And another thing…

SOCIALISM.

There, I’ve said it.

But what is a socialist? Believe it or not, in the 1980s, when I first joined the Labour Party, this was a question that comrades actually used to discuss seriously, earnestly and regularly. And in every local party there was never a shortage of individuals who took it upon themselves to judge which of their colleagues were and were not socialists.

Tony Benn, the font of all knowledge when it came to judging other people’s principles, once said that the Labour Party wasn’t a socialist party, although there were socialists in it, just as the church wasn’t Christian, although there were Christians in it. This struck a chord with me, because, as a young Christian in an evangelical church, I had all too often fallen into the trap of deciding whether others were “proper” born-again Christians or, as my friends and I very patronisingly caled them, “nominal” Christians. Essentially, if other people hadn’t shared in exactly the same spiritual experience that we had, then their faith was inferior to ours.

So yes — in response to that muffled comment from the back — I was even more arrogant and insufferable then than I am now.

I’ve since reconciled myself to the truth that it’s not up to anyone else to judge my own relationship with God, just as it’s not up to me to judge anyone else’s. As I’ve said on this blog before, I’ve always been a rubbish Christian anyway.

So what is it with the church and the political Left that it attracts people only too keen to judge others’ beliefs? I guess it comes from the fact that both Christianity (and any other religion) and socialism are based on faith — faith in God or, in socialism’s case, faith in the basic good of mankind, in moral absolutes and in economic concepts.  Once those beliefs are codified and acknowledged as The Truth, it becomes easy to identify those who stray from the One True Path.

The political Right is blissfully unencumbered by such rule books, preferring a more pragmatic approach to politics.

And even today, 15 years after the advent of New Labour, there are still those in my party who like to obsess about the “socialist” label. Among some, it is undoubtedly a cause of some resentment that it was Tony Blair who first inserted the word “socialist” in the party’s constitution, thereby redefining it in a broader, vaguer but more inclusive sense.

So the question is: do I consider myself a socialist? Yes, I suppose I do, but there are plenty of others who wouldn’t agree with that description of me. And maybe they’re right. Whatever.

Same goes for me describing myself as a Christian.

But if judging others’ definitions of themselves is your “thing”, who am I to tell you what to do?

I WATCHED this all the way through, and now I feel dirty and defiled. I’m really looking forward to seeing the new Star Trek film (see Mike Rouse’s interview with me yesterday), but a review by Klingons?!

To my shame, I once went to a showing of the first five Trek films at the ABC cinema in Sauchiehall Street (although, in my defence, I deliberately arrived too late and left early so that I wouldn’t have to sit through The Motion Picture or The Final Frontier. That is a defence, right…?) to find that at least half the audience were in fancy dress. “Reserved for Starfleet Academy students” the notice on one row of seats read. Some Klingons were hanging round the girl selling choc ices, but I couldn’t help notice that the fearless warriors could barely make eye contact with her. The rest of the audience just sat quietly reading the comics they’d bought from Forbidden Planet on the way to the theatre.

But the review in Klingon is worth watching. It has English (Earth) subtitles and some cracking clips.

What? What about the headline? What did you think this post was going to be about?

TWENTY-FIVE years ago this week, I finally decided to join the Labour Party.

The decision was made after a lot of introspection. I knew I wanted to get involved in politics; in the early 1980s it was difficult not to be affected by political events all around us: the inner city riots of 1981, the Falklands War, the splits in the Labour Party and Benn’s challenge for Labour’s deputy leadership, mass unemployment (particularly in north Ayrshire, where I grew up), Thatcher’s 1983 landslide and the year-long miners’ strike.

Both my parents had voted Labour throughout their lives, as had their parents. My maternal grandfather had been a great fan of Tony Benn in the 1960s (and was therefore a natural recruit for the SDP when it was formed in 1981). And, on the occasion of my first vote — the 1982 regional council elections — I dutifully turned up at the polling station to support the Labour candidate, Jimmy Jennings.

But a year later, the first time I had the chance to vote in a general election, I just couldn’t bring myself to vote for a party led by Michael Foot, even though I was living in a marginal seat at the time. Along with two friends who were also voting in a general election for the first time, I put my cross against the SDP candidate’s name (as described in a post I wrote last year). As happened in numerous seats across the country, the third party managed to split the Labour vote, allowing the Tory candidate to win.

Fast forward another year, and despite my brief and accidental membership of the Conservative Party, I knew that that was the one party I just couldn’t consider joining (actually, there were two parties I wouldn’t have considered joining, but the SNP didn’t even qualify as a candidate to be rejected). Neil Kinnock’s election as Labour’s leader had grabbed my attention: here was somebody who was serious about opposing the Tories and, at last, serious about turning Labour into a government-in-waiting, rather than an umbrella pressure group pandering to every minority interest under the sun. I still had my reservations about policy: I didn’t support unilateral nuclear disarmament and thought Labour’s previous policy of disengagement with Europe was bonkers. But they would be ditched in time, I figured. So when, at the end of a party political broadcast, an address was given for membership enquiries, I bit the bullet and sent off a letter.

Funny how a seemingly casual decision at the time could have such a massive effect on the course of someone’s life. But the truth is I never considered it to be a casual decision. I took it extremely seriously at the time, and in the years that followed, my commitment to the Labour tribe defined my career and even my personal relationships. Personal and political highlights became indistinguishable: when Kinnock made his anti-Militant speech to Labour conference in Bournemouth in 1985, I was house-sitting for a friend in Sale, whooping and air-punching in a room occupied by a total of one person. On a related note, 1988 will always resonate in my memory as the year I was served with an interim interdict (injunction) due to my involvement in a local constituency inquiry into the activities of Militant members in Cathcart.

The low points have regularly outnumbered the high points: defeat in the 1987 and 1992 general elections (the consequences of the latter being the loss of my job when I had just bought a house and started a family), the loss of the Scottish* by-election in 1988, John Smith’s death in 1994, my rejection as a Labour candidate for the local elections in 1990, the attempted coup against Tony Blair in 2006.

But the highlights made everything seem worth it: the morning of 2 May 1997, my selection as Cathcart’s parliamentary candidate in September 2000 and subsequent election as an MP in June 2001, my appointment as Scottish Labour’s press officer in September 1990, my first speech to national conference in September 1989, my appointment as a minister in September 2006 (September seems to be an important month for me, I’ve just realised).

Something of a roller coaster ride, you might conclude. As I’ve often told Carolyn: I’ve never understood those who claim politics is dull. It’s more entertaining than the best soap opera, with more interesting and better-written characters. 

And in the last quarter of a century, I’ve never regretted for an instant my decision to pick up a pen and notepad as that party political broadcast came to an end and jot down the address, “150 Walworth Road, London”.

* In the same way actors refer to Macbeth as “the Scottish play”, that’s how I tend to refer to Jim Sillars’ former seat.

THIS year could well turn out to be an X-Factor-free zone in our house if media rumours abour Lilly Allen joining the show are correct.

She is not mine or Carolyn’s favourite performer. She said recently in an interview that she hates all “f***ing politicians” so I feel I can reciprocate.

But Saturday evenings from August would be so empty. In previous years, Carolyn and I were part of the Stars In Their Eyes fanbase. Yes, it’s true. Between us, we developed quite a sophisticated scoring system. Contestants who really entered into the spirit of things were held highest in our esteem; those were the real fans who wanted only to emulate their heroes. The voice was everything; it didn’t matter if a John Lennon impersonator looked more like Bernard Manning, as long as he made a decent attempt at sounding like Lennon.

Then there were those, in increasing number as the series went on, who were clearly more interested in pursuing a career as a singer rather than as an impersonator. These would attempt bland ballads originally performed by one-hit wonders whose voices were hardly distinctive even at the time they were in the charts: Tina Arena, anyone? These contestents received our thumbs-down.

Yet, what was the point of our settee scoring exercise? Better, surely, to be part of the Stars studio audience and bring our considerable expertise to the actual judging of the contestants? Which is what we did. Unbeknownst to Carolyn, I wrote off to Granada Television to ask for a couple of tickets, which duly arrived. So, excited at the prospect of seeing Matthew Kelly in person, we headed to Manchester.

It’s fair to say we probably approached the experience in a post-ironic frame of mind: there to take the mickey a little bit out of the whole process and out of the other audience members who would be taking the whole thing far more seriously than us. But we left rather more impressed. The contestants themselves — Paul Young, Jon Bon Jovi, Alana Myles, James Taylor and Brenda Lee — were fantastic. Each one performed the same song twice, with the best one used for the final broadcast. No obvious gaffes by any of them, despite the pressure they must have felt. All done as live, too.

As for Matthew Kelly — what a pro! And I even managed to avoid screaming at the “warm-up” guy who kept the audience “entertained” between acts. So, all in all, a top night.

Oh, and the winner of that particular show was Bon Jovi, who was actually a butcher from Glasgow who, when he appeared in the live final, informed the audience that his success had persuaded him to give up his job to sing full time. Not sure if that was a good idea. I voted for Alan Myles (yeah, I know, I don’t know why either) and Carolyn voted for James Taylor, but only because she loves JT, not because the guy sounded anything like him, because he didn’t.

I don’t think Stars is even on at the moment, and we stopped watching it anyway when Cat Deeley took over.

There have been some legendary performances over the years; among our favourites was the girl who attempted an ambitiously energetic dance routine in the guise of Janet Jackson and who could barely sing for gasping for air. Top entertainment.

And then there was the amazing Gary Mullen, another Scot, who won the grand final with his sublime and uncannily accurate impersonation of Freddie Mercury. We went to see him perform live on one occasion after that.

The X-Factor is our new Stars In Their Eyes of a Saturday evening. So I hope Lilly Allen doesn’t spoil it for us by her presence. If Danni’s leaving, bring back Sharon, that’s what I say, anyone other than Lilly. What about Matthew Kelly? He’d be great.

So long as Cheryl stays. We like Cheryl…

This is what you get when you Google images for "Stars In Their Eyes"

WHEN most people think Country and Western, they probably think maudlin ballads about abandoned husbands and kids, depressing tales of rags to riches (and back again) and premature deaths in light aircraft.

After years of determinedly avoiding this particular musical genre, I’ve recently succumbed. It started off when Carolyn and I went to the Christmas concert of a local school — King’s Park Secondary — at the end of 2004 and heard an amazing performance by the pupils of a song called “Godspeed”. Carolyn loved it so much, I bought the album from which it was taken: “Home” by the Dixie Chicks. I then hoovered up all their back catalogue and, very much against the advice of my then researcher, James, listed “Wide Open Spaces” as the most recent album I had bought in a pre-general election questionnaire to MPs by The Guardian.

I had never heard of Brad Paisley until we bought Ronnie the DVD of “Cars”, which features a couple of his tracks. I loved one of them, “Find Yourself”, so much that on the strength of it, bought Paisley’s “5th Gear” album off iTunes. It’s a superb album, and full of brilliant humour as well as poignancy: “If love was a plane, nobody would board”, “I’m a sci-fi fanatic, a mild asthmatic”, “On a slow day, I can still have a three-way, chat to two woman at one time”…

Below is a great example of Paisley’s writing style: not exactly PC but who cares? Very funny and clever. If country is even marginally your bag, but  ”I’m Still a Guy” and “5th Gear” here.

I’M STILL A GUY

When you see a deer, you see Bambi
And I see antlers up on the wall
When you see a lake you think picnics
And I see a large mouth up under that log

You’re probably thinkin’ that you’re gonna change me
In some ways well maybe you might
Scrub me down, dress me up
Oh but no matter what, 
Remember, I’m still a guy

When you see a priceless French painting
I see a drunk naked girl
You think that riding a wild bull sounds crazy
And I’d like to give it a whirl

Well love makes a man do some things he ain’t proud of
And in a weak moment I might
Walk you sissy dog, hold your purse at the mall
But remember, I’m still a guy

And I’ll pour out my heart, hold your hand in the car
Write a love song that makes you cry
Then turn right around, knock some jerk to the ground
‘Cause he copped a feel as you walked by

I can hear you now talkin’ to your friends
Sayin’ yeah girls he’s come a long way
From draggin’ his knuckles and carryin’ a club
And buildin’ a fire in a cave

But when you say a backrub means only a backrub
And you swat my hand when I try
Well now what can I say at the end of the day
Honey, I’m still a guy

These days there’s dudes gettin’ facials
Manicured, waxed, and Botoxed
With deep spray-on tans and creamy lotiony hands
You can’t grip a tackle box

Yeah with all of these men linin’ up to get neutered
And headin’ out to be feminized
But I don’t highlight my hair, I’ve still got a pair
Yeah honey, I’m still a guy

Oh, my eyebrows ain’t plucked, there’s a gun in my truck
Oh thank God I’m still a guy

Well, I have to have something to write abut when everyone else is banging on about football of a Saturday afternoon…

I HATE mushrooms, for they are the Fruit of the Devil.

EVERYONE remembers the day they first saw Star Wars, right?

Of course they do. For me, it was Thursday 2 February 1978. That was also the day that issue #1 of Star Wars Weekly went on sale and I grasped my copy in my hands as I waited anxiously for my dad, exhausted after a typically hard day driving his HGV, to respond to my desperate plea to drive me, my sister and my best friend, Brem, all the way to Glasgow, the only place within travelling distance where the movie phenomenon was showing.

He reluctantly relented, and the five of us – including mum – piled into our tiny yellow Nissan and headed for the big city, Brem and I barely able to contain our excitement. The local cinema in Beith, the George, was a regular and familiar experience by then, but neither of us had seen the inside of the legendary Odeon in Glasgow’s Renfield Street.

Dad quickly found a parking space. History does not record if it was legal or safe, but I don’t recall him getting a parking ticket that night. We walked the short journey to the Odeon, and were appalled to see the queue! None of us had ever seen a queue that long for anything! No way were we going to get a seat inside. But we joined it anyway. Even that bit was fun; the air of excitement was palpable, and not just among the younger members of the crowd. Buskers and beggars took advantage of their captive audience to entertain and embarrass (my dad dryly informed us that one old soul was getting no money from him because he “never gave me a song”…).

And, faster than any of us expected, we were moving towards the Odeon entrance. Would we get in, or would we be stopped just short of the prize, a “Sorry – full up” sign barring our way between us and that far, far away galaxy?

We got in. And so did a couple of hundred people behind us. A big place, the Odeon, it turned out.

The atmosphere inside was electric. And even the advertisers joined in the spirit of the occasion, having produced sci-fi-themed commercials specially to be shown before the main feature. At one point, a breathless hush descended when words resembling “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…” appeared on screen, to be followed by… the Mash men (oh, come on! You must remember them: they sounded like Daleks and every advert ended with the words “then they smash them all to bits”, with the wee metal aliens collapsing in fits of giggles). And then there was the ad where a golden robot being constructed in a production line has his head fastened on back-to-front, and consoles himself with a Hamlet cigar to the sound of Air on a G String.

And then, at last, after weeks and months of hype, of listening to the disco version of the Star Wars theme by Meco, of reading every morsel of information about the movie and its stars in every magazine and newspaper (Alec Guinness, we discovered, had been in a number of films before Star Wars), the 20th Century Fox logo appeared on screen, accompanied by that famous fanfare. Followed closely by that fanfare…

Both Brem and I, and a number of our friends had already read the novelisation of Star Wars. More than once. Nothing in the plot of the movie we were about to see was going to surprise us. We knew every twist, every conflict, every argument, every fight, and every resolution. We already knew most of the dialogue, and we were able, that night, immediately to identify, to our horror, which scenes included in the novel which were not part of the finished film. That was the first time we realised that there can sometimes be differences in the content of novels and the movies on which they’re based. 

Such triflings aside, it’s far to say that that night in February more than 30 years ago, I fell in love with Star Wars. You had me at “Long ago”, as it were.

Even Dad fell for it. On the way back home along the M8, our Nissan Sunny became an X-Wing rebel fighter, darting in and out of lanes as Dad shot down the enemy TIE fighters in front of us.

So I was hooked, as were millions of kids my age – and many of different ages – throughout the planet. Star Wars helped define our childhoods. No-one had ever seen anything like it. It helped rejuvenate not only the science fiction genre, but Hollywood itself, as well as making cinema-going fashionable again after some very fallow years and spawning loads of very questionable rip-offs and “homages”.

Even then, back in 1978, my friends and I were aware of some of Luke Skywalker’s and Obi-Wan Kenobi’s back-stories; that Luke’s father, a Jedi Knight, had been been betrayed and murdered by Darth Vader who was in turn almost killed by Kenobi, who threw Vader into a volcanic pit. He had been rescued by Imperial storm troopers who had only managed to save his life by placing him in a black life-support suit. 

The movie sequels were, inevitably, keenly anticipated by us and by the rest of the world. Empire was magnificent, Return disappointing. And I still believe it was a fundamental mistake by George Lucas to make Luke and Leia brother and sister. Big mistake.

Fast forward 16 years to the release of Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace. I tried to like it, I really did. I even saw it in the cinema three times before buying it on VHS and then DVD. It took me another few years and two further prequels for me to admit they were crap. The first sequel seemed to be primarily about tax reform. The second and third could have been magnificent . They were not.

My own theory is that Lucas was too close to his baby to be trusted with directing all three prequels. It’s significant that the best film of the whole series, The Empire Strikes Back, was directed by Irvin Kershner, not Lucas. Had Lucas given the basic story of Episodes I to III to another writer and director, they would, I’m sure, have produced far superior movies. Those films made perfect sense to the man who wrote them and who has lived with their development most of his life, but for the rest of us, the reaction was “Huh?”

As Simon Pegg screamed at the crying child holding the Jar-Jar Binks figurine in “Spaced”: “You don’t understand, you weren’t there!”

And that’s even before I get on to the re-issues of the original three movies in 1997 to mark series’ 20th birthday. On that subject, I will say only this: Han Solo shot Greedo first, and quite right.

Which brings me, not very neatly, to what inspired this rather lengthy post, and I should offer a hat-tip to Tom Watson for this. The People vs. George Lucas, from what I can gather, is a movie that explores some of the issues I’ve raised in this post and which have been regularly discussed by Star Wars fans for decades. It’s due for release next year and, while I accept it’s aimed at a fairly narrow audience, I have a feeling I may well be queuing at a cinema once more.

Here’s a foretaste:

I GOT my first (and only) tattoo more than a year after being elected as an MP.

THE FONT used in the masthead of this site for the words “And another thing…” is known as Cooper Black, and I chose it because, when I worked on the Paisley Daily Express, I co-authored the weekly pop column under the pseudonym of “Cooper Black.”

IT’S BEEN many years since I had to employ my shorthand skills in court or at a council meeting.

But I still use them occasionally; at meetings, especially if I’m expected to speak, shorthand is very useful in jotting down other speakers’  key sentences and phrases. I used to be able to make 100 wpm easy. But I’m rusty now. Doubt if I could make 60 or 70 these days.

Carolyn reminded me this week that I had once promised to teach her. “But I tried and you weren’t interested,” I said.

“No, I gave up because you were only teaching me rude words.”

Well, anyway, it can still be useful. I use Teeline, which is easier to learn that the more traditional Pitman system, but also easier to forget. I still find myself subconsciously tracing shortforms of new and unusual words on my knee. I’m obsessive that way.

Anyway, no prizes on offer, but I’ll be very impressed by the first reader who can translate the following: