I think it's a bit sad that during the World Cup Scots were wandering around with T-shirts bearing the letters ABE. ABE means Anyone But England. That's just hurtful and there's no doubt that many English people were hurt. During international football tournaments many English people throw their support behind Scotland, Wales or the Irelands if their own team is not playing or has already been knocked out. That is a far more generous attitude than that shown by wandering around in an ABE T-shirt.
Yes, the English can be insensitive when it comes to the feelings of their neighbours. As a kid I remember that the so-called “national” coverage of football matches between Scotland and England was so biased and inflammatory, thanks to the likes of dreadful English pundits such as Jimmy Hill, that it was a disgrace. And in athletics it was funny how when a Scottish runner was winning a race he was British but when he failed to cross the line first he became Scottish again. But two wrongs don't make a right.
Let's just tell the English that it's nothing personal. And that the T-shirts only against the English Football Association. It did after all cancel the world's oldest international football fixture because it claimed the Scots just weren't good enough to be worth playing.

If an American leak says it’s true, then it must be. That seemed to be the attitude of the bulk of the Canadian media last week when it was revealed that a US military bureaucrat had logged the deaths of four Canadian soldiers in 2006 Afghanistan as being the result of so called friendly fire.
Instead of being the starting point for a story about Canadian soldiers being killed in a so-called friendly fire incident, the story was that the Canadian military had lied when it said the men had died in a gun-battle with the Taliban. Basically for two days Canada’s military leaders were asked why they’d misled the public about how the soldiers died. It was only on Day Three that it seemed to occur to reporters that the bureaucrat who filled in the log, one of 75,000 documents released by WikiLeaks, might have got it wrong. Now, common sense would have suggested that the log should have been taken with a pinch of salt from the get-go. Honestly, what are the chances of four friendly fire deaths being kept secret for almost four years? A number of Canadian soldiers were involved in the battle in which the four died and we’re supposed to believe that not one of them spoke up: that no former colleague told the families of the dead how their loved ones really died. At any given time there are a number of Canadian journalists embedded with the military in Afghanistan. Are we supposed to believe that the ones there at the time were incompetent or complicit with the military's lie? The media coverage of the leaked friendly fire report certainly caused the families of the four soldiers – Shane Stachnik, Frank Mellish, William Cushley and Richard Nolan - some distress. Basically, they were being painted as naïve for taking the military’s word about how the men died.  Too many Canadian journalists are, literally, suckers when they hear the words “cover-up” and “leak”. Common sense and good journalistic procedures are cast aside and they don’t care who gets hurt. I think the fact that no soldiers have come out of the woodwork in the past week declaring that they're glad the truth has finally come out about it being a friendly-fire incident says a lot.

It never ceases to amuse me when I read the author biographies in books the kind of jobs they claimed to have had. Most people have one area of work which they pretty much stick to the whole of their lives. But a lot of authors claim to have had several occupations. Are we seriously supposed to believe that these people have led such amazingly full bohemian lives that they've been a fruit picker in New Zealand, a parachute packer in Greece, a Shetland fish factory worker, a hospital porter in Florida and a barman in Ottawa? They may have done the jobs briefly but they weren't really a fruit picker, a parachute packer, hospital porter or a barman. In most cases they dabbled in this work while at high school or university to earn some much needed cash. That's way different from actually being one of these things. That would mean waking up five or six days a week knowing that you were going to spend seven or eight hours covered in slimy fish guts or waiting hand and foot on a bunch of ignorant arrogant drunken slobs. Day after day, week after week, year after year, decade after decade. It's about an attitude of mind, not proficiency with a filleting knife. Doing it for a couple of days or weeks as a Temporary Person Passing Through doesn't mean you really understand what the job is about.

It's not often I'm tempted to throw a book I'm half-way through into the bin. But I came close to chucking William Manchester's biography of Winston Churchill “The Last Lion” last weekend. Manchester was lamenting the crippling slaughter of Britain's brightest and best during the First World War. I couldn't have agreed more about the awful waste of so many of the nation's bravest and best – and let's not forget the of the volunteers of 1914 and 1915 who survived but were scarred physically or mentally 'til their dying day.
But then, next sentence, I realised Manchester was only referring to officers. I could just about stomach his reference to the dead as the “flower of England's youth” but to ignore the flood of working chaps who volunteered to fight the frightful Hun was just too much for me. Obviously, to Manchester two of my great grandfathers were not great loss. We'll never know what their children might have achieved if they'd had a wage-earning father in the household. One of my grandfathers, whose Dad died on the Somme, had a cousin who despite his working class upbringing became a university professor. That cousin would come to my grandfather when he was stumped by a maths problem. My grandfather was sold to the British Army as soon as he was old enough to join the colours. His health was destroyed by the Army and he was unable to capitalise after his medical discharge on his skill at repairing television and radio sets. 
When I was teenager, I helped research a book celebrating 200 years of the Glasgow Herald and the job involved going through two centuries worth of the paper. What struck me was how the First World War marked a watershed. The Herald was the mouthpiece of Glasgow's merchants and socially ambitious shopkeepers. Before the war the poor of the city were regarded as people who needed a helping hand to mitigate the poverty of slum life. After the war, the poor were The Enemy; in league with the Bolsheviks of Soviet Russia.  No repression was too severe for them. The United Kingdom was no longer united. Class war had been declared. The losing side included the widows and children of the volunteer soldiers killed in such battlefields as the Somme and Gallipoli. In a kinder, saner, world, the fact the volunteers died following the officer sons of the merchants and shopkeepers would actually have helped knit society together.
I agree with Manchester that Britain never recovered from the First World War. I don't agree that only the officers were any great loss.

Sorry it's taken so long to get blogging again. I've been away.
I was in Britain around the time of the General Election. I couldn't believe that none of the BBC television commentators could be bothered to find out how to pronounce the name of the first constituency to declare a winner - Houghton. The correct pronunciation is Haw-ton. The commentators to a man, and they were all men, pronounced it How-ton. This was despite the elections returning officer saying the name correctly when he announced the winner. Houghton is a long way from London but that doesn't excuse such a lapse in professionalism. What these London luvvies appeared to be saying was that Houghton is so unimportant that they couldn't be bothered to say it properly. To me, a former print journalist, that would have been like saying " I don't care how you spell your name, I'm going to spell it anyway I like.” It's not as if the BBC commentators were caught be surprise when Houghton was the first to declare a winner and didn’t have time to find out the correct pronunciation. The elections workers there had vowed weeks before that they would be the first to declare. This might seem like a pretty minor point but it seems to be is a symptom of a drastic decline in journalistic standards. When I was training young journalists, I couldn't stress strongly enough the importance of spelling names correctly. "If you can't get the names right, readers are going to wonder what else you've got wrong," was my standard admonition. "Spell a name wrong and your story has lost all credibility and you've wasted everyone's time writing it."
Of course, the issue of mispronounced names pales into insignificance with the increasing tendency here in Canada for trial by media. Only yesterday morning I heard that some accused of a major crime had only been released from prison a day or two before the allegedly doing the deed in question. I always thought that for someone to have a fair trial it was important that the jury didn't know that the accused was a career criminal. I'm sure the half-witted reporter who revealed this gem of information thought they were pretty smart. In Scotland, once someone was charged, journalists had to wait until after the trial was completed to show off the little gems of information they'd dug up. When I worked in England, I was surprised at how much the papers could get away with saying about the accused prior to trial and someone not end up in jail for contempt of court. The lack of protection for an accused's right to be tried only on evidence given in court - which wouldn't include even a hint of a previous criminal record - in Canada turned out to be even worse. No matter how many times the judge reminds jury members that they can only consider the evidence heard in court, they can't help remembering earlier media coverage of the case. I sometimes think that the sum of Canadian reporters' knowledge of court reporting is drawn from what they see on US television. Now, in the US the media abuse freedom of speech to conduct what can only be termed "trial by media". Now, I've sat on the press bench in too many courts of law to confuse what happens in them with Justice but I can't help feeling that an accused gets a fairer trial in them than he or she would on the 6 p.m. television news.

I hadn’t realised what a revolutionary development the typewriter was until a couple of days ago. It must have changed the 19th Century communications world in much the same way as the internet has changed ours.
I recently spent a day at the National Library of Scotland going through handwritten letters from fur traders in Canada to their boss back in London. To put it mildly, some of the handwriting was pretty difficult to read and that wasn’t just because the ink was fading. A lot of time must have been wasted back in London trying to decipher some of the handwriting. And I’m guessing that the fur traders were proud men who wouldn’t allow someone with a better hand to write their letters for them.
I’ve got an old typewriter, circa 1924, which I bought for next to nothing when it was declared surplus to requirements at the Inverness Courier in the mid-1980s. A new typewriter had been purchased and its new owner passed their old one to the next person in the typing pecking order, who in turn passed their old machine down the chain until eventually the typewriter in the basement, used to type address labels for the newspapers sent out by post, was declared surplus.
If I was a conman I would claim that the typewriter I have was the very one the original Loch Ness monster story was typed on in 1933. But I happen to know that the report was sent in by the paper’s Loch Ness-side correspondent and would not have been typed up at the office prior to going to the typesetters. By the way, the correspondent called it The Beast. It was the paper’s editor Evan Barron who changed it to “Monster”. The rest is history, or if you prefer, mystery. But, sadly, it doesn’t involve my old typewriter.
 

I may be a little late with this one. I've just learned that the last remaining adult villager who witnessed the Scots Guards' 1948 massacre at Batang Kali in Malaya has died. Tham Yong's fiancé was among the 24 ethnic Chinese rubber plantation workers executed by a patrol from the Scots Guards who believed the men to be supporters of a local Communist guerrilla band, if not active members of it.
Last year the British Government refused to hold a proper inquiry into the massacre. I guess without the old lady, there's little hope that there will ever be a meaningful inquiry now. Several members of the patrol are still alive and their admissions that, contrary to official statements in 1948, the workers had not been shot "while trying to escape" led to an investigation by British civilian police detectives in the early 1970s. The inquiry was shut down when the ruling party in the UK changed. A lot of people would say these old soldiers should be left in peace. I certainly don't want to see any of them in a police cell. What I hate is a successful cover-up. Tham Yong was on record as saying the women and children were removed from the plantation compound in army trucks before the shooting started. That suggests more than a "rogue patrol" was involved. Batang Kali has been compared to My Lai in Vietnam. Is the comparison fair? I don't know, because the full facts about Batang Kali have never come out. I do know that Batang Kali remains a blot of Britain's reputation in much of the Third World. To ignore a cover-up is to be complicit in it.

A couple of years ago I saw an American “fly-on-the-wall” documentary series about life on a US aircraft carrier. This was after a US plane attacked a Canadian live-fire training exercise in Afghanistan and killed four of the men taking part. If the incident had happened a week earlier, there would have been five dead and I would have been the fifth man. I was horrified to learn that the pilot involved Maj. “Psycho” Schmidt had placed his 500 lb bomb exactly where I would have been standing if I’d been doing a newspaper story on the exercise – next to the anti-tank rocket launcher and the machine-gunners. I’d stood in that very spot while covering a daylight live-fire exercise and would have taken the same vantage point if I’d attended the night-time version. Luckily for me, the exercise was conducted a few days after I flew back to Canada.
But back to the documentary. The planes from the aircraft carrier were flying in support of US troops fighting in Iraq. The pilots’ frustration at never being called in to bomb or strafe anyone during their entire deployment was obvious. They wanted to do what millions of dollars had been spent training them to do. I wonder if “Psycho” suffered from the same frustration. I suspect he did. He and his supposed patrol commander were flying a similar mission to the pilots from the aircraft carrier – only over Afghanistan. I say “supposed commander” because the other pilot proved to have little control over “Psycho”. The pair spotted gunfire on the ground near the Kandahar airfield and the flash of what might have been an anti-aircraft missile being launched. The area near the base was often used for live-fire training exercises. The flash Psycho and his supposed commander saw was from the anti-tank rocket launcher being fired during the exercise. The men on ground didn’t even know Psycho and his buddy were high above them in the Afghan night sky until the bomb that ruined so many lives came whistling down. The two Air National Guard pilots were well above the range of machine gun fire or a shoulder-launched anti-aircraft missile. But for some reason they flew down towards what they thought was hostile fire. They radioed US control for information on who might be shooting – there was always a concern that the Bad Guys would infiltrate a night-fire exercise. Control had no immediate information about any exercise that night at the Tarnac Farm training area and advised the pilots to wait while a further check was done. But Psycho couldn’t wait. He killed four Canadian soldiers and maimed a couple more. Sadly, he was a very good pilot and an excellent aim. After the bomb was unleashed, one of the two pilots, I can’t remember which, said something along the lines of “I hope that was the right thing to do”.
Nope.
Psycho was no ordinary National Guard reservist. He was former regular and an instructor at the US Navy’s Top Gun training school. Both he and his buddy got what many regard as slaps on the wrist. Questions were raised about why US air control didn’t immediately identify the ground fire as coming from a Canadian exercise and the drugs issued to pilots to keep them alert during long standby patrols over Iraq and Afghanistan. Embarrassing questions which some people perhaps didn’t want answered or raised at a court-martial. Some plea bargaining was done. Psycho, probably on the advice of his lawyers, wouldn’t speak to the Canadian media. But his mother would. When, as a reporter on the Edmonton Sun, I asked her if her son had the slightest sliver, scintilla, of doubt about whether he should have dropped that bomb, she hung up on me. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But apples seldom blow people to Kingdom Come.

 I’ve been mulling over the thought that maybe it takes a brave man to admit he’s scared. I think anyone in their right mind gets afraid once in a while. Someone remarked long ago that “So-and-so doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘fear’, poor chap can’t even spell it.” That may be a way of saying that there’s something wrong with someone who has never known fear.
So, if everyone gets scared, I guess it’s what they do about it that makes the difference. I think maybe it’s a cliche that men don’t fight for Queen and Country, or even for their regiment, but for the men in their section. That may be true sometimes, just as acts of courage are often done in the heat of the moment, sometimes in anger and rage, with little thought for the consequences. If you don’t think you’re going to die, are you really brave? But I think in many more cases it’s fear of being thought a coward by the rest of the section that makes someone stick things out and not take to their heels. No-one wants to be the first to break in a group in which a lot of time and effort has been invested in trying to earn the respect of the others. Often continuing to risk death seems a better option than running, or, as I’ve seen a couple times, rolling up into a ball and whimpering.
There’s a guy I know that I’ve got a lot of time for. He was in the Special Forces and saw a lot of action. Then he lost his bottle. He couldn’t go on and he transferred to the Military Police. Not the safest job in the Army but safer than what he’d been doing. Only the blow-hards, the guys who talk tough but never seem to be there when the excrement hits the rotating blade, failed to respect his decision. There were times in which I wish I had his courage, the courage to say “Enough, no more”.

When I was a kid in Scotland we had a playground game at school called “Best Man Falls”. We basically practised dying for The Queen: for all I know, some of my little classmates grew up to do just that. The game consisted of choosing how you wanted to die- machine-gun, hand-grenade, throwing-knife, bazooka, etc - and then running at an opponent who dealt out the requested death. The person who best simulated being blown up or torn to pieces was the winner.

The Scots are immensely proud of their military history. The Scottish Soldier is a national icon. Soldiering is something we Scots believe we do better than most. But many, myself included until I decided to write this book, base this belief on a less than complete survey of history. If you take the Queen’s Shilling, you do the Queen’s business; as determined by the politicos.  Sometimes that business is distasteful, sometimes it’s more dangerous than it has to be, and sometimes your life is placed in the hands of people who, if brains were gunpowder, wouldn’t have enough to blow their own nose.

I came across something out there on the Internet which seemed to suggest that some people feel that Scottish Military Disasters is an anti-war book. Those who know me, know that I’m no pacifist. What the book is, or at least is supposed to be, is a wry but honest look at the Scottish military experience over the centuries. The book is first-and-foremost intended to be informative and a good read. But no book worth reading is completely lacking in some sort of message. I’d be pleased if it made people think hard about what they are asking when they send our young men and women out on the Queen’s business. Those who “died” in our Lanarkshire playground games of Best Man Falls got up again. The same can’t be said of the battlegrounds of Afghanistan or Iraq.

A couple of years back, when I was in Afghanistan to cover the first Presidential elections, I kept my eyes open for one of the famous Khyber Rifles. Legend has it that in the late 1800s the British Army scrapped its Martini Henry rifles, the ones the Brits use in the movie Zulu. . The rifles’ barrels were cut off before they were sold to a scrap metal dealer in India. The dealer sold the rifles to the Afghans and after bazaar craftsmen put new barrels on, the rifles they were good as new and were turned on their former owners. The story is that you can still buy these Martini Henrys in Kabul. I know a guy who thinks he's got one and I saw one for sale on Chicken Street there. But I think the rifles are made by the great-great-great-great grandsons of the craftsmen who rebuilt the original army surplus consignment. A close look at them reveals many of them are dated 1919 but have Queen Victoria’s royal cipher on them. The letters making up the makers’ name “Enfield” are often the wrong way around or upside down.

Actually, my visit to Chicken Street in the company of another journalist was quite funny because at the time of the first Presidential election nearly all the Europeans working for aid agencies in Kabul were out of the country or laying low. As we came around the corner, there was a well respected British television journalist, John Simpson, doing a stand-up to camera saying that Chicken Street was deserted. He didn't look happy when he realized we were standing behind him.

If you’re reading this, I’d like to thank you. Thanks for taking the time to look around the site and thanks for your interest.

I’d be interested in knowing what you think of the site and I’d welcome any suggestions you have for improving it. I’d also be interested in hearing from you if you’ve read the military disasters book and finding out what you thought of it.

For brief period the site included a live-chat feature which was supposed to allow a real-time dialogue between visitors. But it was abused by people trying to advertise what I took to be porn sites. I didn’t follow any of the links to find out where they led because I’m suspicious of porn sites. I keep thinking religious extremists will set up a porn site that destroys the computers of anyone who visits it.

A couple of months back I suggested turning this blog into a discussion forum. I’d hoped we could start a “what if” feature. The first “what if” was “what if the Jacobites hadn’t turned back at Derby in 1745”. That one attracted a single reply, which I posted in the hope of stimulating further discussion. It didn’t happen. Maybe visitors felt they were being asked to sing for their supper. I just thought it might be worth trying to provide a discussion forum for people who share an interest in history.

So, if anyone is interested in getting a forum going, please use the “Contact” section of this site to send in a “what if” and perhaps even set the ball rolling with their own view on the topic suggested. I’ll post the material and with luck that will avoid the abuse that led to the ‘live-chat” section having to be closed down.

I’ve never been sure about blogs anyway. I’d be really surprised if anyone was interested in the minutia of my daily slog to make enough money to pay the rent and put food on the table. I find myself toning down the content of my blog entries because I have to make a living and I can’t afford to piss more people off than I already have done. I’m fairly sure the US military blacklisted me because of the fuss I made about their aircrews killing British and Canadian troops in circumstances very far from being shrouded in the fog of war. The battlefield is a dangerous place and accidents will happen – but there are accidents and there are trigger-happy jet-jockeys who don’t care who they kill, as long as they get to kill someone. Mindful of an incident from the First Gulf War, I joked with some Canadian soldiers in Kanadahar about taking cover if they heard a jet overhead, as it could only belong to the US air force. A week later a US jet did fly over and four Canadian soldiers were blown to pieces by the bomb the pilot dropped. I might write more about that – and the pilot’s mother – in my next blog posting.

Once again, your feedback and suggestions would be really really welcome.

I wonder if anyone else feels that Britain’s Special Air Service may have been a victim of its own success. In the old days, it was made up of enthusiasts, both the officers and men. Officers who did a tour of duty with the unit were often jeopardizing their career prospects by taking a two year break from service with their parent regiments. But these days it seems like service with the SAS is almost compulsory if an officer wants to reach the front rank of Britain’s generals. Maybe too many careerists with little understanding of the work are there to get the T-shirt before moving on to bigger and better things.

Perhaps, in the old days, the men were more likely to stand up to the officers, within the confines of good military discipline. And perhaps the older breed of officer was more inclined to listen to good advice from men with far more experience under their belts than they had. I’m told that the regiment is becoming known as the bitchiest in the British Army. The financial rewards associated with toe-ing the line and receiving promotion are far greater than they have ever been. A job application from Troop Sergeant Major for a lucrative contract with the XYG private security corporation is more likely to be successful than one from a humble trooper. Hardly an atmosphere conducive to forging a band of brothers. And for those who opt to remain in Her Majesty’s service, promotion from the ranks with an officer’s pension on retirement is not to be sneezed at. Crossing the Ruperts and Rodericks of the present-day officer corps carries a potentially heavy financial penalty.

Or maybe I’m just a poorly informed old romantic. As we used to say, "There's no fool like an old fool".

How many times are the US Cavalry riding to the rescue in some movie black? Not often enough if you ask me. I knew there were black cavalry regiments, the Buffalo Soldiers, but I hadn’t realised until recently that they made up 20% of cavalrymen. And yet the US cavalrymen in the movies are always white – and when they speak they usually have American accents (unless it’s Englishman Victor McLagen playing a crusty Irish sergeant).

And yet the real US Cavalry in the late 1800s was more like the French Foreign Legion than anything else. Its ranks were filled with immigrants, many of them Irish or German, lots of Germans. It would be interesting to find out which had more Germans, the Legion or the Cavalry. I guess it used to be a necessary part of nation-building myth that the West should had been won by white good old American boys rather than a ragtag bunch of mercenaries and the sons of slaves. But the United States has been around for a while now and maybe it’s time Hollywood grew up.

The recent deaths of two journalists killed by roadside bombs while travelling with Coalition troops in Afghanistan should surely make media bosses wonder about the value of embedding their employees with the military.

Media outlets love embedding because appears to be a cheap way to cover a war. The host military picks up the cost of bed and board, and even transportation around the war zone. But quite possibly, the most dangerous thing a journalist in Afghanistan can do these days is travel in a military vehicle. The bad guys hadn’t perfected what we have all come to know as Improvised Explosive Devices when I was in Afghanistan and traveling on roads regularly used by military convoys was nowhere near as dangerous as it is now. Though I have to say, I was always a little concerned about the line-up of heavy trucks along the side of the only road into the Canadian base in Kabul near the derelict King’s Palace. I was never sure how the military could be so certain that one of lorries hadn’t been switched for one packed with explosives.

But though a comparatively cheap way to cover events in Afghanistan, embedding is not necessarily a good way to get a feel for what’s really going on there. Only a very naive reporter would believe Afghan villagers will be honest with them if he or she turns up with a bunch of heavily armed Coalition soldiers. One approach is to embed but go off on unescorted side-trips. That’s what several of us did during the first Presidential Elections in Afghanistan a couple of years back. But hiring a vehicle, a translator, and perhaps a couple of body guards gets can be a little too expensive for some media outlets. And without good information about where is safe to go and where it might not safe to go on a given day, it’s not always a great idea. I got away with it. But you could run across the Trans-Canada Highway blindfold several times and not get killed – that doesn’t make it a good idea. I hate the macho posturing of some reporters who sneer at colleagues who never “go outside the wire” during their stay at the Kandahar base. I remember being quizzed about how many times I’d been off base during my trips to Afghanistan. The answer was “every chance I got” but I kept my mouth shut because I wasn’t in the mood for a dick-swinging competition.

Embedding worked for me because I worked for a paper in a city which had a large army base. I was there to cover what the local lads and lassies were up to. I only went to Afghanistan when troops from the Edmonton Garrison were there. But anyone who thinks being embedded means you're covering what’s happening in Afghanistan is sadly mistaken.

I just hope that media bosses on both sides of the Atlantic think hard about sending reporters to Afghanistan. Embedding is not a series of risk-free dog and pony shows laid on by the military. And what can reporters with little experience of war zones really expect to write that hasn’t been written before in the years since Coalition troops first went into Afghanistan. The arrangements for cutting hair on the base? The Bunker Barber of Kandahar: done already.

When I was trying to find a publisher for Scottish Military Disasters, one publisher suggested I balance each disaster with a triumph. “A litany of disasters is too much of a downer,” I was told. I didn’t agree. War, either victory or defeat, brings out the best and worst in people. And sometimes, the balance which decides between victory and defeat can tip either way.

Years ago, when I was teenager, a remote Highland glen lost its water supply. Four or five of us volunteered to go up into the mountains to clear the pipe blockage that was cutting off the water supply. The weather was terrible. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. Despite working our guts out, the pipe remained blocked. And we returned from the rain-lashed mountain to a community still without water. Failure. Next day we went back. The weather was gorgeous. The job was easy, everything went our way. The blockage was easily cleared. We returned from the mountain as heroes. Triumph. But I’m far prouder of the guys for the work they did the day before. It was on that day that the real effort was made, when folk really pushed themselves and gave their all. Success was easy; it was failure that brought out the best in all of us.

We have the first entry in what we hope will become a lively and active discussion forum. Thanks to Pete from Bishop Auckland for this: -

Sadly, I’m not sure what would have happened if the Jacobites had reached London. The English had two armies roaming the countryside looking for them and one of them, or both, may have turned back and defeated the Jacobites. The wheels really came off the whole rising when the English Jacobites failed to turn-out. But even if the Stuarts had been restored to the throne, I’m not sure how much Scotland would have benefited. The Stuarts were shits and I don’t think Charles Edward Stuart, or his father, would have done much to repay the Scots for putting the family back on the throne. Appeasing the English would have been their priority – much as it was for German Geordie and the Hanovers. I’m thinking the course of British history would have been altered very little if the Stuarts had been restored to the throne. James VI didn’t really do much for Scotland when he became James I of England.

Anyone else out there have any thoughts?

So, Edmonton was the coldest place in the world on Sunday night at something like -46oC. Only some weather station at Siberia recorded anything colder, I think they got -48oC. Finally, folks had something else to talk about other than a city bus driver being dragged out of his seat and beaten nearly to death for apparently refusing to let some guy ride for free.

A couple of years back a passenger was beaten to death for asking some kids to turn down their music on the bus. In both cases I was left wondering what the other passengers were doing. Going by the time some kid pulled a knife on me on the bus, I’m guessing the other passengers did nothing.

So, I’ve been telling folks about the New Year’s Day I came to the rescue of some guy who was the victim of a vicious and unprovoked assault. I thought we’d outnumber the bad guy two-to-one but the assault victim just sank to his knees and started whimpering while the bad guy knocked one of my fillings out. Then there the time I lifted a bad guy off another fellah who was also the victim of an unprovoked attack. The guy I rescued ran off leaving me to face not only the bad guy but the bad guy’s friend. I went to the office party with a lovely cut over my left eye.

My point in telling these stories to people, apart from them being funny stories, was to paint myself into a corner when it comes to doing the right thing if I ever see a bus driver or one of the passengers being beaten to death in Edmonton. It’s not always easy to do the right thing.

So far, only one person has taken up my suggestion that we turn this into some kind of discussion forum. So, I’m thinking almost any contribution will be posted. Feel free.

Hi,

The folks at Davsus, who’ve done such a great job setting up this website, advise me that I should have a blog.

We’ve added a link to the law firm in London which represents some of the families involved in the call for the British Government to launch a proper inquiry into the 1948 Massacre at Batang Kali in Malaya. It’s an interesting site.

The press release about How the Scots Created Canada being made into a talking book attracted the interest of a magazine here in Canada and in case of small-worldism, it turned out that the editor’s father was a major player in the “friendly fire” attack on the Argylls in Korea which features in Scottish Military Disasters.

We had a surge in visits a couple of weeks back. We never did figure out what led to it but around the same time, Edinburgh Public Library recommended Scottish Military Disasters as good reading for Remembrance Day

I would have liked a discussion section for this website but previous attempts have been frustrated by people abusing it by flooding us with links to who-knows-what. So, my thinking is that this can be a combined blog and discussion forum. I’ll kick things off by posing a question put to me which certainly got me thinking. What would likely have happened if the Jacobite Army hadn’t turned back at Derby? Any ideas? Send your thoughts to me via the contact section of this site and I can post them here in the blog. Suggestions for other discussion topics are also welcome.

Paul