i I OK, now stand on another
thing sounds any better. Michelle Piaiiterdrapes
hersellsexliyoversoma grand pianos whilethe Fabulous BakarBoystlnkle iurlously. Pleilter's pertormance has strucka chord with US movie goers and won her an Oscar nominationiorherrole as vocalistloJetland Beau Bridges' nightclub act. See Film Preview page 15.
l lT'S spotthe dead person! In Stephen Spielberg'slirst love story Alive. Richard Dreyluss cops it and comes backlrom the otherside (Dundee) only to witness the girl he tell ioriallingtora lella. It‘s 3 Hell 01 a lite eh? See Film Preview page 15.
I looked like a cabbie’s ashtray. Little wonder; I’d been on the run for five days. Then I saw ’em, The List offices. So I snuck in da back door and slumped down at a typewriter, next thing I know some meathead’s shaking me awake. So I grabs ma shooter. But he just yells: ‘Stop messing about Parsons and get on with the Shortlist.’
Charlie ‘Flottwalller' Wilson has slipped his leash at The Times. ills place ls to be taken by the suave Simon Jenkins, which is akin to Celtic trying to replace Billy McNelll with Frank Muir. Wilson is renowned lor his hair-trigger temper, Jenkins is not. During his years in Scotland at the helm at the Sunday Standard-God bless ltl - ‘Gorbals' Wilson. so dubbed by Private Eye, was known to hurl typewriters around It unhappy with their products. On one occasion he decreed that the paper should run a story on lesbianism on the tennis clrcult. ‘nght. who's our tennls correspondent?‘ he vollayad at the sports' writers. The crew stepped back belore volunteering erudite Norman Mair. ‘Now then, Norman,’ barked “Rottweiler”, 500 words on tennis lesbos.’ Mair looked like he’d been bitten in the leg. Fortunately, a Samaritan, realising that the leisurely style oi the old pro was not really what the screaming-shocker-ol-a-story demanded, pointed outthat Mair’s young daughters were both tennis players oi some repute. Unlmpressed, Wilson growled, ‘That's all the more reason why he should bloody well write lt.‘ On his departure lrom the Sunday Standard he wrote a iond iarawall to all the stall. To Mair his message was simple: ‘Norman, lwould love to have met you.’
Despite his legendary outbursts no one had a bad word lorlhe revered Wilson, or at least, none dare say so. Though one journalist recalls being given a tour oi the office which circumnavigated holes in the wall where he had ripped a phone 011 the wall or a broken window through which he had hurled someone's typewriter. So what? Alan ‘Barking' Taylor. current editor oi The List, having learned a law tricks trom the old dog, regularly hurls word processors at unlortunate contributors, or tires shotguns at the heids 01 those daring to enter with late copy. Now that Wilson has moved on.
the consensus is that, whatever he does, it will be something he can sink his lormldable teeth into.
The disquiet in the media over warehouse raves in the South seems to have found a fresh focus. Last Saturday BBC Radio news reported. in a suitably disparaging voice. that a raid on one such party had led to seizures ofa large quantity ofdrugs and some (voice lowered to funereal hush) — disco equipment. Yes. that is the real worry of the authorities — the addiction of kids to ‘disco equipment‘. . . ‘It startedout I wis just listening to the radio an‘ that. Then some older boys suggested 1 try somethin‘ harder. so I brought a turntable and a . . . speaker. (sobs quietly). Things began to get really serious then and I found l wis stealin from ma mother just to pay for ma white ﬂared-suits. Sometimes I wouldn‘t know what it was I was listenin‘ to, Hitachi. Sony. Toshiba even Crown, it just became a blur y‘know. I swear I‘ll never touch the stuff again. it just brought me misery and a lot ofOttawan 12 inches.‘
Tlm Mason, Director at the Scottish Arts Council tor the past ten years, is moving to mow new pastures. Looking back on his time at the SAC, possibly through rose-tinted glasses, he takes greatest satlslactlon lrorn the standing he believes the arts now have in Scotland, at home and abroad. During his decade he remained llrmly lashed to the wheel through stormy times, most notably whipped up by John McDrath. then at 7:84, and through his various conlretemps with lan Hamilton Finley, the Stonypath gardener. known, when the SAC was still in Charlotte Square, as ‘Crazy-pavlng'. . Now, however, as Mason points out with glee, those who disagreed with him so vehemently can apply lor his job. What he does not say is that they have about as much chance oi getting it as a left-wing theatre company has oi receiving the dosh that goes to Turandot. So, who will take over the hotseat? Mason suggested we run a book on the outcome. Here are the starting prices.
Some Creep lrom London, Evens Some Creep from Manchester, 7/2
Pat Nevin, 4/1
A Stutted Shirt, 5/1
Desert Orchid, 15/1
‘Gorbals' Wilson, 100/1
Ron Brown, 1000/1
A Scottish person, 5000/1.
Amidst the euphoria ol'the wall-smashing that the citizens of Berlin have recently been indulging in. one depressed artist was to be seen sulking in the background. After banging his head against a brick wall — so to speak — for two years. the authorities finally relented. giving him permission and funding for his treasured project. So why the long lace'.’ The work that the sorry Kraut hoped to embark on was nothing less than a large-scale tnurai on the very wall that the philistines were destroying in front ol~ him. Unlucky. pal. 'l‘hus \\ ere his dreams consigned to the dustbin of history. ()r as Willi Brandt says. ‘leh bin ein binliner'.
The List 23 March 5 April Will) 3