A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
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DAFT MONDAY - It might be stating the obvious, but an absence of joie de vivre is common to every depressive. Their smiles are forced, their laughter flat, their every action rendered sluggish by a lack of spontaneity. This torpor is only exacerbated by the prescibed drugs with which their sensibilities are further deadened.
The medical industry, of course, attributes depression to a combination of circumstance and chemical imbalance. We can dismiss the first of these, I think: certain circumstances would make anyone unhappy. It's fat-headed in the extreme to isolate a logical response and refer to it as an illness. By the same token pharmaceutical companies might one day make further fortunes manufacturing remedies for anger, jealousy or lust. These are aspects of the human condition: to artificially nullify them is a dangerous denial of nature. I'm equally unconvinced by the theory of chemical imbalance which merely resigns the 'sufferer' to the inevitability of unhappiness and dependence on medication.
In conceiving Daft Monday, I was curious as to whether Drumfeld's depressives, by assuming different characters, could liberate themselves from identities largely defined by the expectation of misery. After weeks of research within my sister Christine's support group, I conceived the notion of a 'Daft Parade' around Drumfeld in which the participants abandon themselves to the spirit of spontaneity. It occurred to me that within weeks, similar outbreaks of good natured nuttiness would erupt around the civilised world causing the medical conglomerates to drastically rethink their approach to a condition that would henceforth be referred to as 'Sadness'. As is so often the case, however, a grand scheme was undermined by pettiness. Some of the parade's invited participants, thrown into a panic by the prospect of a step beyond the mundane, consulted their doctors who, predictably, advised them against taking part. On the day, only a handful of people actually appeared making for an anti-climactic stroll around Drumfeld.
Subsequent to the event, Christine was contacted by her superiors within the mental health department and cautioned against my future involvement with Drumfeld's depressives. Apparently one of the parade's participants, referring to the 'humiliation' to which he'd been subjected, had lapsed into a near catatonic state. This individual, I should say, had failed to embrace the spirit of the day, constantly complaining about the poor turn-out and snarling at passers by. Eventually reduced to tears of rage, he attempted to punch me before hailing a passing taxi and going home. In scapegoating Hamilton Coe, the medical authorities failed to question his own bad attitude or examine the entrenched attitudes that had rendered him so sensitive to ridicule.
Scenes from Daft Monday.
DALRYMPLE, JOHN (?) Farmer – See DEVIL, THE
DARK MAESTRO, THE - Nom de Plum of WILLIAM URE. Having spent much of my life in the presence of ‘the Unseen' I find it difficult to share the popular terror of spooks. While ample evidence exists to support the existence of ghosts, a sensible response to one's presence is compassion rather than fear. The disembodied, guilt ridden spectres of the Whitechapel Murderer or Adolf Hitler, say, are less capable of wreaking havoc than their former, full blooded selves. There are, of course exceptions as a cursory overview of the life of Rod Hull will attest. His problems with Richard the Third, however, while deserving our compassion, were largely self-inflicted. If I knowingly invite a burglar into my home, I can hardly affect astonishment when he makes off with my belongings. The same principle applies to blundering encroachments into the spirit realm.
While I consider the supernatural genre fat-headed, I've done my utmost to support Billy in his aspirations. Over the years, I've found some of his 'spine-tinglers' quite effective. "Not to be read alone," I'll say when recommending one, though, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't hesitate to do such a thing. Anyone needing the reassuring presence of other people to read anything should probably consider a course of counselling. That said, Billy's stories aren't without merit. He's strong on atmosphere and doesn't resort to shock tactics, using a minimum of violence and 'industrial' language, resisting a trend that has reduced modern Scottish fiction to the level of a graffiti-ed bus shelter.
Not satisfied with merely writing his stories, however, Billy, no doubt frustrated by the absence of interest, has persisted in the folly of public recitals. His first venture into this field over twenty years ago ended in disaster. His Hallowe'en reading of 'The House on Gallows Hill' was sarcastically heckled by Spencer and his friends until Billy fled from the stage before the ghost even made its appearance. For years he restricted himself to writing, but, doubtless encouraged by his fiancee, he made a tentative return to performance with a Christmas recital at Drumfeld Museum. Despite Gazette critic HUGH WALKER's assessment that 'this Dark Maestro is as frightening a bowl of lukewarm custard' Billy reprised the role for three successive Christmases before moving into the realm of professional entertainment.
The notion that any children's party might be enlivened by the presence of Billy Ure reading one of his ghost stories might seem preposterous, but he's extremely active nonetheless. Demanding only that the hosts ensure a well behaved audience and provide a 'reasonably spooky ambience' he promises an 'unforgettable treat for more sensitive children.' A deluxe package involved Billy insinuating himself in the child's consciousness in the weeks leading up to the party, lurking around the vicinity in his Dark Maestro garb, instilling such a sense of escalating menace that, come the day of the party, his appearance cause what Billy's brochure referred to as 'a delicious frisson.' The deluxe option was abandoned when The Dark Maestro's appearance actually caused an irresistible urge on the child's part to punch and kick him.
Billy in full Dark Maestro regalia.
DARNLEY, LORD (1545 - 1567) First husband of Mary Queen of Scots. As a child I was troubled by episodes from Darnley's short life, particularly his murder of courtier David Rizzio. For years details from this crime, in which he was aided by a clique of swaggering yahoos, appeared to me in waking visions. Petulant and brutish, with a tendency to dress in his mother's clothes, Darnley died in mysterious circumstances when his body was discovered in the aftermath of an explosion, his neck mottled by signs of strangulation.
My investigation into Darnley's death for the proposed B.B.C. Scotland series 'Bloody Scotland' was cancelled after complaints in the Scottish Parliament as to tax payers money being wasted on the project. The irony of this, I'm sure, requires no further comment.
David Rizzio cowers from the approach of Darnley and his assassins
DAVIDSON, MATTHEW (1971 - ) Malingerer. Returning his parental home from college in 1990, Davidson declared himself dispirited by the state of society and embarked upon an existence of total uselessness. As anyone who knows me will confirm, I, too, am dispirited by the state of society. Unlike Matthew, however, I have determined to do something about it. On various occasions I've visited the Davidson house to offer Matthew the opportunity to participate in local initiatives. On the last of these I distinctly heard him shout, “If that's Hamilton Coe, tell him to fuck off!” This, unfortunately, encapsulates his attitude to the entire world.
DAYDREAMS – It would be a mistake to assume that daydreamers imagine themselves in elevated positions inconceivable to their day to day existence. My studies on the subject have revealed that many individuals indulge in protracted fantasies in which they're wronged, humiliated or bereft. Their waking hours are spent constructing imaginary scenarios that spill over into actual resentments. This is borne out by the bitter expressions often worn by those apparently in the depths of reverie.
Spencer, ostensibly an artist, freely confesses to having daydreamed away hours of his life constructing various scenarios in which I'm murdered or demeaned. These fantasies have been frequently translated into pop songs, e.g. Death in the Shed, Burning Boy, The Hammer Falls on a Fat Head and numerous others.
DEATH THREATS - To date, I have received forty seven death threats, not counting those dispensed by Spencer on a daily basis. For most people, the fear of assassination would cause an intolerable strain which is, nine times out of ten, the entire point of issuing the threat in the first place. To put the matter into perspective, of the people who've promised to kill me, only four have made genuine attempts on my life (not counting the most serious, committed by my Grandfather Coe when I was seven years old and not preceded by a warning.) When some thwarted bully starts bellowing the odds about wringing Hamilton Coe's neck or sewing him into a sack and beating him into mincemeat, I politely repeat the adage of sticks and stones and give the matter no further thought.
More sinister, perhaps, are the death prayers and spells of the old religions enjoying a resurgence through internet access. Few modern practitioners of black magic, however, possess the knowledge or temperament to successfully ally themselves to hovering entities or the elements. Their efforts invariably rebound with terrible consequences.
'Curse dolls' used by witches.
DELUSION, SELF - We live in the age of self-delusion. Frightened minds, unable to confront reality, create parallel worlds of their own. Spencer still sees himself singing and dancing for an audience of adolescents who e-mail him and stick his picture over their walls; Billy sits at his 1950's typewriter dressed in his Dark Maestro outfit churning out ghost stories, refusing to acknowledge that nobody's even slightly frightened of ghosts anymore. If one were to appear in Drumfeld churchyard he'd be pelted with cigarette ends and demoralised by sarcastic comments about his outfit.
Neither Billy nor Spencer can withstand a challenge to their flawed self-perceptions. They literally plug their ears with their forefingers and shout, “I'm not listening to you, Hamilton!” If either were to step to one side and regard his situation objectively, though, he'd realise the possibility of happiness. Throughout his life Spencer has laboured under the delusion that's he's creative. In his heart, he must realize the folly of this: how liberating it would be for him to acknowledge it, to resume with some attainable goal. Billy could buy a new outfit and turn his hand to tales of detection, a subject, at least, of which he has some knowledge.
DEPRESSIVES – I've always taken a keen interest in my siblings' activities. Privately, I might consider Spencer's aspirations in the realm of 'pop' and 'rock' ill-conceived. Until recently, however, when my endorsement of his latest demo on the Rob McCaskill show provoked a frenzied renunciation, my encouragement has been unstinting. "That's an interesting lyric," I would observe, affecting intense concentration as I listened to Spencer droning about some unrequited fixation or a resentment he's nursed since adolescence. How often have I tapped my fingers appreciatively to one of his arrhythmic dirges? Not any more! Following his unconscionable outburst, I have no compunction in stating what is obvious to all but the most witless: that Spencer has nothing of interest to communicate other than a profound self-loathing roused by the merest human contact. His entire existence has been an exercise in pointlessness. That he persists in attributing his own shortcomings to Hamilton Coe reflects on him more than it does me.
Christine, on the other hand, weathered the storm of an adolescence blighted by the virulent strain of acne that has afflicted generations of female Coes. While photographs of Spencer from the period invariably feature his fragile sneer, none of Christine even exist. The very sight of a camera caused her to flee or cover the livid glow of her cheeks with her palms. To be an object of repugnance is a terrible thing for a young person: Christine, however, bolstered by the inhereted island genes of the Sneddons, remained resolute. She has consquently proved that there are better ways of dealing with personal problems than wittering on about them to the accompaniment of badly tuned guitars. As a psychiatric nurse, she has impacted upon the lives of countless depressives. While I'm at odds with the psychiatric establishment's over-dependence on drugs and analysis, I've made a point of supporting my sister in her endeavours on behalf of the downcast. Many of her patients, or 'friends' as Christine characteristically insists on referring to them, seem indifferent to the efforts expended on their behalf. I've lost count of the occasions on which impeccably organised table tennis tournaments or rambles have been ruined by an absence of enthusiasm. "I don't really feel up to it," says Mr Blue, only to materialise in the King's Arms hours later, apparently the life and soul of the party. See also DAFT MONDAY, DRUMFELD FILM CLUB, EMPLOYMENT SEMINARS.
DEVIANTS - See BAKER, TOM; BARR, JASON; BEITH, RONALD; BURNS, FRANCIS; COE, SPENCER; CROWLEY, ALEISTER; DARNLEY, LORD; EADIE-COE, HAZEL; GIBB, FRANCIS; JEFFERS, MARK; MANSON, MARILYN; NIMMO, SAMUEL; PIRIE, ROBERT; SNEDDON, GREGOR; SPINK, HEATHER; TEALE, NORMAN; WHO, DOCTOR.
DEVIL, THE – In 1678, John Dalrymple, a farmer, driven beyond his tether by the impending marriage of his former sweetheart, Peggy Moffat, to Captain Neil MacKenzie, summoned the devil to intervene. No record exists of Dalrymple's response to Satan's appearance, but I imagine he might have been as surprised as anyone else present. According to local legend, the devil challenged Dalrymple and MacKenzie to dance for Moffat's affections. The pair danced for three days, Dalrymple with the honest but basic steps of a countryman and MacKenzie on the tips of his toes in the continental manner now familiar to students of ‘traditional' Scottish dancing. As the third day drew to a close, MacKenzie, whose technique demanded greater effort than his rival's ponderous steps, suddenly expired in a ball of flame leaving Dalrymple to claim his prize. Unfortunately, the farmer's moment of triumph was brief. Physically and mentally depleted by his ordeal, he aged rapidly becoming a grey and stooped figure virtually overnight. Unable to maintain his farm, he ended his days wandering the forest bemoaning his lot in tedious detail to anyone he encountered. To this day, a meeting with John Dalrymple's ghost augurs ill. History doesn't record what became of Peggy Moffat, though the account of the incident in the Parish History insists that she emigrated. The devil, meanwhile, is alleged to have returned to wreak havoc in Drumfeld on three subsequent occasions, the last of which, in 1903 resulted in his being tarred, feathered and driven into the hills (some accounts suggest that this might have been a case of mistaken identity, the consequence of over-exuberant Ne'er Day celebrations.)
Modern minds, while giving credence to infinitely more fatuous theories, recoil from the notion of a literal Satan. While I remain undecided on that score, a lifetime spent peering into the abyss has established the incessant activity of malign influence to which each and every individual is vulnerable. Mass communications now ensure that the threat, whether from Beast or Idea, is greater than at any period in human history.
DISGUISE, ADOPTION OF - In conducting an investigation, I'll occasionally resort to disguise. In my experience, a surly teenager reluctant to communicate with Hamilton Coe is invariably less reticent in the company of ‘Tommy the punk'. The efficacy of any disguise depends entirely upon its bearer's ability to immerse himself entirely into his new character. While investigating my brother's liaison with the Patersons, his so-called birth family, I lazily assumed the role of Marius, a trinket-selling gypsy with whom I had zero real affinity. I was following the family on a Sunday stroll when Spencer suddenly stopped, turned and sprinted across the road to attack me, landing several blows before assorted Patersons intervened to drag him away. While DOUG made light of the incident in his nightclub comedy act, I'm sure the family were all perturbed by this volatile aspect of their new relative. The rift that had always been a distinct possibility now became inevitable. See also PATERSON, DOUG and PEARSON, GUY.
Would the real Hamilton Coe please step forward! Various disguises adopted in the course of investigations.
DOGS - Occasionally useful in a working capacity, otherwise charmless compounds of colon and bowel whose contribution amounts to soiling streets and savaging children. Throughout the twentieth century, dog breeders have competed to produce mutations whose physical limitations and brainlessness render them vulnerable to loathing and pity. Many of the so-called Toy Dogs currently popular are, in fact, anathema to nature. Laboratory tests have established identical empathy levels in certain modern breeds to those elicited from courgettes. Generally owned by shallow or sentimental individuals desperate for affection whatever the source. See also CORKY and WILSON
An offence against reason and nature
DRUMFELD FILM CLUB – Established with the intention of providing a social resource for Christine's depressives. In my experience, people with this condition tend to exacerbate their problems by endlessly talking about them. It occurred to me that they couldn't do this while watching a film. This expectation was immediately confounded. We've yet to enjoy a session in which I don't have to regularly “shoosh” people, a natural rebuke that's elicited tantrums and complaints. If someone doesn't know better than to talk while other people are trying to enjoy a movie, then it's reasonable to assume that he's committing other gaffes that might attract adverse comment and contribute to his feelings of alienation and worthlessness. Not pointing these out seems as irresponsible as allowing someone to drown rather than risk embarrassing him by drawing attention to the fact that he can't swim.
Nobody else seems bothered by these interruptions, in fact most of the Club's members are so involved with their own melodramas that they resent the distraction of fictional equivalents, particularly those lending perspective to their own problems. Adhering to my personal preference for films made prior to 1940, I restricted those to themes of crisis, disease or self-sacrifice. Unfortunately, these caused such consternation that had rotten fruit been at hand, I'm sure it would have been hurled toward the screen. “I'd like to see Thelma Has-Been deal with a real problem!” scoffed Sharon Patrick, as said actress, face rendered gaunt by make-up, wept over the bodies of her murdered children. When I responded that if Sharon were to suffer trauma on a similar scale, she'd have t-shirts made up to announce the fact, the session deteriorated into recrimination and tearfulness with Sharon, whose biggest problem, frankly, is an inability to control her temper, accusing me of being a “bossy Hitler.” Christine now sits in and has pretty much taken over, delegating the role of movie selection to the club members with the effect that my Wednesday evenings are taken up by goblins, androids and serial killers.
DRUNKENNESS - The presence of a drunk within a family was once a source of shame. Nobody staggered through the streets wearing t-shirts emblazoned with cretinous slogans such as ‘My Liver is Evil and Must be Punished' etched over their flabby torsos in putrid yellow letters designed to resemble streaks of vomit. Whereas drunkards once skulked, fearful of public opinion, they now proclaim their proclivity with pride. The staff at my father's care home routinely report for duty still exhibiting the symptoms of a recent debauch. Last week my shin was skinned by a recklessly propelled tea-trolley. My sister and her friends, family women on the cusp of middle age, refer to themselves as ‘sluts' and ‘maniacs' though, in fairness, their nights out are actually restrained, certainly compared to those of my brother.
Since returning to Drumfeld, Spencer has established a routine consistent with every symptom of addiction. Rising late, he spends the best part of the day slouched in an armchair, his face fixed in a rictus of dread. Anybody passing can hear his stomach percolating, a guttural gargle like a drain blocked by slurry. As evening approaches he sets about working his way steadily through the collection of wine accumulated by over twenty years by our father and decimated by Spencer in the course of two months. Sufficiently bolstered, he phones Colette, his estranged wife. When his whimpering entreaties prove fruitless, he retreats to his room where he wallows for the remainder of the evening. In the next bedroom, I can gauge his escalating level of inebriation by the volume and tempo of his music. As he becomes incapable he replays the ponderous songs I remember from his adolescence at an anti-social volume. When I occasionally look in on him before going to sleep he stares into space, tears glistening on his collapsed cheeks like a child bewitched by goblins.
DUNN, MICHAEL (1955 - ) Nuisance, Pervert, Obscene Phone Caller. Later claiming to have been traumatised by his redundancy, Dunn, introducing himself as Radio Perth DJ Dougie the Dafty, beleaguered randomly selected victims with bantering nonsense. He recorded these calls for the amusement of pub friends who should consider themselves complicit in his inevitable disintegration. Fixating on Caroline Bisset, he beleaguered her with sexually ambiguous calls, cajoling her into participating in quizzes ostensibly being broadcast to an audience. Caroline became suspicious when her ‘prizes' appeared second hand and, in one occasion, soiled. Contacting the radio station, she ascertained that there is no such person as Dougie the Daftie. She then called the police. Having been traced by a phone tap, Dunn subsequently claimed to be suffering from a schizoid personality disorder of the type popularised by children's entertainer ROD HULL.
DYSFUNCTIONAL, MISUSE OF THE WORD – NINA KELLY refers to my “dysfunctional” upbringing. “Dysfunctional” has become a buzz word trotted out by armchair experts when they can't think of anything more specific. It's been overused to the extent that it's meaningless. For Nina, a chronic agoraphobic hooked on other people's transgressions, to apply the word to anyone else is, clearly, the richest of ironies. If I'm dysfunctional by her standards then it stands to reason that I'm perfectly adequate by anyone else's. She's not alone, however, in perpetrating the myth that my childhood was strange and gloomy. I don't want to disappoint anyone but, apart from the blips that occur throughout any childhood, the opposite is, in fact the case. Moodiness was frowned upon in my family, at least by my mother's side. My Grandfather Sneddon encouraged me to write down JOKES and humorous incidents I might use as ice-breakers when meeting new people or to bolster me at times of apparent helplessness. Consequently, I still know more jokes than anyone I know: I have one for every conceivable situation, written down in thirty leather bound journals. This surprises people who, I think, expect me to be po-faced. A sense of humour is merely a facet of good manners which is, essentially, the willingness to put people at ease. Within minutes of meeting me, people, often enduring torrid circumstances, find themselves succumbing to rib-ticklers. Nina refers to my “parp of laughter, echoing crudely around houses devastated by heartache, as harsh and inappropriate as the bray of a wounded seal.” Laughter, as Grandfather SNEDDON often said, is a free gift. Why with-hold it?
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