f4f3 | Five words from Frankie

(if you want to play, just holler)

Being Scottish

Not something I can help, guv. I wasn’t really aware of a Scottish identity as such until I left school. Before that my identity was Glaswegian working class, with most of the baggage that comes with that – socialism, gang culture, sectarianism, tablet abuse (if I couldn’t get tablet any distillation of sugar would do – macaroon, MB bars, Chelsea Whoppers – I had no shame). The whole tartan/shortbread-tin/bagpipes thing passed me by completely, and if I did see any evidence of it I’d usually dismiss it as “an Edinburgh thing” (just as an aside, there isn’t actually a great Glasgow/Edinburgh rivalry, at least not that I know of. The two cities seemed so far apart when I was growing up that it would have been like having a grudge against Krypton, or Fairyland). These days I more or less cherry-pick the things about Scotland I like – poetry, whisky, an instinctive socialism, the Western Isles – and accept the rest as just being part of the thing. I’m sometimes ambushed by my Scottishness in peculiar ways, though. This morning I read a report in the Gruaniad about negative equity, and noted without surprise that Scotland, and Glasgow in particular, are least affected by that problem. “Ah, I thought, that’ll be because Glasgow District Council used to be the biggest landlord in Western Europe”, instead of thinking it was some sort of inherent Scottish thriftiness.

Words

The most fun you can have with your clothes on. Words are the tools of human society, I’d even say of being human, and I just love the toolbox. A talent with words is what I have instead of being able to paint, or play music, or run 4 minute miles.

Imagination

A very dangerous attribute. Ok, it’s the foundation of empathy, and probably of humour, but it can too easily turn into fantasy. I’m perfectly capable of building a castle in the air, moving in, and renting out the spare rooms, and while that can be fun (and dangerous, and exciting) you’re always left with fairy gold in the morning.

Idealism

Not sure if I’m an idealist. I have a feeling that most of my most idealistic notions – that we should tell the truth to each other, that everyone should contribute to society according to their means, and be cared for according to their needs, that no one is better than you, and that you’re better than no one, are actually very pragmatic guidelines to living with other people. I often wonder what I would have done during the Spanish civil war, say, or even during WWII. I know for a fact that I wouldn’t have gone to the Falklands (the last time conscription was being considered in this country) because I was in the place and time where I would have had to make that decision.

Food and drink

Now that’s cheating – getting two words for the price of one. I can’t remember who said “Eating is a right, eating well is a privilege”, but it's a privelege I embrace whenever I get the chance. My diet was fairly healthy when I was growing up, terrible when I was at university, and pretty varied now. I’m a sucker for good ingredients treated well. So steak, venison, seafood, whisky with water, water itself, from the tap at the cottage, are amongst my favourite things. But I have a terribly sweet tooth, so gulab jamin and tablet, cocktails and “ginger” (the Glaswegian word for fizzy drinks) are still very tempting to me. I used to think I was an alcoholic, or had eating problems, since no matter how long I’d give up booze or sweets for, I’d always be back on them again eventually. I gradually realised, though, that my drinking and eating are not unmanageable, just occasionally excessive. I have a feeling that there’s a survival mechanism that kicks in when I overdo things. The mechanism might need a bit of calibrating, but it does exist, which is what separates me, I think, from an addict.