October 2025

Anna Secret Poet is a genderfluid singer/songwriter, model and published poet from Glasgow, UK

Comedy was not something that crossed her mind at all when she first took to the stage – a gig seemed more like a good excuse for a night out. But after performing at a few cabarets in 2016 her songs about eyebrows, biscuits and sausages led to her appearing at the odd stand-up night and going down a storm. At one particular gig in Mango some years ago she even got a standing ovation from the stag do that was in (also the half an ‘e’ she had beforehand at an all-day punk gig probably helped!).

As of this year she has self-released 7 full length albums of original material which are all available to stream from wherever you get your music. The latest album came out at the end of July and is entitled ‘I Saw This and Thought of You’. BLUESBUNNY called it “Pure uplifting” and THE ELECTROSCAPE called it “Heartfelt, playful and anthemic”. She also released a songbook in 2024 through Speculative Books which can be purchased in person at shows or from her Bandcamp page. It is called ‘Songs About Eyebrows, Biscuits and Sausages’ and contains a selection of her most popular song lyrics with added chord information for anyone who wants to rip her off or play along. When Anna isn’t bothering stages or slaving over a notebook she can be found setting fire to things in her back garden, reading or watching erotic French vampire movies.

The Panopticon Comedy Club runs once a month at the Panopticon Theatre in the Trongate area of Glasgow.  This month we are reviewing Septembers show.  

The first act was international drag artist  Nomi Devine who opened the show with a bang, and whose into her 10th year in the business has made her a very confident performer. 

Isaac Ennis, is a performer from Bridge of Weir who grew up in the Plymouth Brethren who are a non conformist religious sect that emerged in the early 19th century and which Isaac mined for his performance.  

Fudgie McFadden an upcoming stand up from East Kilbride brought his twisted take on modern life to the stage with resounding laughter. 

Jonathon Souter-Findlay followed with a neurodivergent take on his life growing up in a homophobic and toxic environment as a young gay man which was received well by the audience.   

Adam Smith, a Glaswegian working class guy came on next with his punchy one liners and tales of his everyday life. 

Gordon Keane told stories of the trials and tribulations of being a amateur marathon runner and had the crowd in stitches with his sweaty misdemeanours. 

Alfie Wellcoat followed with his real life misadventures, driving for Uber, falling in and out of love and travelling to Turkey, not once but twice for hair transplants.  The audience were charmed by his likeable persona. 

The shows headliner was the fabulous Tia Boyd, a queer divergent stand-up comic, poet and storyteller who draws from his fascinating life story of growing up as a half Scottish, half Arab in Castlemilk.  Tia's life involved negating the streets of one of Glasgow's most challenging districts while wrestling with his  sexuality and gender identity. He also reconnected with the Arab side of his family after many years apart (his dad couldn't hack life in Castlemilk).  His dad's acceptance of him belies the common stereotypes about the Middle East.  

The highlight of the set was the story of how he discovered his gender identity via a psychedelic journey in Maryhill!  

My Stand-Up Journey 

By Adam Smith​

​My journey into stand-up comedy began when I was around 8 or 9 years old. My mum bought me a box set of Billy Connolly’s World Tour of Australia, and I was instantly hooked. I must have watched those tapes hundreds of times throughout my childhood. Even now, I still find joy in watching Billy command huge stages—like the Sydney Opera House—with ease and charisma. His ability to make people laugh, connect with audiences, and bring joy to so many sparked something in me. At the time, I may not have fully realised it, but I was falling in love with stand-up—and gaining a deep respect for the craft.

In my early twenties, I taught myself to play guitar and discovered a knack for song writing. That led me to perform in some incredible venues like the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, the Tyne Theatre in Newcastle, and even the O2 Arena in London. While music was my main focus, I never lost my passion for comedy. I still followed Billy, but also started gravitating towards grittier comedians like Frankie Boyle and Jimmy Carr. Their dark humour really resonated with me. I've always used humour to process life’s tougher moments—and those two are masters of turning pain into punchlines.

Fast forward to my mid-30s. I was running my own landscaping business and working in site management. One day, while scrolling Facebook, I saw an advert for 8 weeks of free stand-up comedy training. I couldn’t resist and I'm so glad I didn’t.

That course turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life. It wasn’t just the hilarious and brilliantly insightful course leader, Viv G, who made it special, it was the atmosphere. Being in a room where everyone understood that every word spoken was in the pursuit of laughter was completely new to me. It felt like creative freedom. I learned that all the little jokes I usually kept to myself actually had the power to make people laugh and that was a revelation.

The people I met on that course were just as special. We came from all walks of life.  People I might never have crossed paths with otherwise and I’m genuinely grateful for that. It reminded me how powerful shared laughter can be.

Then came the big night: my very first stand-up performance. Somehow, I ended up closing the show “headlining,” although I know how little that title means when everyone’s new! I can honestly say I’ve never been so nervous. Every act before me was smashing it, and with each wave of laughter from the audience, my anxiety doubled. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. But when my name was finally called, I took that massive wave of nervous energy and turned it into adrenaline. I stepped on stage and delivered one of my best performances to date. The crowd of 150 was electric, and that night lit a fire in me that’s still burning.

Since then; almost two years ago I’ve performed at hundreds of shows. Some have gone better than others, but all have been valuable and enjoyable. I’ve even organised and performed in a show for the Glasgow International Comedy Festival and taken part in the Edinburgh Fringe. I love the craft, and I love the people I’ve met along the way.

I've learned that stand-up comedy, like any other craft, demands time, patience, and hard work. The best comedians don’t just have great timing or writing skills—they also show up with dedication and drive. That’s the difference-maker.

Looking ahead, my goal is to keep refining my material, making it more meaningful, more relatable to everyday experiences, and using it to not only create laughter but also spark thought. I want to tackle important topics in a way that feels natural and funny and hopefully catch the eye of some bigger promoters. My dream is to earn spots on some of the biggest stages Scotland has to offer.

To anyone chasing a dream in stand-up; whether you're just starting or already a few years deep, I wish you the best. Comedy will give back what you put into it, and I hope your journey is full of laughs, growth, and rooms full of friendly (but honest) audiences.

Glaswegian On Holiday 

 Richard Lala October 2025 2025

It is strange being a Glaswegian going on holiday. Most people go abroad to get away for a week or two, escape the monotony of life in the big city, and while this is partially true for the Glaswegian, I do believe that the main reason for our vacations is to miss home and long for our return. Holidays for us not only rejuvenate our exhaustions, but act to renew our devotion to our homeland.  

I am in a queue at the boarding gate readying myself to miss the familiar sound of the Glasgow accent; that down-to-earth humdrum reliable friend that weights the ego and comforts the hermitic panic. As I prepare to board this plane I am already looking forward to my return. 

Exiting the airport door, the queue stretches across the tarmac like a ribbon of colourful getaway shirts but, noticing the second staircase at the rear of the aircraft, we leave the waiting line and headed straight for the empty steps. Others waiting in the stagnant queue notice our initiative and follow suit. It really doesn’t take much to guide people, simply lead by example, steered by sheer common sense, which, to be perfectly honest, isn’t as common as the name may imply; rather it is a byproduct of brave and sheer audacity!

My friends and I have all been blessed with brass-necks - I’m probably the shyest out the lot of us, a detail only recognisable when we are all together, haring down Argyle Street cackling echoes off the walls with self-deprecating laughter. 

Speaking of ‘haring’, the plane is positioning itself to take off. This is the nervous part; the amount of planes that burst into flames on take-off would honestly put you entirely off flying. He we go…the G-force drags the little raindrops across the reinforced glass of the oval window. Pegasus…and we’re off! My ears are popping as the big city turns into a map, only visible in glances between the clouds. 

The Dear Green Place, I’m missing you already, the patchwork quilt of fields and hedgerows have completely disappeared beneath the clouds, sheer white, like heaven itself. While I contemplate the risk of snow-blindness, the tannoy annoys us with overpriced offers. I’m still raging that WHSmith tried to sell us a basic carrier bag for 99p! The sandwich meal-deal was a great idea; we ate our piece & crisps while everyone else struggled with the overhead lockers. Now, as they all wait for the trolley service, we can relax, full-bellied, for a well earned snooze - actually, scratch that…I want a drink! 

The baby crying several rows behind has me wondering if the overhead lockers are soundproofed! The thought is met with instant guilt as I imagine the poor wee thing’s sore ears; the ear popping, or lack there of, can be a rather painful ordeal. I imagine the mother trying to stuff her aching breast into its wailing mouth, nipple red like a wine-cork! But the inconsolable bairn, wailing red-faced, rejects the blue veiny milk jug. I imagine a cheeky squirt of milk scooting between her fingers, out across the heads of the passengers, as she attempts to holster the giant melon back into its tit-sling. 

Five rows down a bald man rubs the liquid from his head, instantly looking up at the air-con’ inspecting it for leaks. He sniffs his hand for scents of rust but instead is met with a strangely familiar sensation. How old is he? 30? 40? 50 years maybe since he smelt his mother’s milk? I squirm in my seat as he instinctively licks his fingers, tasting nostalgia from his prints like a tentative dog, tasting whatever remnants weren’t sucked clean after breakfast. The imagined scenario takes less than a second but in that second I’ve managed to make myself sick…I think I’m gonna throw my sandwiches up! Luckily there’s a little brown paper bag in the magazine rest in front of me. I decided against making a spectacle of myself and peer out of the window; a snowy tundra of milky clouds - I hope ‘milk’ isn’t going to be the theme of this holiday! 

The fella sitting next to me has fallen asleep, his neck has stretched towards me and his head is now resting on my left shoulder, I can feel the bristles of his beard sticking into me. I decide this inconvenience is more comforting than annoying and decide, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, and rest my head against the top of his. I hope my husband doesn’t mind. He’s busy doing his crosswords, I hope the sight of this slumbered intimacy doesn’t lead to us having our own crossed words! I quickly close my eyes and take the mutual comfort while it’s there. 

When I open my eyes, we’ve landed, my husband’s asleep on one side, young, hunky stranger’s on the other and I’m the happy hog in the middle. Sadly as I wake, the two men I’m supporting wake-up also. The bearded man says nothing, he wipes his mouth and busies himself with organising his things, hubby does the same. It’s while I’m smiling in post snooze relish that I realise the pair of them have drooled seemingly equal amounts of spittle on my chest, both of my nipples are visible through the now partially translucent T-shirt. I look a right tit! What are people gonna think? They’ll probably think it’s me, that I’ve simultaneously drooled out both sides of my mouth, or they might think I’m lactating; they’ll assume I’m on hormones to get pregnant! Maybe they’ll take one look at my ridiculous belly and think I’ve been successful! Get me off this plane and away to our hotel room. I need to lock myself away, or at least change this T-shirt! What started out as a brief moment of grateful head-hugs has quickly turned into an all-out gross-fest! I want a shower ASAP! 

I’d almost forgotten my grotty nips as I’m reaching the overheads to get our hand luggage, when suddenly smirking hubby blurts out. ‘What happened to you?’ I try to ignore his sniggering, until he says the very thing I’ve been dreading. ‘How did you manage to slabber over both your nipples?’ I contemplate my next move, playing out the scenarios in my mind. It’ll involve a booze-cruise and shark-infested waters…I decide instead to simply own it - it is what it is - my tits might be imitating fried eggs but the shirt shall soon dry. I flash a tight, snarly smile and quickly change the subject with a request for help with the cases. 

Boring Holiday Stories!

Now I’m not going to irritate you with how lovely Sitges is, with its quaint, cosy streets and panoramic ocean view. I won’t tell you of the amazing all-you-can-eat SHAO LIN buffet or the delicious vendors selling loaded fries, pizza-pies, hotdogs, churros and ice-cream, nor will I go on about the rolling beaches (both sin-nude & con-nude) where I almost drowned in a riptide…saved by a German dude…thinking, why oh why did I decide to swim nude! No, those stories I’ll save for my memoirs. Instead I’ll tell you about an experience I had in one of the Gay Bars - obviously I’ll change the name incase someone, accidentally reading this with a serious head, decides to report the venue and ruin all the fun! 

The Gay Handshake 

Contrary to popular belief, the ‘Gay handshake’ has nothing to do with having limp wrists! It is difficult to describe this unique cultural etiquette without displeasing accepted norms or loosening any grip our minority’s ‘rights’ marches may have already established. 

I was in Bunker Bar. The doorman took 15 euros but gave me a drinks token which, considering I drink Jack Daniels and Coke, was basically the equivalent to free entry! Now, let me set the scene by comparing the setting to a regular pub in Glasgow. There were two large televisions mounted on the walls either side of the centralised bar, but instead of showing football on one and cricket on the other, these televisions showed hardcore porn. Now, when I say, ‘hardcore’, I don’t mean some shady, underground dungeon scene, these were high quality, professionally lit, expensive productions. One was of a big, hairy bear with tattoos, the other was a big, hairy bear without tattoos: con-tattoos/sin-tattoos - as you can see, my Spanish is coming along swimmingly. 

At first impressions the bar wasn’t exactly empty but there were only about five blokes drinking. Afraid of being spiked and ruining my “cola” buzz, I downed my drink in three gulps and headed through to what I thought was the toilet. Well, this is where the fun really began…let me explain. Beyond the heavy chain curtain was not only the latrine, but a hidden labyrinth; a maze of corridors and dead ends all completely pitch dark. Now, when I say, ‘pitch dark’, I mean black as black can be; not an EU-enforced fire escape light in sight! 

So, as I’m feeling my way along the wall, not able to see my hands in front of me, I suddenly became aware of other hands, men reaching out and feeling all over me, well, not exactly ‘all over’, grabbing at one part in-particular! As I stumbled further on, it turned out this ‘cruise bar’ wasn’t dead after all, it was very much alive, and as hand after hand reached out to shake my “Scottish flagpole” I decide to eagerly return the compliment! I quickly realised I was over-dressed, because those men were mostly naked or, judging by the familiar feel of ribbed cotton, wearing nothing more than a classic jockstrap! By the time I made it back to the bar, I must have shaken more “hands” in that half hour than I have in nearly my entire lifetime! Sitges, Barcelona really is the place to be, so much friendlier than anywhere else I’ve visited! Needless to say, my husband and I were back at that particular bar each subsequent night to engage in more of the local traditions! 

As it turns out, I didn’t actually miss Glasgow at all, not until the plane wheels hit the wheezing tarmac and the doors opened and I was blessed with that familiar growl of the Glaswegian accent permeating my senses. In conclusion, I was truly glad to get home, but, smiling ear to ear with the fondest of holiday memories, I am filled with the deepest and a heartiest desire to return away again. 

A Day in the Life

John Carruthers ​

It’s 6am and I wake up.  There’s a lot to do.  Today is the day!

I head into the Kitchen and get the coffee machine going. Should I go for my special Americano or my special latte?  I pick up and shake the bottle of Baileys to find it is empty.  Special Americano it is.

It’s always best to use a blended whisky - a malt is wasted in a morning coffee.  It’s all about the buzz and the wake up to get you on with the rest of the day.

I make a quick note to grab another bottle of Baileys - not sure what I’m going to pour on my cereal now… bloody Scottish Government and their 10am licensing laws.

There’s an old man’s pub round the corner, though with an early license.  Maybe a roll and sausage would do the trick to start my day off.  Don’t even need to eat the roll, really.  It’s just for the license.  My body is a temple and you don’t stay this thin throwing rolls down your neck.

I get bowls out for breakfast after a second cup of “coffee” - one is never quite enough to put that pep in your step.

I remind the kids that we need to walk to school since that false positive on the breathalyser meant that I am “between driving licenses at the moment”.

No response from the kids.  Typical.

Nothing.

So ignorant.

Kids, eh?

Then I remember.  It’s because they’re not here.  It’s just me. Since the incident.  Didn’t mean to shout.  Didn’t mean to scare them.  Sometimes when I’ve needed to relax with a few drinks it makes me too tense.  Full circle.

Just me.

Need to get ready for work tho…

…oh

They didn’t need me any more.  Wasn’t productive, they said. Always bleary eyed… and a faint smell of booze they could never quite prove came from me.

Nothing to occupy my days.  Except maybe write a joke.

But how do you write a joke when your life has become one?

Update the CV.  Today is the day everything changes.  Onwards and upwards.  Just another wee coffee and then we can start.

Okay, another.

How can it be 5pm already?

Oh a message has come in… someone wants me to do a gig for them.  There’s not been many of those lately.  Not writing comedy begets not getting gigs… not getting gigs begets not writing comedy.  It’s a cycle.

That's why they don’t ask any more.  I’m sure of it!

Can I do a gig on Thursday?

Hmmm.

Can I?

Don’t appear too keen.

I tell them I’ll check my diary and get back to them.

Need to remember to do that!

Time for another drink, I think.  Too late to be drinking coffee. Grab a glass and ice and work out what to do with the rest of my evening.  And set myself up for another day!

On The Road with Isaac Ennis  

​Touring Scotland With Benchtours Theatre in The 1990s

Isaac Ennis (aka Stewart Ennis)

  I was a founding member of Benchtours Theatre an ensemble of Scottish and Australian performers who met at that most influential and beloved French school of comedy, the Ecole Philippe Gaulier.  For our first show in 1990 we were Theatre Bouffon but quickly changed our name to Benchtours and from then until early 2000s we made umpteen devised shows.

They started off as pocket sized poor-theatre, lightweight street performances, then moved onto small scale touring works and only seemed to get larger, heavier and more unwieldy as the years went on, til we’d had enough and for a while at least, downsized , moved back onto the streets and busked round Europe.

That was our short lived painted love bus period.

Back in the 1990s we could easily tour a small scale show for weeks on end throughout Scotland, playing city theatres, town arts centre and remote village halls in the Borders, the Lothians, Ayrshire, Perthshire, Aberdeenshire and all the other Scottish shires, the Inner and the Outer Hebrides,  Orkney and right up off the map to Shetland, over to Ireland and back again, with crazy touring schedules that seemed to have all logic of tangled wool.  

Best of all were the village halls in far flung places so small they were barely places at all, but merely states of mind, where we’d need rowing boats to get there, saw bits off the theatre set to make it fit through the door,  and where the starting time for shows would be whenever folk eventually managed to get there! 

“Big George’s cows have got loose so we’ll need to wait 20 minutes or so ‘til he gets here!”

“Old Annie says she’ll be here! Let’s give it another wee while afore we start!”

Our shows were sometimes serious, but it was of course our comedy shows that went down best. After all, what brings a community together better than laughter?  Our first small scale touring show as Benchtours Theatre was The Splitting of Latham, (devised with Irish playwright Michael Duke)  a frivolous Victorian farce about an Edinburgh phrenologist who accidentally splits himself into five parts who then all run away to become a Music Hall act.. (btw It was designed by the excellent Graham Hunter, now one of the trustees of Glasgow’s one and only Brittania Panopticon Music Hall.

The show was pure undistilled Ecole Philippe Gaulier, incorporating his trademark styles of melodrama and clown and of course infused with Le Jeu (The Game) which lies at the heart of all of Gaulier’s work.

My favourite part of The Splitting of Latham  was always the beginning, before the show properly began, where I’d sit among the audience and improvise, shouting out insults, and making fun of the cheapness of our set. (my move into stand-up was not altogether unanticipated) The Splitting of Latham was a joyous show and bit of a hit throughout Scotland and beyond.

Our next show – Ship of Fools (again devised with Michael Duke) was very different.  Where Splitting of Latham was full of light and was drawn from the Philippe Gaulier melodrama and clown – Ship of Fools adopted Gaulier’s anti-clown Bouffon style – which mocked the great and the good and in which performers present themselves as a chorus of grotesque Bruegelesque outcasts.

Yes it was funny, but in a pitch black and brutally iconoclastic way, and though the show did well in the cities, and at the Edinburgh festival it often went down like Billy Connolly’s proverbial ‘fart in a space suit’ in many of the remote rural communities that we visited. It even got us banned from Thurso which some people may see as a blessing!  As someone said to us after one performance on the Isle of Skye,

            “When you brought The Splitting of Latham to our village hall, we loved you! That show felt like a gift! It was like being presented with a delicious big box of chocolates or a bouquet of beautiful flowers. Then you brought Ship of Fools, and it was like you’d shoved an ugly dog shit through our letter boxes. What had we done to deserve that?”

 In many ways they were right; it was a perfect example of us not considering the community which had invited us in to play…or using the language of stand-up,  of not reading the room.  We created many touring shows after that, including The Death of  Quixote, Haroun & The Sea of Stories, and  The Bear & The Proposal -which also toured Poland - and while they weren’t all exactly boxes of chocolates, or bouquets of flowers, neither were they dog shits posted through our kind hosts letterboxes.                                          

People sometimes get the idea that these remote rural communities were cultural deserts, with  art-starved locals just grateful to be served up any old half arsed entertainment. But the reality was somewhat different and the small scale touring bar was always high. Such was the health of touring theatre in the 1990s that remote communities were highly sophisticated audiences  often spoiled for choice and quite discerning when it came to their live performance, with opera, experimental live-art,  stand-up comedy and cutting edge comedy theatre from the likes of Communicado, Theatre de Complicité, Ridiculismus, Told By An Idiot, The Right Size  (all now recognisable names on the International festival circuit) and my own Benchtours Theatre Ensemble rolling up outside their village halls every couple of weeks.  

As someone said, “It was like having the best of the Edinburgh Festival on your doorstep – or your shoreline!” 

For a variety of reasons – financial and cultural – that kind of small scale touring doesn’t really exist anymore. It’s a shame because the experience of performing in small remote Scottish communities is quite different to that of the big city theatres.

Playing in a city theatre it feels like the audience are coming into our home space, where the audience abide by our rules and conventions, but playing in those back of beyond village halls, the relationship was reversed; we were guests in someone else’s home space, run according to their rules.  Often, in remote communities, there would be no hotels or B & Bs so we’d stay over with local folk in caravans, outhouses, shared rooms, an occasionally shared beds. You wouldn’t want to have done a dreadful or inappropriate show the night before, as breakfast the next morning might be awkward to say the least, even if people would always be polite.

If the show was short, just an hour or so, as ours often were, the village might arrange for a ceilidh band to come and play after our performance.  After all, people had travelled far and wide from the outer reaches of this remote rural community to be there, and they wanted to make a night of it.

Some of the most memorable nights we had were sharing the bill with The Old Blind Dogs, The Zydeco Ceilidh Band and other great ceilidh dance bands whose names I’ve sadly forgotten.  Of course to some extent I’m looking back at it now through the rose tinted spectacles of nostalgia and relative youth  – none of us had families at that point and lived a typically itinerant devil may care kind of a life. The tours could be gruelling, with all the one night stands, the get ins and gets outs, being endlessly on the road, costumes going unwashed for days and weeks, and with none of the pampering of large scale productions. Nevertheless, it was such a privilege, it was such a lot of fun, and it allowed us to see parts of Scotland we’d never have seen otherwise and meet the  most wonderful people we’d never have met otherwise, and for that we’ll be forever grateful.

Photo: Benchtours Theatre  “Ship of Fools” 1993  (Photo Credit: Jon Stark) :  This was taken on the Water of Leith, at Stockbridge, Edinburgh before the days of Photoshop. That’s me in the blue dress, pink jacket, and long dark hair.  Others Benchtours Theatre members in photo: Clark Crystal, Catherine Gillard, Pete Clerke and Rebecca Robinson,

Isaac Ennis (aka Stewart Ennis) is a writer, actor and stand-up comedian. His debut novel Blessed Assurance was published in 2020.

GAMING BY Euan Scarlett

Hi and welcome to the October edition of The Laughs of Us, a title for the column that seems increasingly mocking to you readers if you’ve been following this nonsense from me, since in recent months I’ve been pretty dour in here and not finding a whole lot of joy or indeed laughs in this hobby of mine, despite still continuing to indulge in it regularly in order to ‘relax’, and ‘have fun’. I expect there’s a certain amount of been there done that, but in less flashy trousers about the situation given I’m old enough to have memories of begging my mum to rent me notoriously terrible movie tie-in E.T The Extra Terrestrial for Atari 2600 from the Video shop only to then beg her to take us back to the shop in time so we could swap it for literally anything else under their very generous terms and conditions for game rentals back then. It is a terrible game, so obviously I own it.

There’s plenty already written on the interwebs about the E.T. game, and how terrible it was, and a very entertaining documentary you can watch on Netflix called ‘ATARI: Game Over’, about how the game was so shit it sank the biggest games company in the world at the time, leading to them literally burying thousands of unsold E.T cartridges in the desert, and how it may almost have destroyed the entire games market completely had a little unknown at the time Japanese company named Nintendo not then stepped in to fill a massive hole, and also as a massive fuck you to Atari who’d previously fucked them on a deal to distribute the NES years earlier in the USA because they thought Nintendo had fucked them on a deal about the rights to produce home versions of Donkey Kong.

Remarkably, the best book on Nintendo I’ve read is also called ‘Game Over’, by David Sheff, which sadly seems to currently be out of print. That whole story of how Nintendo took over and revived an entire industry is recounted there, as well as the absolutely riveting tale of Nintendo’s then inexperienced team taking on Paramount Movies toughest and most ruthless lawyers, and winning, in a copyright battle over whether Donkey Kong rips off King Kong. The highlight of the entire book is the whole negotiation for the rights to Tetris, the story of which is complex, funny and weird, starts with one small-time American software distributor based in Japan taking a gamble on a trip to Moscow, and ends up involving Nintendo’s top brass, the KGB, then Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev, and Mirror Group owner Robert Maxwell, the allegedly deceased alleged fraudster, alleged billionaire and actual father to convicted sex-trafficker and Epstein’s ex-girlfriend Ghislaine Maxwell. The crazy story was recently made into a pleasing movie called ‘Tetris’ in 2023 starring Taron Egerton, though for my money if you can I’d track down the 2004 BBC Documentary ‘TETRIS – From Russia With Love’ which features the actual players telling the outlandish events in their own words. Except for Robert Maxwell, that fat thieving cunt had allegedly already taken a nose dive off a boat to his apparent doom by then, or more likely moved to Epstein Island to avoid impending charges for stealing pension funds. Allegedly.

Anyway I digress, I was talking about being a bit jaded with the whole games thing at the moment. If you are a regular reader you may recall at the end of last month’s article I’d decided to go back to the original Hollow Knight in the wake of the surprise announcement of the release date for Hollow Knight – Silksong, a game which has since then been released and sold absolutely bucketloads in September and which by all accounts is apparently both brilliant and infuriatingly hard, and also another strong contender for game of the year in a year that also has seen Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, Blue Prince, a new Hideo Kojima game and solid new entries in many major franchises. Anyway, as good as it apparently is, I haven’t touched Silksong yet as I pretty much spent the entire month playing the original Hollow Knight, which for me has surprisingly already become one of my favourite game of all time and something I’ll definitely play again at some point. I’m really happy the sequel has turned out to not be shit, but I’m not going to play it until I’ve finished the first one and I’m only at 85% completion. Although I could make a run at the Hollow Knight themselves, whom I assume you are supposed to think is the endgame boss, there’s enough lore dripfed if you’ve been paying attention to suggest otherwise, especially from Silksong protagonist Hornet, and I’m pretty sure 1 final boss isn’t worth 15% completion of this game. In fact I know there’s a shitload more to do because I have an internet at my disposal.

Have I used online guides sometimes – yes. I’ve thankfully made most of my way through the game without resorting to guides but there have definitely been a couple of occasions when I needed to check where to go or what I was supposed to do next as I’d missed the game’s nudges and signposting which became glaringly obvious once pointed out to me, and there’s never any shame in asking for help. As a time-poor adult with other responsibilities I can’t always be arsed running around for hours trying to work stuff out myself when there’s a perfectly good nerd out there that’s already done the legwork for the rest of us. This is no different than back in the ancient times before internet when you’d get stuck on somewhere and have to either hope one of your mates at school got past that bit and would also share the knowledge, or wait until a guide was printed in whatever monthly games magazine you read, or could read for free at the newsagents over the course of several lunchtimes. No-one called the tips hotlines in the manuals for help, you’d be cheaper calling the late night sex-chat phonelines they used to advertise between episodes of Married With Children, Crime Story and Tour of Duty on STV, back when they started for the first time doing TV for 24 hours a day without stopping, and ask Maggie from Blantyre what’s the best route through the third level of R-Type with the giant alien battleship after you’ve lost a life and all your power-ups, Maggie? Also pretend you’re a princess and call me Mario.

So, yes, Hollow Knight, absolutely, unreservedly brilliant, and the small team’s love for what they are creating just shines through. It literally doesn’t do anything new or that hasn’t been done before in countless other titles, and sometimes better, but the whole here is much larger than the sum of the parts. Is it a game that will be for everyone – not even slightly, it’s sometimes almost masochistically hard and sadistic, something that by all accounts the second game has doubled down on and which will turn some players away, and I totally get that, and I genuinely have no clue why this clicked when other similar titles didn’t (looking at you, Nine Sols, but might give you a go again now). However I’m not as jaded about everything being all the same and that I’ve seen everything this medium has to offer anymore, so thanks Hollow Knight.

Originally this month I was going to talk about Boomer Shooters, which is a genre of First Person Shooter games that has recently cropped up which pay homage to the early years of the genre in the 1990s after the original DOOM popularised it. They are usually stylised to look and sound like games that could have been released then and feature more fast-paced arcade-style gameplay than most modern shooters. However I started playing some of them for research and kind of bounced off them, for the most part the ones I played so far were ok but felt like I expect going to see Queen must feel like nowadays – all the guitars and drums are in the right place but the bass is missing and the rest feels like some sad tribute act. So I decided not to continue with that and looked for something else. Pretty much everything is going to struggle to follow Hollow Knight to be fair, I’ve bounced off Chinese soulslike Wuchang: Fallen Feathers and Nine Sols (again); also currently included in game pass I’ve installed Hollow Knight: Silksong, I Am Your Beast, Deep Rock Galactic: Survivor, pedal bike racing RPG Wheel World, something called Mullet Madjack and the remastered Heretic and Hexen bundle and haven’t felt inclined to boot up any of them. I played some Pinball FX for a bit, obviously. Set up the PSVR then couldn’t be arsed subsequently clearing a reasonable space for actually playing it so put it away again, for now.

It’s October which is usually an excuse to play horror themed games and would have been an ideal time to cover the Resident Evil series, especially as Resident Evil 4 is genuinely one of my favourite games of all time and I’ve yet to play the remake. I did, however, play through the 2019 Resident Evil 2 remake again on a speedrun to unlock the unlimited ammo Samurai Edge pistol by S ranking it, which requires completing the game’s main story mode in under 3 and a half hours. Which I did. Now next time, I can use that to unlock the LE-5 Submachine Gun with infinite ammo, by S-ranking the game on hardcore mode, which requires finishing it in 2 and a half hours at harder difficulty. Or I could pay a couple of quid extra and unlock everything that way, but fuck off Capcom, whilst I appreciate that the option is there I like that this has actual unlocks like the originals. I genuinely loved this remake of a title that when it originally came out in the 90s I bounced off, largely because the bigger budget for Resi 2 after the first one was a smash meant the production values had went up and the acting had gone from being so shit it was absolutely brilliant, still one of my favourite parts of the original Resident Evil, to just being shit, and killed it completely for me. I played the first Resident Evil on the Sega Saturn, along with WipeOut and its sequel, and the first Tomb Raider game weeks before it was released on PlayStation, but history has shown that Sony has a very large moneyhat, they purchased publisher Psygnosis who had given us WipeOut, and strangely neither Resident Evil 2 or Tomb Raider 2 or any further sequels were released on the Saturn despite the console being quite successful in Japan.

Anyway, what that all meant is I’m now retrogaming for the next few articles and am currently playing through my Japanese Sega Saturn collection with the help of Google Translate and a 630 day streak on Japanese on Duolingo. I hate the owl but strangely feel the need to do my lessons if the bear harrases me or Lily the goth chips in by telling me she doesn’t give a fuck whether I do the lesson or not. When she clearly does.

Sayonara!

Yusuf/Cat Stevens – Glasgow Royal Concert Hall – 22nd September 2025

by Michael Doyle

I knew from the get-go that this wasn’t going to be an ordinary gig for 2025. Not only was it a show based round the launch of an Autobiography, but there would be no phone usage, they were to be locked up in Yondr pouches upon entering the venue. On one hand you could say that this may rob you of a photo/video to look back on, but on the other,  it forces you to be present in the moment, and present I was. After all, this was Cat Stevens, an artist whose music has permeated my life since I was young  my parents both were big fans.

The atmosphere in the Concert Hall was a little unusual – but in a good way. Everyone spoke to one another, I ended up speaking to a couple who last saw Cat Stevens live in 1974, who at the end of the concert were as transfixed as they were 50+ years ago.

The show was a mix of storytelling and songs. Yusuf/Cat spoke about his upbringing and search for spiritual meaning, resulting in his conversion to Islam in his late 20’s leading to him stepping away from music for almost 30 years, before fully realising his vocation as a musician of peace/joy, bonding his faith with his musical talent. The songs went hand in hand with the story – after all they’re mostly about spiritual meaning. For me personally – mesmerising. The past 40 years of clean living has resulted in his voice  maintaining the quality that made us fall in love with the music in the first place.

I haven’t even yet mentioned the songs; First Cut is the Deepest, Wild World, Father & Son, Peace Train, Moonshadow plus many more. It was such a rare opportunity to see him live, If I’m correct I believe this is only his second visit to Scotland since the mid 70’s. In conclusion it was a wonderful night – though next time (fingers crossed) I’d prefer a more traditional ‘concert’. As interesting as the stories were, the music is what we all carry through our life, and it’s what gives us the comfort we need.

West Princes Street 

This month as it’s Halloween instead of an influencer we have a true story of a haunted Street in the West End of Glasgow!  All 100% true!

This is a true story sent in by one of our regular readers Katy. 

Katy’s story

Before I tell you the stories from my sister, including ones I know of myself, I’ll set the scene.

The house in West Primces Street where we lived is now two flats, but at the time it was s single dwelling with one huge front door and when you opened the door there was a room straight in front (my sisters bedroom). And another 4 bedrooms and a living room, a pantry and a kitchen. One of the bedrooms had a door in the middle which joined onto another room.

My sisters are in order of age are Sarah, Susan, Viv, Diana and Anj with myself being the oldest and I also have an older brother who is a year older and his name is Ronnie.

One of the scariest stories is the one where Anj, Sarah and Viv were in the room which you see as soon as you walk in straight ahead. One day they heard a knocking from the other door in the room (the adjoining bedroom. It stays locked). Anj knocked back and someone knocked back a few times.

Sarah then got a baseball bat to see who was in the room and they all went together to investigate. Once they got to the door, the door was still locked, and there was nobody there and the window was locked!

Another very scary story is one night when Viv was half asleep and she saw a boy who had the appearance of a Spaniard with dark curly hair sitting on the floor in the corner of her bedroom. He said he was scared and Viv tried to comfort him by saying ‘don’t worry I'm here’ and he replied ‘everyone always leaves’.

Viv did what she could to calm down the nervous boy and then fell asleep.  When she fully woke up he was gone and she found herself in floods of tears. 

She was so shaken she told her mum and her mum went white as a sheet because her husband saw the same boy a few weeks before that and he was talking to him and never told anyone! He told my mum the boy looked scared and he offered him a cigarette! (this was the late 80’s remember!).

Another time my mum went into the kitchen where she saw both Diana and Anj sitting on a high shelf and mum asked how they got up there and they said the lady put them there! What lady?

Viv also said she sometimes saw white lights flash through from her mum’s room to the room next to the toilet and now believes they may be spirits! I think the house was full of spirits who have not rested.

Another time Viv heard someone properly crying, sobbing and her and Diana went upstairs to see who this was and the door upstairs was padlocked shut and nobody had entered for years.

Another memorable time was the time where my father saw a man in a kilt and followed him into the sitting room.  When he entered there was nobody there but a teacup ring on the table he was sure had not been there before.  We were methodical about cleaning up after anyone drank tea or left a mess on the table.  He believed it was the old, kilted man's tea cup ring.  But I don't believe in ghosts. 

My father also loved to upcycle and one day found an old brass frame which was stunning so he brought it home. The actual picture in the frame was of a crying boy with a candle but as he wasn’t superstitious, he covered it up with family pics.  Ever since the pic went up bad things started happening in the home such as the bedroom ceiling collapsing and the car breaking down and losing house keys and washing machine breaking down.  It was relentless. There must be a reason for this, my father thought and thought, until he thought a hole in the ground until it came to him, the picture!! That’s the only thing unexplained brought into the house. When he saw the picture, it was peeling and all he could see was the face of the crying boy staring back!  The photos were curled on each corner leaving just the boy’s face with tears.  Once he flung it out things started going well again.

There is also a famous tale based on true events about a woman being murdered for an old brooch.  A green one.  When I was cleaning up behind the big, long doors at the sides of the main door I reached up to find a very dusty block of wood stuck up in the corner.  Wanting to clean it thoroughly I reached on top and there was a dust rag cloth stuck up there which I pulled out.    

On opening it I found a few items, one of which was a beautiful green brooch. My sisters and I pondered this fascinating item for a while over it and then to left it on a table where it was eventually acquired by another of my sisters Sarah, who took it as a bit of costume jewellery.  I never saw it again. 

Years later Diana and Viv went looking for the history of  West Princes Street in the Mitchell library historical records and discovered the story which had newspaper articles all about it.  The green brooch was evidence in a tale of betrayal, vengeance and murder.  Did I find that crucial bit of evidence over 100 years later?  Perhaps.  But it got lost in Sarahs jewellery box....

I am 100% sure the brooch was the one I found! The front door had 2 huge stained-glass windows at either side with shelves right to the top! I found the brooch and my other sis used to wear it as costume jewellery then lost it!!!!! Imagine we had it? Would it have solved a mystery!

 Several years later we heard of the story that had the missing brooch as a centrepiece to the tale and we wondered.

We asked Sarah if she still had the brooch but she said she lost it and simply couldn't find it.

Viv and I always wondered whether that was the brooch that the poor old neighbour had paid for with her life.

It was the next door neighbour who lived at West Princes St who did it.  

Without the brooch in hand we could never get it tested  and as my sister Susan summed it up 'only God will know who did it and they will get their punishment on the day of judgement if karma didn't already get them.'

If it was the same brooch, then it means the neighbour at West Princes Street knew the old lady and her routine well, not surprising since he lived next door.  He waited until the servant went out and took that moment to murder her hoping the murder would be pinned on the maid or some other random person.

The maid or basement neighbour didn't recognise him as he was rarely at his house using it only as a place in the city when he wasn't out the country or away on business.  As he kept himself to himself arriving at night and leaving early in the morning there was no reason for the maid or basement neighbour to know what he looked like.

The murderer was wealthy and only took the brooch to make it look like a robbery.  He fled down the street when the maid caught him in the flat and ran into the Halt bar.  He stayed there drinking all day and well into the night.  The police did speak to him, but he said he was a clueless neighbour who was in the pub all day.  The police didn't think to verify what time he had arrived at the pub because he seemed a well heeled sort of gentleman.

After getting home he concealed the brooch in the side window of his front door where it would be found almost 80 years later by a wee girl called Susan who was cleaning the dust out of the side windows.

But what was his motive? 

He knew that once the old woman died leaving no family he could claim to be executor of her will and property.  This  was using documents he stole from the box whose contents were on the floor with the other paperwork.  He could claim that as a neighbour and good friend of the deceased lady, he was responsible for her estate as she had no living relatives that she was in touch with. 

Because the murderer was a respectable lawyer, he would be accepted as the deceased woman's executor and nothing more would be said about it.

The police were looking for a more ruffian type of criminal and did not pursue the lawyer at  West Princes Street because he appeared to have no motive.

The lawyers tormented guilt ridden ghost could still be seen floating about the flat in the kilt and sporran he was buried with.

One day the family who moved into the home decades later claimed to have seen him from time to time drinking tea and leaving his tea rings in the table.

The family always claimed there was a curse on that street and wherever that brooch is, that curse lingers on with it until the old lady’s soul is freed from the injustice that met her so long ago.....on West Princes Street.

It's an age old mystery.  Now we know who the ghost in the kilt that we used to see was.  The old killers soul unable to be free because of his ill deed.. he finally got the justice he deserved.  An eternity without peace...trapped on West Princes Street....forever.

Pet of the month! 

Captain Olivia Benson 

Likes

Treats; Zoomies Exploring.Sitting at the window people watching

Attacking Feet. Attacking legs, Attacking toys

Hiding in the Christmas tree and then jumping out to attack people.

Attacking people in the dark, Basically living up to her Law & Order SVU name.

Hates 

Getting wet, The neighbours cat, Loud noises 

Bob Geldof, Boomtown Rats, Dogs barking, PDSA Vets.

BONUS CAT IN MEMORY OF LEXI'S CAT TINKER

This was Tinkers- she passed the rainbow bridge on the 26th of aug, but she loved butter, chicken, and love and attention (so much she yelled at 2am until I fussed her to sleep). She hated being alone, when it was too windy, and my mum snoring.