet me at midnight on the corner” she rasped “and we’ll work out the detail”. Saturday night and the hall was packed. Happy again, Glenn grinned at the lassie with the yellow coatie, perched next to him in front of a plate of cheese barms with piccalilli. “I don’t get fed like this at home, you know” she spluttered through the crumbs. Together, they watched Inêz, in colours red and gold, strutting her stuff in front of the packed audience. “Isn’t she lovely?” he beamed.
It was a fun-filled evening, tinged with sadness, as we said farewell to a club regular who will be sorely missed. Stranraer's loss is Holmfirth's gain! Thank you to all who came along.
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"Oh, it's fare thee well, my darling true I'm leaving in the first hour of the dawn I'm bound off for the Bay of Mexico Or maybe the coast of Californ" ...or 'appen it's Yorkshire. Wherever, come and say "tarra"tonight (Weds), at 8pm, upstairs in the Grapes.

I thought it would feel better than this. I thought that sitting on top of the world, as it were, here in the mountains of Pomeroy with my gold medal around my neck, I would feel victorious…happy even. Call it fortune or call it destiny, I knew one day it would be mine. I could hear my Granny’s words “You’re my first, love” as she sat opposite rattling, roaring Willie in front of the peat fire. She was old and slow, and would just sit all night by firelight but in her day...
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"Oh, I'm sailin' away, my own true love I'm sailin' away in the morning Is there something I can send you from across the sea From the place that I'll be landing? No, there's nothin' you can send me, my own true love... There's nothin' I'm wishin' to be ownin' Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled..." and we'll go to the folk club, upstairs in the Grapes, Weds at 8pm (quick committee meeting first!).
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Today is Flat Earth Day. It is being celebrated all around the world, but we’re going to have a supper here in Skibbereen. Last night I went round the town, collecting contributions of food and drink. The night was clear, and the stars were shining, like a billion drops of light, with a twinkle that I never knew. Winter is here now, I’ve felt it with my nose, so I need to raise a tent of shelter for the buffet. First, I called on Fanny Power. She could have walked away, s...he could have had her say (I only mention that because it rhymes!). Instead she gave me one of her decorated cakes. The background was strawberry red, with daisies all over it. “It’s filled with blackberries” she explained. “I picked them tonight from a rough bed of brambles in my garden. Go round to my neighbour” she suggested. “Talullah’s friendly”. She was indeed, but she didn’t give me anything I could use at the supper. Two hours later I extricated myself, and headed down to see the Galway girl in the café. “The other night, dear, I made up a lovely drop of soup from a pig’s foot and some onions” she said, offering a large flask. “You’ll need something warm inside you in this weather.” The butcher gave me a long sausage which he coiled into rounds, cutting an inch out between each one. “Why do you cut the piece out?” I asked. “Ah, that’s the Cumberland Gap” he replied. The history man from the high school offered some oatcakes and pate. “I made it myself” he beamed. “Watch out for bones, I used the trouts in the burn”. “Didn’t you remove the bones?” I asked. “You could have done better but I don’t mind”. There was a fat man in an overcoat waiting with the boys from Bluehill, all laden with white cakeboxes. “Pies!” he shouted when he saw me. “You can’t have too many pies! If you have more than you need, I suggest you throw them all away”. I was too late (and not a little knackered…I wish I was young again) to do any food prep myself, so I bought some Wagon Wheels from the corner shop. Suddenly I feel a friendly warmth spread around. Oh no! The flask must be leaking and the Galway girl’s soup has soaked all down my trousers. So I took them off and threw them over the hedge. Well, what else can a poor boy do? Well, that’s my defence, officer, and I’m sticking to it!
Good to have better numbers this week, with the tentative band, the survivors from Coast2Coast, the parents-to-be, and the returning invalid!
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