High on the rocky crags of the Glen of Insanity is an ice-hollowed little corrie with a dark little lochan in the bottom, shining like a black opal. On that lochan there is a tiny island with barely enough room for the three ancient, wind-blasted trees that grow there, reaching their tortured, arthritic limbs to the black sky, which happens to be only 7 inches from their highest twigs.

[See Scotland, for all its majesty and towering crags has a design flaw. Great mountains rear heavenward like some glorious natural cathedral but somebody, somebody went over budget with the rich purple heather swags and noble red deer and, come time to crown their majestic creation (meant to suggest to man something of the great vaults of heaven, after flippen all!), all they could afford for the roof was a low slate-grey ceiling of cloud. A ceiling so low it has brylcream marks on - this is the sky in Scotland.

The land is a tease. The book says to expect lofty peaks and wheeling eagles and the visitor's eye is swept upwards in an exultation of granite and awe. Then... just when the eye is primed, expecting a soaring celestial firmament of cerulean and Michaelangelo cumulonimbi... well then the eye smooshes up against the soggy grey anticlimax of a manky raincloud ceiling; the magnificent vista is ruined, foreshortened by foreshorten-sighted philistines and shifty bandit builders. The eye is well pissed off and wishes it had gone to Switzerland like its naggy partner on the other side of the nose had wanted in the first place. The vision was Chartres Cathedral, the execution resembled a bungalow sitting-room with pretentious murals.

You see, way back at the dawn of time, due to an administrative error, Scotland's wild places were contracted out to a heavenly cowboy outfit. (I'm afraid there are bad tradesmen even in heaven. Be sure to have them put some washers and a Black&Decker in the coffin with you when you go - if you're expecting to go to heaven. For hell, take light summer clothes in some sort of easy-to-pack non-creasing asbestos material.) Haloes rolled, I'll tell you, when God got wind of it. All heaven broke loose. Wings were clipped and for two weeks there was Reddy Brek instead of Ambrosia at every meal in the Angelic Guild of Roofers and Plasterers. It was a dark blip in the eternal bliss of paradise.]

But, the reason I’ve dragged you up to this particular corrie in such dreadful weather is because I want you to look very closely at the three twisted trees on the island in the lochan. Watch them as they start to twitch in a way quite independant of the wind. Observe how the claw-like topmost branches suddenly look more like flesh than wood, and 3 pairs of knobby hands begin to twist and writhe and tear at the air. Note how filthy are the long yellow fingernails, and how papery is the peelie-wallie skin. If you peer very squintily, a package of reduced-calorie digestive biscuits can be seen clutched in one of the plumper hands.

Then watch with me as the three trees transform themselves, slowly, slowly, all the way down to the mossy ground into three black-robed witches, with pointy hats and hairy warts and everything. Overhead an eagle pierces the night with an unearthly scream.

*

“It’s perishing, Effie, why do we always have to do this at night? I’m missing Eastenders and John-Murdo thinks I’m having an affair, the amount of times we’ve been having meetings lately.”

“We’re witches, you silly old moo, it’s traditional. Witches meet at night in barren spots, that’s what we do” said the tallest, witchiest looking one. “Shut up and pass me the tea flask. And don’t jiggle. I swear this island gets smaller every time.”

“Who’s ‘ot i hours ogh i last neeting?” said the smallest, plumpest witch, trying to open the biscuit packet with her teeth. (Witches’ covens don’t have minutes for their meetings because minutes don’t sound as eldritch as hours.) “Ah got it!” For a moment there was some enthusiastic munching. “Are we using proper names tonight?”

“We’d better.” said Effie, clearing her throat. ” A-hhhhughhh, a-hhhhukh, hhhukh. I call this coven to order. Present are Euphemia Pearworm MacAuley, The Bony And The Fierce; Mabel-Critterhorn MacLeod, The Bony And The Vaingloriou; and Chrissy-Peigi Screwtoe Mackenzie, The Dumpy And The Determined – Dark Sistren Three of the Inner, Outer, Upper and Downer Hebrides. When did we three meet last?”

“You know fine well it was last night,” said Mabel, impatiently tapping a hobnailed boot. “Look, do we have to go through all this? The Glen of Insanity gives me the creeps. Why couldn’t we use the Scout Hall again? At least they’ve got a kettle.”

“Chrissy-Peigi lost the key,” growled Effie.

“We’re witches, we don’t need an effing key!” screeched Mabel, doing a ghetto sistah side-to-side head thing and waving a taloned finger “Oh no, uhn-uhn!”

“Oh lets just get on with it, the rain’s blowing right in my ears,” said Chrissy-Peigi. “Yesterday two more sane people walked right through the glen and came out completely unmad, except for a new-found appreciation for the work of James Blunt. What are we going to do to fix that, eh? By the way, did anyone bring a wee nip o’something to keep the weather out? Oh, lovely Mabel. Nobody makes gooseberry schnapps like you do, dear. Cheers!”

To Be Continued…

First find yourself a lady whose favour you are interested in winning. Start a conversation with her, preferably a witty, pithy, banter-filled repartee indicating a meeting of minds that foreshadows a possible meeting of the bodies in both your frontal lobes. But “Hi, I’m Dennis and I’m a Scorpio” will probably do if that’s all you’ve got. You’ll find this budget-friendly variation is adaptable to the quirks of your individual wooing style.

Once you have her attention, you’ll want to keep it. (This holds for all the Variation packages from 1 through 357. Variations 358 to 390 don’t require the lady to pay any attention to you at all but since they require the administration of powerful drugs these approaches to love aren’t legal in the contiguous USA.) Tell her a joke to lighten the mood. Women love men with a great sense of humour. Steer away from badger jokes if you can. If it’s an emergency and all you can think of are badger jokes, try replacing the badger with a stoat at the last minute. The comic effect will be lessened, naturally, but this is better than falling at such an early fence. Also try not to break wind in your nervousness, but if you must, be bold. Remember, “Faint fart ne’er yet won fair lady.”

Next, ask the lady out for a meal. Studies show that women love to eat and many do so every day. There’s no reason you cannot capitalize on this knowledge. To make her feel special, pay attention to the small things: open doors for her, bring her a rose, remember to zip up your fly. At this point you might want to consider purchasing our considerable list of “Dining Do’s and Don’ts“, available this month at the special rate of $99, OR double your order and add “Moving Into The Bedroom For Dunderheads” at 30%!! off, for a total savings of $50!!!

At table, you’ll want to showcase your ease with people and familiarity in pairing complex dishes and wines. Ask to smell the cork. Even if she scoffs and says what a load of old tosh all that carry-on is, this will give your target a chance to watch your nostrils flare manfully, taking in great gusts of air, thus allowing her to approximate your lung capacity and determine whether you are a healthy specimen with whom she wants to breed. She herself will be unaware she is doing this, say Studies.

At some point during the meal, be sure to reach out and lightly touch her hand, while laughing and throwing your head back in delight at her impossible cuteness. Make sure your laugh is booming and manly. Girls don’t like squeaky laughers. Tell her how you love the way the light plays on her collar bone and that when she smiles her nose crinkles so adorably it makes you want to weep. Weep if necessary.

As the wine flows inhibitions will naturally lessen. This is the time to show her your physical prowess (all these hours at step class will really pay off now!!). Look around the restaurant for another male of approximately your weight and height. Tell him he is an arsehole and his wife looks like his mother. If in fact this is a family gathering and she is indeed the man’s mother, insinuate that you have previously enjoyed coitus with her and his sister. Imply it was rubbish.

At this point the other male will leap to his feet and attempt to punch you on the nose. Rip off your jacket and shirt (you will have oiled up earlier in the bathroom) and randomly fling a chair aside. Apologise to any occupant the chair may have as it sails through the air. Within clear earshot of your wooee, offer to pay for their dry-cleaning and a day out at the zoo for 4. Women love good manners and generosity especially in the heat of battle.

Punch the other fellow in his nose. He will punch you back. Stagger slightly and touch your hand to the corner of your mouth to check for bleeding. Wince. Surveys suggest that wincing men with big shoulders and no shirts on in the middle of nice restaurants invariably bring out nurturing feelings in the female. Don’t be surprised if she reaches out a gloved hand toward you, clutches uselessly at the air and cries “Oh!”

This is where your prep work will come in (Oh we know it seemed tedious at the time LOL! But you’re beginning to see now that good dating technique requires good planning, aren’t you?) Nod imperceptibly (but not too) to the waiter you will previously have bribed to substitute the restaurant’s ambient music with your own selection. Neil Diamond is popular here; many customers report success with Bryan Adams too. Your choice of soundtrack is a very personal thing but customer feedback tells us that Elton John is probably a mistake.

Next, quick as a flash, tie your tie around your forehead dew-rag style. Lower your head slightly and glower at your foe from ‘neath rumpled shaggy eyebrows which you will have moussed earlier in the bathroom. Metrosexuals should resist plucking for a week prior to the date.

Say to the lady “This won’t take more than a minute, miss, then I’d sure be pleased to escort you to your door.”

Grab the other man, and run with him toward the restaurant’s large glass windows, crashing through them in as slow a motion as you can manage before resuming the fight on the shard-strewn pavement. As the other diners jostle for a view at the broken window, reach in your pocket and, unseen, slip on your knuckle-duster. Only one more punch should be needed at this point. Your hapless opponent will then sprawl unconsciously to the ground.

Take a step back and look up to the heavens as if to ask the gods “Why, why must you test me time and time again, Yousdammit?” Look haunted, troubled, and then bow your head and do a praying-hands, collecting thoughts thing. Hunch your glistening shoulders defensively ‘gainst the world and all its hurts.
As your lady rushes to your side, which she is sure to do if you’ve followed all the previous instructions properly, lift her up above your head and twirl her in the middle of the road as if she were as light as a daisy, ignoring the screaming ambulances that’ll be starting to arrive. Whisper gently to her, “I did it for you, baby. I did it for you. You may be the only woman who understands me, who really gets me, you know? Hold me!”

She will be forced to fall instantly in love with you and you may bed her at the hour of your choosing. For further instructions, proceed to the next module.

Please Note: This approach is only recommended for one particular kind of woman. For a full discussion on the 3 other kinds of woman, we recommend our primer-pack “Which Woman?” available now through our catalogue.

Before I embark on Tormod’s story I’d better describe in a few short posts a bit more about the Glen of Insanity; its denizens; its geographical curiosities; its surprising chaises-longues.

We’ll start right at the top, high in the air. With the seagulls. Everybody knows seagulls are madder than March eclairs. Why else do they go out on Saturday nights, eat 40 proof vomit and chips from the pavement and then vomit that back down their own babies throats? More cracked than a builder’s bum, are seagulls.

Because:

Seagulls brainwaves are out-of-phase with Reason’s sine waves, which are the kind of waves which keep our ordinary lives together and normal – the waves that make snot green, not blue, and foxes cunning not ice-skating. As Reason’s waves peak and trough, seagulls’ brainwaves are a 1/4 of a wavelength behind, rendering them out of concert, discordant with reason, and thus bonkers.

However.

A strange thing happens to reason’s sane-sine-waves in the Glen of Insanity. Even inexperienced glen-watchers can see that the air in and over the valley shimmers slightly like a road on a hot day. The insane-sine-waves have a different amplitude and length to the sane-sine waves, and – madly – a different frequency too, which plays merry hell with the telly for people in Horgabost. In short, The Glen Of Insanity has a refactive index.

So.

What happens when a seagull’s mad brain-waves fly over the glen is that they are modified in such a way as to come into phase with the Reason sane-sine waves in the world outside the glen. The insane waves cancel each other out and seagulls emerge from the other side of the Glen of Insanity completely sane! They also come out flying at a slightly different angle to the angle at which the entered the glen. Like in a prism. With bending light and
stuff. And they’re red too.

Anyway.

It doesn’t work with crows who are only made more mad, or sparrows, or any other kind of bird. Scientists A scientist* has noticed that seagulls are the only birds to fly out of the Glen of Insanity saner than they flew in. The scientist also speculates that in people brainwaves may act as particles as well as waves cos of us being cleverer and more quantum. So predictions for humans based on the seagull model might well be moot as an irrelevant coot. Or they may be as correct as a right carrot. We just don’t know.

So there.

But what happens to these sane seagulls? Well, there aren’t many of them but sadly they are shunned by their mostly loony seagull feathren and sent to St. Kilda where they can’t shame their families. On St. Kilda, they enjoy quiet board games and Isles FM until they are insane enough to rejoin their loved ones and to eat vomit once again. It’s all part of Nature’s cycle. And so the wheel turns…

* 12-year-old “Specky” Becky MacLean who won the West of Scotland Young Scientists Fair with her essay entitled The Natural History Of The Greater Berneray Cleg.

Far, far over the Western Sea, in darkest Harris, there is a glen called The Glen of Insanity. Folks say that the souls of the mad go there to rave and rant until the end of time, and do basket-weaving on Tuesdays.

There is only one house, in the Glen of Insanity and it isn’t a house, it’s a lighthouse. It belongs to Calum-Neally MacTorrid, aka The Caretaker, and its beacon shining in the night draws the maddest souls of Scotland to the glen, like stalkers to a starlet.

“Come to me, ye troubled and ye restless!” the lighthouse seems to call, this strange and stripey lighthouse in a glen far to the West of your wildest imaginings. “Come to where the world is safe for you, come home!” Adding, “Dill pickle!” because it is an exceedingly mad glen lighthouse indeed.

The only living (or non-dead) people that can survive the Glen Of Insanity are simpletons and the hairless so once a week Daft Baldy Dougal from the village of Dalbeag is sent in with a red-spotted kerchief on a stick containing a Charley-Barley steak-and-kidney pie, some bread, eggs, tea and rum. He delivers this to Calum Neally, sometimes stops for a chat with a rabbit he knows, and makes his way out unscathed. People ask him what it’s like in there but he just says things like “Minty” or “Oblong” or “Hurty” and is just too bonkers to speak to.

In actual fact, Dougal is a very accurate reporter on the glen but just because he also fell in love with a blue-bottle once and enjoys gnawing on houses, people just dismiss his accounts, thanking the gods of mild legal stimulants that their parents weren’t first cousins (those whose parents weren’t, that is).

Many others have tried to enter the Glen of Insanity, of course. Bossy women with headscarves and flask tea, paranormal researchers from the mainland and local have-a-go hard-men have all, at various times over the years, crossed the mossy stile at the entrance to the valley. Those that survived to make it back never spoke a word in their lives again. They twitch a bit and have to be restrained on airplanes but otherwise are mere empty shells of the meddling arseholes they once were.

But there is one other very rare kind of person who legend says can traverse the glen unscathed. Under the altar of the ancient church in Rodel, a minister in 1843 found a mysterious parchment, which is of course the very best kind of parchment to find. When he brought it up to the sunlight it fell to dust in his hands but, before that, in the candle-light below ground, amongst many strange squiggles and a section headed The “Protocols of Simon”, he had read a passage which said:

“Only he who is the 7th crofter of a 7th crofter, pure of heart, and hairy of forearm may tell at all of the world inside the Glen of Insanity.”

(The good reverend couldn’t know it, of course, but the strange squiggles he saw before the wholesome light of day destroyed them were primitive molecular diagrams for Prozac and Lithium; and “The Protocols of Simon” bit was an early outline of cognitive behavioural therapy in small supportive group sessions. And it’s just as well for you there’s an Omniscient Narrator in this story to tell what the minister saw, otherwise you’d never have known how advanced ancient islanders were in the treatment of madness either. This evidence explains how the Outer Hebrides were able to survive the many epidemics of madness that periodically swept the land, making men brothers of chisels or worshippers of blue-bells or voters of the SNP for many terrible years at a time.)

As it happened, in 1974, such a special crofter was born unto Jessie-Belle MacCuish in the village of Tarbert. Jessie, a girl of easy affection and six other wee ones, had had it away one night with Findlay Mackay, 7th youngest son of old Norrie “10-tups” MacKay. As an older brother had been lost in infancy to the butter churn one heart-breaking day, Jessie-Belle’s newest baby, Tormod, was only counted as the 6th surviving son and his birth passed unnoticed by everyone except Howling Margaret who lived in the whiskey barrel at the end of Smelly Lane, but she was too smelly to matter.

Young Tormod grew tall and strong and his forearms were considered to be the sexiest from Tarbert to Tolsta and back again. And so it happened that a 7th crofter of a 7th crofter, that is to say a Far-Squinter, came of age only 12 miles away from the Glen of Insanity. The land shivered its recognition of this on Tormod’s birthday and doe rabbits told their wee ones of a great new magic in the land – a magic as yet undiscovered. A magic that came to fruition on Tormod’s 21st birthday…

One day, maybe I’ll tell you the Story of Tormod and The Glen of Insanity*. Right now I need my bed. Night.

* Don’t count on it though, I haven’t made it up thoroughly researched it yet.

Every now and again life will bring you up smartly, rap you repeatedly on the forehead with a sharpened HB, before rolling you in pastry, baking you at 350 degrees for 45 minutes and entering you into a bake-off which you will lose, thus leading to your being flung (by Life) in a field for the cows to tread on, like the useless loser pie you are. I’ve seen it happen too often in these competitive times.

The life of the occasional housewife is often a lonely one. If you are a milkman, or a postman or a wandering door-to-door gigolo and the door to an unassuming, ordinary house opens to reveal a woman with flour on her hands and pain in her eyes you might pause and wonder about why she is in full Belle Epoque French costume. Then you may wonder why she is on the floor, beating her fists to bloody, floury, dredged-steak-like stumps and breaking open her very heart unto your immaculately polished shoes (I’m assuming you are only the very best sort of milkman or postman or door-to-door gigolo.)

You would be right in assuming that here was a woman disappointed in her pastry. Do not, therefore, go gently into that good fore-noon but be a gent – no be a man – no be a human, and prevent her from her senseless self-harming. Kneel down and comfort her and look into her red-rimmed eyes with the compassion of a thousand Amnesty International typists. Then, taking her mangled hands into your’s, tell her that these are the hands of a true artisan, a baker at one with her pastry; hands that can knead her dough like Tony Hart kneaded incredible little plasticene people like Morph in the cult 70’s BBC children’s art programme, Take Hart. Assure her that even small changes in relative humidity can affect one’s pastry deleteriously and that melt-in-the-mouth is a tired pastry cliche anyway.

If she brightens at this human kindness in a cold world on a temperate doorstep, and mumbles something about being trod on by cows, tell her that she is about as far from being one of life’s loser pies-in-a-field as Gordon Brown is from being a prima ballerina. Don’t be afraid to really extend the pie metaphor – until near painful breaking point if need be, for it’s what she needs to hear right then. After all her life is bound up in the pie, consumed by it, and it is the source of all her woe.

Next, wipe the snot and blood and flour from her face with a clean linen kerchief and tell her she must own her pie! She must master her despair and seize the pie! Say “Carpe piem!” – she’s sure to know Latin. Impress upon her that instead of the pie consuming her she must consume the pie because if she doesn’t, wherefore the effing pie in the effing first place? This use of effing on her doorstep from a complete stranger will shock her more than any 50sish slap across her cheeks and will suddenly pique her interest in this kind but forceful caller to her home.

If you do all that and you happen to have lovely strong forearms and an ability to discourse on the subject “Offshore Windfarms: Blot On The Landscape or Clean Green Mighty Machines?” with particular reference to the Danish, you might, you might just get lucky that day. Don’t, however, assume the pie is in the oven right away though or you may wind up lost forever in a cave far under the ground, tied up with electrical cord and sitting amongst skeletons wearing the hats and pizza-delivery caps of other too-presumptuous tradesmen. Remember that kneading dough leads to powerful upper body strength in even the frailest looking Belle Epoquer. More powerful than say, a postman or a milkman or a door-to-door gigolo.

It’s hard to believe but there has never been a movie or a novel, not even a pamphlet, about the everyday trials and tribulations of a Hebridean bungee-jumping, kittiwake enthusiastist. It’s hard to believe but it’s true.

Clearly there is a big gap in the market for this sort of thing and, rest assured people, I’m on it. If I win fame and fortune with my weighty tome – clearly there’s a multi-generational, multi-volume epic in there, just look at the range of material! – well then so be it, so be it. And if I don’t, well then so be that too. That’s just the kind of person I am.

See I would write it for the love of the thing not for any crass commercial purpose. Getting caught up in the drama of RSPB kittiwake-counting expeditions set against the vast and moody panorama of the North Atlantic fringe (which is fraying by the way) would fill my days, while recounting tales of illicit and very (very – heh-heh) much requited love between star-crossed bungee-jumpers on training weekends to Scalpay would occupy my nights.

Universal themes would play out in harshly lit Youth Hostel kitchens and hovering in the background, perhaps peering in at the windows from the dark moor beyond, there will probably usually be a weather-beaten old stringy-haired crone through whose mad and rolling eyes we will watch the narrative unfold. But she will be an Unreliable Narrator and therefore nothing will be clear. Is Robert a psychopathic monster under that parka, or does he just remind the old crone of other psychopathic parka-wearing monsters she has loved in her mysterious past? I expect that questions such as these will haunt the reader and they will make mistakes in performing simple everyday tasks through being so completely preoccupied with the great themes and questions the book raises. The critics will love it. Everyone loves an unreliable narrator. Henry James really cashed in on that wee gimmick.

There will be passion of course, for passion is what rends and mends the fabric of human experience and no story is complete without it. Plus it will look great in High-Definition when the movie-version comes out. We will come eye-to-eyelet with bodice-ripping as the story opens in the late 1800s, and we will track the subsequent generations by means of what type of fabric is being ripped by the handsome kittiwake bounty-hunter/egg-nicker/Edinburgh Uni. research conducter/exotic foodpurchaser for Harrods (, grippingly they will all feature) at the time: cotton through satin through cheesecloth and fishskin(when times get tough) through tweed, tie-die and finally Gore-Tex; all will be torn from some pouty maiden. That right there is called a literary device. The fellow in the Times loves those. (If fame does elude me, it won’t be through lack of research and stalking and rummaging through Harold Bloom’s dustbins.)

But the novel will have a contemporary feel too, so I can make it into another genre heading on Amazon. I will touch on important issues of the day – a Wednesday perhaps – so that historians, looking back at the work, will come to understand what was important to people in the early 21st century. Terrorism, global warming, metrosexuality and hair-removal will all be themes and, throughout, just as 60s-era Rumpole espoused claret and justice, and post-apocalyptic Cormac McCarthy wrote of tinned peaches and tender filial love, I will advocate healthy-eating and an active 5-a-day lifestyle.

It’s sure to be a big hit but don’t envy me, dear friends in blogging. Don’t wish me ill or post me the gonads of my very own beloved cat, for I will remember you all when Barbara Walters and Letterman and Charlie Rose are all banging on my door for an interview. I plan to grant few and maintain a lofty remove from my fans which is dead impressive. I will probably wear black polo-necks a lot more but I will still just be the same old Sam and I’ll send you all something lovely from hampers.com providing you agree to say nice things about me in the papers when I make a tragically young end that leaves the literary world bereft and reeling and drinking too much and falling down and sobbing snottily into its own tasteful, success-scented sleeve. Otherwise, no dice.

But never mind all that – today is the Dia De Los Muertes in many South American countries, when people offer the favourite things – foods and music and snow-drops on kittens for all I know – of deceased relatives to their spirits. When I die I want Leonard Cohen on a loop, buttery-flakey rhubarb pie a la mode, a couple bottles of Bombay Sapphire and a puffer-fish, cos really, what better time to try some?

What would you have?

I am very excited because this is my first podcast. Luddite no more!

I did this for another blog called The Storytellers’ blog which is a great new site started by Kim Ayres and Eryl Shields. Pat and Doc Maroon and The Hangar Queen amongst others have already submitted stories. Mine was from a post a did a while back. I’ll reproduce it here in text in case you cannot understand my silly accent.