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Authors: Stewart Home
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ever-increasing commodification and a trend towards extremely tacky public art.
There was something Alan wouldn’t address, perhaps couldn’t address. Once we arrived at Edzell Castle I tried to get at it by asking him about his favourite books, a top ten or twenty. Alan was offended, he wasn’t interested in giving his opinion or compiling lists since this was precisely the kind of banal response sought by market researchers and utilised in the mass media. We wandered amongst the box hedges in Edzell’s formal garden, a renaissance masterpiece, disturbing pheasants who’d rush off into neighbouring fields. There were some really beautiful emblems carved into the remains of the castle. I recorded that we took in Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Sol, Venus, Mercury and Luna. Alan’s mood improved and I knew I’d hit on something when I asked him about the writer K. L. Callan. My companion considered Callan’s commercially published works to suffer from an excessive deference to literary aesthetics, but he rated the disgraced novelist’s more eccentric and often self-published productions very highly indeed. In particular, and as I already knew, Alan was obsessed with a non-fiction work entitled 69 Things to Do with a Dead Princess. I was to hear a good deal more about this text over the following days. But for now I must try not to jump ahead of myself. At this point I still hadn’t read the copy of Callan’s book that Alan had presented to me several days before.
Looking at my notes, I find it difficult to put everything together exactly as it happened. If memory serves me we drove via Fettercairn to the Clatterin Brig Restaurant. George and Ina, who run the place, offer big meals at low prices and their vegetarian dishes have the surreal quality of pub grub. My spring rolls came with sweet and sour sauce and rested on a huge bed of rice. This substantial platter was fleshed out with a hint of salad and a massive portion of chips. 6 From the Clatterin Brig we drove to the Grassic Gibbon Centre at Arbuthnott. Our indifference bordered on disdain as we viewed pens, coins and a dressing gown that had once belonged to the long dead hack writer Lewis Grassic Gibbon.
Rather than heading directly home from Arbuthnott we took in the beach at Inverbervie. Our next stop was a Templar kirkyard at Maryculter. We weren’t banging about Deeside because Alan was interested in the royal connection. His obsession with Maryculter had developed after he’d read The Temple and the Lodge by Michael Baigent and Richard Leigh. At least this is what Alan told me. However, when it came to discussing books Alan plainly enjoyed making ambiguous statements. One might have taken what Alan had to say about Baigent and Leigh as praise, but as I became increasingly familiar with his modus operandi I realised that his pronouncements on the more outlandish theories concerning Freemasons were a not-so-subtle brand of satire.
The kirkyard was walled and situated immediately behind a country hotel. There wasn’t another human being in sight when we arrived. Alan’s hand went around my waist and he pressed me in his arms. He kissed my cheek. He kissed my lips. My imagination was inflamed as Alan’s toyings became bolder. His hands went under my blouse and my breasts were brought to light. As Alan waxed warmer I grew increasingly languid and yielding. He lifted my skirt and exposed to view my fleshy thighs and the rich tuft of hair which nestled at a voluptuous angle at their junction. He pushed me onto my back and after whipping off my knickers, pulled my legs apart. Then Alan parted the soft, moist folds of my skin with his fingers. He pressed his middle finger into my love passage and I squirmed with delight. Before long, Alan’s finger had been replaced by his cock. He plunged in and a shiver of delight passed through my frame. We both came quickly. It took only a few moments to adjust our clothing and depart.
I remember that after leaving the
There was something Alan wouldn’t address, perhaps couldn’t address. Once we arrived at Edzell Castle I tried to get at it by asking him about his favourite books, a top ten or twenty. Alan was offended, he wasn’t interested in giving his opinion or compiling lists since this was precisely the kind of banal response sought by market researchers and utilised in the mass media. We wandered amongst the box hedges in Edzell’s formal garden, a renaissance masterpiece, disturbing pheasants who’d rush off into neighbouring fields. There were some really beautiful emblems carved into the remains of the castle. I recorded that we took in Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Sol, Venus, Mercury and Luna. Alan’s mood improved and I knew I’d hit on something when I asked him about the writer K. L. Callan. My companion considered Callan’s commercially published works to suffer from an excessive deference to literary aesthetics, but he rated the disgraced novelist’s more eccentric and often self-published productions very highly indeed. In particular, and as I already knew, Alan was obsessed with a non-fiction work entitled 69 Things to Do with a Dead Princess. I was to hear a good deal more about this text over the following days. But for now I must try not to jump ahead of myself. At this point I still hadn’t read the copy of Callan’s book that Alan had presented to me several days before.
Looking at my notes, I find it difficult to put everything together exactly as it happened. If memory serves me we drove via Fettercairn to the Clatterin Brig Restaurant. George and Ina, who run the place, offer big meals at low prices and their vegetarian dishes have the surreal quality of pub grub. My spring rolls came with sweet and sour sauce and rested on a huge bed of rice. This substantial platter was fleshed out with a hint of salad and a massive portion of chips. 6 From the Clatterin Brig we drove to the Grassic Gibbon Centre at Arbuthnott. Our indifference bordered on disdain as we viewed pens, coins and a dressing gown that had once belonged to the long dead hack writer Lewis Grassic Gibbon.
Rather than heading directly home from Arbuthnott we took in the beach at Inverbervie. Our next stop was a Templar kirkyard at Maryculter. We weren’t banging about Deeside because Alan was interested in the royal connection. His obsession with Maryculter had developed after he’d read The Temple and the Lodge by Michael Baigent and Richard Leigh. At least this is what Alan told me. However, when it came to discussing books Alan plainly enjoyed making ambiguous statements. One might have taken what Alan had to say about Baigent and Leigh as praise, but as I became increasingly familiar with his modus operandi I realised that his pronouncements on the more outlandish theories concerning Freemasons were a not-so-subtle brand of satire.
The kirkyard was walled and situated immediately behind a country hotel. There wasn’t another human being in sight when we arrived. Alan’s hand went around my waist and he pressed me in his arms. He kissed my cheek. He kissed my lips. My imagination was inflamed as Alan’s toyings became bolder. His hands went under my blouse and my breasts were brought to light. As Alan waxed warmer I grew increasingly languid and yielding. He lifted my skirt and exposed to view my fleshy thighs and the rich tuft of hair which nestled at a voluptuous angle at their junction. He pushed me onto my back and after whipping off my knickers, pulled my legs apart. Then Alan parted the soft, moist folds of my skin with his fingers. He pressed his middle finger into my love passage and I squirmed with delight. Before long, Alan’s finger had been replaced by his cock. He plunged in and a shiver of delight passed through my frame. We both came quickly. It took only a few moments to adjust our clothing and depart.
I remember that after leaving the
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