Keeping 'em Quiet

It was an absolute delight to have the pleasure of two of my grandchildren's company - Hannah and Ava - who stayed with me overnight on Friday. Eventually, though, we had to find a way of shutting Ava up...

Tango, My Love, Not Everybody Loves It

Super Saturdays? Get Me Out of Here

                  Hughie Green - presented Opportunity Knocks when Moses was a lad

Perhaps it’s something to do with my age. And the fact I’m a grandfather of four. Or a Hearts supporter. But lately my tolerance levels seem to be akin to a Fifa delegate’s expense form claim – disappearing fast…

Regular readers of my rants – and I thank you both – will know I’m a reasonable sort of chap, not one who complains. As my wife will only too willingly tell you (isn’t that right, dear?)

However, I have become rather more irritable than usual of late and it is partly down to the aforementioned Mrs Smith – or more specifically, her television viewing.

Marion is a fan of ITV. It’s the channel she immediately goes to when she turns on the television. Or, to be more precise, STV. I’m old enough to remember STV when it was called Scottish Television. When I lived in Aberdeen in the 1970s and 80s the commercial television station was Grampian Television and you could watch the continuity announcer nattily dressed in his evening suit telling you what was coming on next. It was calm, collected and dignified.

It’s all so much different now…

Part of my cunning Saturday night plan is to devolve ways of avoiding the sometimes inane drivel on STV (or as the announcer with an exceedingly annoying voice talking at a hundred miles an hour says ‘STVEEEEEEE’) With Hearts enjoying such a successful season this has, on occasion, meant enjoying a half pint lager shandy at a hostelry in Gorgie although this pastime can be fraught with danger (and what time do you call this to be getting home? It’s 9.00, dearest – what time do you make it?)

However, in recent weeks, I have been subjected to STV’s self-proclaimed ‘Super Saturdays’. This includes the delights of Ninja Warrior UK, Britain’s Got Talent and Play to the Whistle. From around 7:00pm every Saturday evening millions of people will take leave of their senses, jettison their critical faculties and tune into three hours of what is mind-numbing awfulness on a scale not seen since Noel Edmond's House Party was forced on the nation by the BBC more than two decades ago.

This week, my feelings are akin to that of a condemned man as Britain’s Got Talent is on STV for an hour and a half every night as the final beckons this Sunday. There seems no escape. The acts and the sometimes patronising comments of some of the judges, I can take. But the behaviour of the audience is something I find hugely irritating and makes me want to throw things at the telly. In each of the ‘Super Saturday’ programmes but particularly on Britain’s Got Talent, is a relatively recent phenomenon and one that, like so many others, has derived from our American cousins – namely, noisy, screeching and wildly excitable audiences.

‘Who are you and where are you from’ asks the perennially smug Simon Cowell, ‘I’m Jimmy from Birmingham’ replies a hapless contestant which invokes a huge ‘Whooo-hoooo!’ from an audience who, I strongly suspect, have been given some kind of legally high substance in order they can react the way they do. That Jimmy gets a standing ovation merely for saying his name and where he comes from perhaps is a strong indication that Britain hasn’t got much talent in the first place…

Mercifully, I have only caught fleeting glimpses of Britain’s Got Talent but it seems to me to be a repetitive format that plays on the aspirations of susceptible no-hopers with limited talent and even less personality, acting out their fantasies on stage with as much visual appeal as a sixteen-year-old greasy haired youth with severe acne. Like witnessing a car crash, many people appear drawn to this 'show' watching egotistic no-hopers 'living the dream' to use a modern day cliché.

Talent shows on television are nothing new. In decades gone by there was Opportunity Knocks and New Faces. They could also be cringe-inducing but what marks Britain’s Got Talent and its close relative The X Factor is this appears to be something of a freak show, a cynical marketing exercise masquerading as prime time television in order to manufacture publicity and generate income through gullible people phoning premium phone lines in order to make Simon Cowell and his half-naked torso bucketfuls of money.

The other programmes on STV on Saturday evening are little better. Ninja Warrior UK – the UK bit is apparently important – seems to me to be people leaping about for no apparent reason while hosts Ben Shephard and former footballer Chris ‘Kammy’ Kamara make inane comments. Meantime, another screaming audience hollers its ‘encouragement’.

It’s difficult to ascertain the point of Play to the Whistle. It’s a quiz show, of sorts, but seems to be nothing more than a vehicle for ITV’s current flavour of the month, comedian Bradley Walsh and footballer Frank Lampard to act foolishly for about half an hour. As well as screaming hoots of encouragement, the audience applauds anything that is said by Messrs Walsh and Lampard. The presence of Seann Walsh – apparently another comedian although I use the term loosely – and another footballer Jimmy Bullard rather lends itself to the question of the programme itself. Namely – what is the point?

What little I watched of the shows this week seemed all so predictable and artificial - even the emotions are contrived. Yet throughout this week – and we’re only at Wednesday - there were ceaseless comments about BGT from far too many people - some of whom should really know better - on social websites such as Facebook and Twitter. 

That said, I'm not sure what saddens me more. That fact I watched Britain’s Got Talent for all of five minutes before burying my head under a cushion - or the fact millions of people will be watching what passes for entertainment every night for the rest of the week.

Now I accept everyone has different tastes and I’m sure there will be many people who enjoy these programmes. They’re not my cup of tea but each to one’s own. But, for me, screeching, whooping audiences, immature former footballers and the limited ability of talent show contestants are not so much Super Saturday – more like Woeful Weekends…

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The Grand Kiddies

                     Jack the Lad fast turning into a young man.

                      Ava  - unusually for her - being camera shy

         It's hard to believe that Hannah is still 7 years old...

And the youngest grandchild, Max, a happy wee boy. Until his father begins taking him to Easter Road...

Gretna's Rail Disaster

Photo: Electric Edwardians

One hundred years ago the worst accident in British railway history occurred at Quintinshill, near Gretna Green in the Scottish borders. At 3.45am on 22 May 1915, a troop train carrying 498 officers and men of the 7^th Battalion the Royal Scots – many of whom were from Leith - left Larbert in Stirlingshire en route to Liverpool. They were due to head for the Gallipoli Peninsula in Turkey where casualties in the Great War had been tragically high.

About 6.49am, this train, travelling at high speed, collided with a local passenger train which had been shunted on to the main line at Quintinshill. Seconds later, an express train travelling from Glasgow to London ploughed into the wreckage.

The troop train, with its antiquated gas lighting system and wooden carriages, quickly became a blazing inferno. With the huge demands on the railway network as a result of the Great War, old rolling stock had to be pressed into service, hence the age of the train. The raging fire engulfed all three trains and another two goods trains nearby.

216 men of the 7^th Battalion the Royal Scots perished in the disaster along with 11 others including the driver and the fireman of the troop train. A further 246 people were injured. At a roll call taken later that day, only 65 men were present. Initially, these men were sent onwards to Liverpool but, following a medical examination, were sent back home for two weeks leave.

Of those who died, some bodies were unrecognisable and the bodies of 50 men were never recovered. Four of the bodies at the crash site were children. The remains of those men who could be identified were returned to the Battalion’s drill hall in Dalmeny Street in Leith and burials took place in Rosebank Cemetery, Pilrig Street on 24 May 1915. The funeral cortege was lined with thousands of people from Dalmeny Street to the cemetery. Coffins were laid three deep, each row covered by a Union Flag, in a ceremony which took three hours and ended with the Last Post. A memorial stands in the cemetery today with the names of those who died.

The cause of the disaster was a result of poor working practices on the part of the two signalmen at Quintinshill. George Meakin, who had shunted a local passenger train on to the main line for operational reasons, should have been off-duty, but due to an informal arrangement between himself and the relieving man, James Tinsley, continued to work until his arrival. Meakin also omitted to place a locking collar on the levers of the southbound signal. Tinsley, preoccupied writing his log from the notes left by his colleague, overlooked the passenger train standing in full sight of the box and accepted the troop train from the north, clearing the signals for the approaching train.

The troop train ploughed into the stationary passenger train, creating a scene of devastation and carnage. Within about a minute, a northbound express ran into the wreckage causing further destruction and killing and injuring many who had survived the first impact. To add to the horror, hot coals from the locomotives then set fire to escaping gas from the troop trains lighting equipment and the debris of the timber carriages quickly became an inferno.

After legal proceedings in both Scotland and England, both signalmen were put on trial afterwards, as well as the fireman of the local passenger train who, it was alleged, failed to protect his train.

The trial ended after just a day and a half.  Meakin was sentenced to imprisonment for 18 months for culpable homicide while Tinsley was sentenced to three years hard labour. The fireman of the local passenger train was acquitted.

A tragic day for the families of the husbands, fathers, brothers and friends who were lost in what is the saddest entry to the history of Leith in modern times. It has been said by some historians that no family in Leith was unaffected by the tragedy. It was also Edinburgh’s tragedy with casualties from Portobello and Musselburgh.

Leith, Edinburgh and the nation will never forget them.

Historic Handshake