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Edwin Chibbing is a young man with a bearded father. The sex interest in Gemel has been likened to snake asleep ; in Chibbing it appears as something near to goat. In his pasty face and fishy eye is prognostication of many years of ugly and James Agate, Be not surprised to see the British at our gates any day. Superintendent's house and barn. The barn stables one hundred and sixty head of mules and holds five hundred tons of hay.

Charles Stross, While some of these colloquial expres- sions such as 'battering' beating up , ' giein' the heid' and 'nutting' both of which mean head butting , ' chibbing ' stabbing , and 'sticking the boot in' kicking attract legal censure and have a more or Elizabeth A Stanko, He was in the exam class for drama.

That's how Ilearnt what chibbing was.

Frankie Vaughan Ate My Hamster by Rikki Brown - Book - Read Online

Brian Conaghan, Aye the Frankie Boyman, thisis ma chibbing brick, whichnaw, I didnae just find it, naw, naw,meand this brick have been inhunners a' gang battles man,' and anotherned,'And see thisbottle, see whit he's justsaid, well ditto, big Frankieman. Rikki Brown, Poor guy: he paid a heavy price for chibbing Andy Martin's jacket. How canyou talk likethat? Quintin Jardine, Will he speak truthfully of the murky events surrounding the death of his beloved hamster? My advice is simple: Read the lines; then read between the lines; finally, dig up the lines and peer under them using a strong torch.

People often ask me if I ended up working in comedy because at school I used humour as a defence against bullying. Unless, of course, you went to school with Jedward. The thing I remember most about my preschool years is that I was always heavily armed. Every birthday and Christmas I received a toy gun because all previous generations of my family had been to war.

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So the earlier I learned to handle a firearm, the better chance I had of survival when it came to handling the real thing for Queen and Country. When I was four my toy cupboard was twice that size. A toy Winchester rifle versus nuclear oblivion. The Russkies would probably have had the upper hand in that little skirmish. Naw I think it was the donner kebab I had on top of sixteen pints.

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Evidently being nuked was a real worry back then, so much so that the government produced a leaflet called Protect and Survive that was delivered to every household. It was full of handy hints on how to survive the nuclear Armageddon. Basically, take a door off its hinges, lay it against a wall, pile furniture against it and hide behind the door with a radio, a torch and a bucket for a toilet.


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I suppose the government had to do something, so Protect and Survive was the something they did. Up until the age of four I was brought up in Corkerhill in a village that had been purpose built at the back of Pollok Park by British Rail to house railway workers and their families. After World War Two there were a few families with Italian fathers because during that war Pollok Park contained an Italian POW camp to house the prisoners who were made to work on the railway. Many of them remained after the war, married local girls and swapped forced labour with British Rail for paid labour with British Rail.

Not a bad deal. Corkerhill was row after row of quaint red brick houses with indoor toilets. My mother told me they were dancing. But the main reason this stuck in my head was that they were separated by a neighbour throwing a bucket of water over them.


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Corkerhill was indeed quaint and also very charming in a ye-old-worlde-model-village kind of a way. You do hear about local government corruption, which begs the question: just how many shares in bulldozer companies did the councillors actually have? It must have been millions.

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The lack of space was made even worse by the constant stream of visitors who came to gawk in awe at whatever was on. Gawk in awe? No one bought a TV as they were so expensive, and being under a rental contract meant that when it broke down Radio Rentals sent a man to repair it. TVs broke down frequently, so much so that I ended up calling the man who came to replace the valves every other week Uncle Frank.

My favourite was The Woodentops , according to my Mother anyway. I may have been four at the time, but even at the age of four I thought Andy Pandy was a dick. Okay, perhaps dream is maybe the wrong word for it considering what was to come, because who knew in that a few years later Easterhouse would have become the bench mark for utterly incompetent social planning? The social planners must have been off Social Planning College the day they covered providing even the most basic facilities.

The home we were offered was at 45 Wardie Road. As I recall, my Dad was the third chooser and he picked top right, which was considered a premium pick. We moved in to the house in January after my last Christmas in Corkerhill. A Christmas I remember in great detail because every previous Christmas I woke up to two pillow cases full of weapons, but at Christmas I woke up to just one.

On 19 December my brother Martin had been born and my arsenal allowance had been halved, forever. Most of them were still drunk from the Orange parade six months previously.

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I did eventually get Scalextric, from my parents, but it was rubbish and nowhere near as exciting as it was portrayed in the adverts. At every bend the car flew off the track. So, there we were in as we flitted and began our new life in Easterhouse in a close that comprised of the Hairs, the McDonalds, the McPhersons, the Davidsons, the Connors and the Browns.

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The mother was a bit strange because she never opened her door and would talk to any callers through the letterbox. Every time anyone went to their door it was like trying to get into a Speakeasy. The fact that the Mormon Church in Salt Lake City deemed Easterhouse an area in need of missionaries was surely a bad omen but no one put two and two together at the time.