For Christopher Tait, I should have been there to say goodbye and Clare I always was and always will be your special friend.

Front Cover: The Rainbow Inn, Edinburgh 1986 from L to R: Denis Sweeney, Ian Aitken (aka Eagle down low), Keith Greenhill, Derek Phillips, Peter Carter, Ross Jenkins, Jimmy Officer, Paul Thomson and Gus (Angus) Kerr behind, working bar. 

I would like to express a sincere thank you to a number of people who assisted and inspired me and indeed who motivated me to complete this book. When Shi Shi wished me an ordinary life I realised I’d done enough talking about it, it was time to make it happen. Being Chinese I thought at the time she may have been confused slightly as to the meaning of such wishes but now I’m not so sure; knowing her humour she was most likely baiting me. The young woman with the squeaky Pumas who has achieved so much without realising the significance has unknowingly done her bit. Her work ethic, intelligence and humour were an inspiration as is her independence and inner strength, inherent traits that I’m sure will serve her well in life. Many thanks Miss Yu.

I would like to thank Tracy Fryer of Design Studio Perth for her graphic design skills which make a mockery of my original thinking for the cover.

Paul Thomson and Frank Armstrong deserve a mention, their efforts in putting names to faces in several of the photos was appreciated and the ease with which our friendship kicked in again after so many years was one of those moments. When we met up in 2017 my offer to buy the beer was ignored, Paul giving me a side-ways glance on his way to the bar and muttering, ‘Your money’s naw good in this pub son’! Sarah Kaye and her praise for getting it done when so many people just talk about it and a special thank you to Michael Campbell, Daniel Campbell, Rob Sanders, Dr Norman Gray, Ivan Bradshaw, Rick Low and David McIlhone for all being there, unconditional friends. Brian McLeod and Bill McKenzie belong on that list as do Brendan Hato Hiini and Peter Robertson Reidie and my cousin, big Peter Moran who was more than a friend.

While it may well sound cliché I want to acknowledge and thank my father for his guidance, advice and support during those formative years. He encouraged and steered me towards higher learning which opened my mind and enhanced my ability and willingness to think and while I have no regrets and will be forever grateful, I know I would have made a good carpenter; Jesus was a carpenter. That’s for you Dad, I just had to borrow the line.

Finally, Jim Burns unknown as you were and unplanned as it was, meeting you and hearing your brief story when I was back in Edinburgh in 2016 was fateful and for me the final prompt; thank you Jim, I really do hope you are still about.

The opening-pitch, where the meaning the motivation and the inspiration for all that follows is revealed along with the people who made it all possible, everything divulged in spades. Quite simply this is a story about stories and like most other people who feel the need to pick up a pen there needs to be a purpose which for me is sharing a few experiences, noting a number of standout individuals and their memorable moments and a few special places and related happenings which have me convinced this is a story worth telling.

I’ve tried to stay light-hearted and humorous on each and every page but everyone knows life’s not always like that, things don’t always work out as planned so I have strayed a little at times. Hardly a revelation, there are simply too many people on the planet who were not designed to be happy. For the most part I think I’ve done pretty well avoiding such people it’s not about them, their stories aren’t worth telling. In the event you reach a point and find yourself shaking your head in disbelief, nah… no… can’t be! Relax, have a breather and smile because what follows is all true, Gospel you might say, even the opinion.

For me the ultimate driver was about satisfying a personal craving the need to get it out, getting these little pieces into place, written down as opposed to just floating about between the ears. As the years disperse and life’s little distractions take over, it’s nondescript things that happen to each of us that consume our everyday which we tend to disregard, written-off as meaningless and before you know it, ‘17 has turned 35’¹ . What happens to those moments, the special memories that each of us create and accrue as we go along our journey? Stored, locked away or pasted into picture frames, photo albums, digitised onto MP3 or is it MP4, photos in a shoe box in the wardrobe or under the bed in the spare room that need sorting out one day or it’s all simply lost to vapour. Memories forgotten, crowded out by the noise and distraction that is every-day life or viewed as nothing special so why bother.

I think a little differently, I like to think outside the shoe box and I think the exceptions should be the normal. Time to tell a few tales then about some people I remember fondly which are recalled and recorded here for my entertainment and your enjoyment. There are some who I don’t remember fondly and a few of these arseholes get a mention but it is those oh-so notable people and their stories which have made the real impression, lasting memories for all the right reasons. They are for me anything but ordinary people. I doubt though if they will be cast in bronze or have any other lasting memorial built to greatness or their contribution to the planet’s motions but they are the kind of people who I am sure don’t abide by another’s admiration or approval. They are real.

I thought trawling the memory banks would be challenging and at times it was but I surprised myself. Despite the lapsing of so many years it seems the neurons are still clashing and connecting, doing their thing relatively unhindered despite the abuse. Like the smell of pears soap, going to the movies to see Top Gun in 1986 with Katie Nelson or having a girl friend called Mandy let alone her having four upper front teeth missing, there are some things you just simply don’t forget.

For anybody unfamiliar with Scotland, its people or indeed its language which is probably most people the word Gadgie will be a bit of a mystery, it was for me when I first heard it in Edinburgh in 1986. It was directed at me, I was working in a pub and as you would I thought it was a drink. Having Scottish parents you consider yourself well versed in the vernacular, you have heard it your entire life it’s what you are exposed to daily, you’re tuned into it as a familiar sound, it’s the norm. As a child growing up for me it was the way people spoke and of course you pick up and keep a few of the words yourself despite being born, brought up and residing on the other side of the world.

I think most English speaking nations aside from those of the British Isles perhaps view it with a touch of hesitancy they call it a broad accent which many other English speakers have difficulty with. Once you possess a Scottish accent however, it’s rarely lost unless of course you view it as something unfavourable, a socioeconomic cross like a tattoo before they became fashionable or if you’re Lulu or went to one of those posh examination factory schools like Bambi (Tony Blair) you chose to lose it or were educated not to have it in the first place. The rich vowel sounds of the Scot won’t be acquired if your well-meaning parents stuffed your gob full of plums and derided your pronunciation indiscretions as a child, good intentions by pretenders and linguistic dimwits.

While I had never heard Gadgie previously there are many other peculiarly Scottish words in everyday use which derive from Auld Scots, the tongue of the people of Lowland Scotland which like English is actually a Germanic language. Something I wasn’t aware of and only discovered while doing a little research for this book but I use the term very loosely. There was no serious research effort I simply discovered things that I wasn’t aware of previously as I went along while everything else is plucked from memory. On a personal level it’s refreshing and entertaining if not surprising to be able to recall all of this tripe. Another Scottish word? I think so and while not quite a culinary delicacy nothing was wasted back in the day but I just couldn’t go it at all or porridge for that matter but put black pudding in front of me and I could eat it all day.

What The F**k’s a Gadgie has been simmering for years and apart from the aging process and its prompting it is down to so many others and their subtle influences. I have to acknowledge a few people here all unknowingly I might add who helped convince me this is all worth retrieving. Mostly it’s the people I met while in Scotland on that first venture which began in 1986 but fast forward a few years and there is the likes of Michael Portillo to thank or more accurately his Great British Railways series. I love the way he recreates the lives of the people who defined the places he visits when it was their time.

Robbie Coltrane for saying, ‘Aye good to see you again’, after he ventured into the same bar ten minutes at the back of me (in 1992) at one of those Guest House Hotels in Haymarket you drop into for a couple after work on a Friday. I had just walked past him stranded in Edinburgh traffic, sitting at the wheel of his convertible Mercedes, a classic older model, top down, dark blue suit, skinny black tie, sunglasses and a big grin which I like to think he beamed at me after my hesitant recognition; slowing my walk to compute who he was. There’s what’s his name, um … Robbie Coltrane! I indicated my recognition in a very casual nonverbal way, a reserved smile I think no need to point and say you’re Robbie Coltrane, he knows who he is. His amusement was most likely down to the stunned look I would have been wearing.

It did however impress the shit out of work colleagues when he wandered in saw me and gave me what you would call a knowing little grin. I managed a very casual, ‘Hey Robbie how are you doing’, which received an equally casual salutation back from the big man, ‘aye I’m good, good to see you again’, or words to that affect and then he was off to the bay window where a couple of comfy sofas were occupied by people he was meeting up with. Nobody bothered them and that was that. The questions that followed were quite predictable. ‘How do you now Robbie Coltrane?' ‘You know Robbie Coltrane?' God knows what I said at the time but it was a nice moment.

Actor Martin Shaw is another of note who featured on the British television series: Who Do You Think You Are, his story played its part. Jona Lomu, New Zealand rugby great and his incredible story of dedication, commitment, triumph, strength and humility, he achieved so much in so short a time all with grace and assured calm. Stephen Hawking for what he achieved and for living every day as if it was his last, something I simply cannot image having to cope with and Nick Riewoldt he needs a special mention. After reading his book I wanted to acknowledge him as a man not just a champion footballer (Australian Rules) and by the way Nick it was nice bumping into you in Shanghai in 2019, very pleasant along with the Roast Duck at Hakkasan Cantonese Restaurant, it made my day. I will always be a die-hard supporter of the St Kilda Football Club and like Eric Bana (who found global fame in Troy, Black Hawk Down and as one troubled Romulan in Star Trek) who stated he would exchange an Oscar for a St Kilda Premiership. Well Eric, I too would happily forego the Pulitzer Prize or the Booker in favour of that Premiership Flag flying at Moorabbin.

My upbringing played a big part starting with my Grandfather’s stories of the high seas. His adventures many of which I’m sure were fanciful but later in life I gained an appreciation and heartfelt respect for his life’s story. Incredible experiences most of which were endured from adversity and hardship that was for him everyday life.

Reading Kidnapped and Treasure Island and being told the man who wrote those books, was born down the road from where your mother and father lived in Edinburgh was stuff of legend. Nice one Dad. Then there was Dalglish, Souness, Jordan, McQueen, Buchan, Gemmell, Rioch, Cooper, Andy Gray (I loved his appetite for the football, putting his head where others would fear to tread), Irvine, Hastings and Mighty Mouse McLaughlin to name but a few, although all of this influence kind of flies in the face of the pride and achievement of Scotland and its people.

The migrant story is more often than not an unpleasant one. The Highland Clearances would today be referred to as ethnic cleansing although the skilled migrant departures of the 1950s and 1960s were more an economic choice, greener pastures as it were. That said, it still kind of begs the question I never really pushed my father on. If Scotland and its people are so great why did you leave? That curly one I’m sure wasn’t uncommon and while my father’s pride in being a Scot never faltered he did shake his head at times at some of those nonsense things that bothered him about Scotland or more accurately the thinking of some of its people. The English speaking world is full of people like me who emerged somewhere else because their Scottish parents were lured onto a boat with the promise of a better life, subsidised passage and a job awaiting their arrival. No questions about what school you went to and no diseases to contend with borne of poverty or the quite lawfully stated, Catholics Need Not Apply bile tacked onto the end of newspaper job ads that my father had to contend with upon leaving school in 1954.

Thus, it was the likes of Davey Balfour, Alan Breck and Long John Silver who were the seeds of this budding, near romantic relationship I was developing with Scotland as a boy. I was instilled with a pride prompted by my father’s references and referrals to those great Scottish achievers and world beaters. People like Logie Baird, Alexander Fleming, Bal Venie, John Boyd Dunlop, John Napier, Alexander Graham Bell, Johnnie Walker, Conan Doyle and Robbie Burns and in the fast lane there was Jackie Stewart and Jim Clarke while Jim Watt and Ken Buchanan were beating all-comers in the ring. There is the colourful and sharp wit of Billy Connolly and screen presence of Sean Connery to say nothing of the thinkers, educators, authors, the craftsmen, music makers and warrior King - The Bruce who fought and forged a nation and that uncompromising patriot who was William Wallace. His name sake became Jock Steins last piece in the puzzle that saw him take 11 Scottish men to the height of European football achievement in Lisbon in 1967, much to the disdain of Hearts supporters at the time. William Wallace left Scotland after his playing days and like so many other Scots or claimants to such status he now calls Australia home.

Thanks to Scotland there is golf and despite the wealth and glamour American dominance has imposed upon the sport as it transformed into a global phenomenon with a near cultural attachment to the United States, they have never managed to own it. A country that is more corporation than community which oddly for me displays a reverence to God on their currency play the game on the same terms as everyone else. I like that, despite their wealth and influence it’s the same rules for all, even hackers like me where a handicap can make achievement and the accompanying satisfaction a possibility.

Others on the influencing side of things and hence the thank you list is Irish author Nuala O’Faolain. I think the Scottish story telling trait is one that is shared with the Irish and of particular note for me was a book she wrote called: The Story of Chicago May. The true story of an Irish woman who, you guessed it, ended up in Chicago in the late 19^th century and while millions of Irish made the same journey it’s a story brought to life by the humanity of the author who’s talent and ability to capture this person, this Irish woman’s life in words that personifies the word story teller.

It is tempered somewhat by the authors need to tell of deep sorrow and personal regret she is at pains to express and explain. The grief she needed to share as part of her story it seems was as a consequence of the premature or untimely death of her brother. The cause by all accounts I have assumed was an affliction, one that is common enough if correct, it’s a condition that is self-inflicted and often referred to as The Celtic Curse. I got the impression that in his case it may have been a coping mechanism that became the last resort. It’s taken many too early leaving their memory tarnished somewhat for loved ones, toxic memories akin to the substance that took them. They are feelings I have had to contend with, wonderful memories tinged with sadness, a little hurt, a portion of guilt and some regret but you manage to slot in perspective so the good memories remain ring-fenced and always surpass the bad.

What the F**k’s a Gadgie became the title of this book in no small part thanks to Paul Thomson but also because I thought Lying Shagging Bastard must surely have been taken already. Actually the more I got into the writing the more it could well have been called: Gadgies Galore, Global Gadgies, South Paw Gadgies or The Much Delayed Memoirs of John Who or indeed another contender was: Scotland Revealed, The Untold Story of Boozers, Bastards, Poets and Personalities and You’re Just Like Your father, Ye Cannae Walk Past a Pub was also shortlisted. I even seriously considered; I’ve Never Read so Much Shit in All My Life, it would get some attention on the book shelf not to mention the bus, tram or train. The daily commute and its confinement acquiring some light relief from the close proximity to unknown persons challenge. I know I’d buy it just on account of the title alone.

I venture into stories of football both on and off the pitch as well as more serious conflicts which if you have read the history books is a natural human condition and despite the cost and tragic consequences of war there are some lighter moments worthy of retelling. If pressed I would have to admit something of an interest in warfare or more accurately the continual need for it and the military history that emerges in its wake. It doesn’t fascinate me as such but its frequency baffles me and in the event there is intelligent life out there I can fully comprehend why they keep their distance. It would seem Plato got it right when he said, ‘Only the dead have seen the end of war’.

I take a few liberties toward the end in terms of subject matter it was a dark time and I was in pieces so as a result my opinion of lawyers is revealed along with views on related issues when it comes to Family Law. Two words that shouldn’t be on the same page as far as I’m concerned let alone alongside each other.

Once in Scotland (1986) catching up with family was the immediate priority with the next stop the Job Centre at Leith which in turn led me to bar work at The Rainbow Inn, in Corstorphine on Drum Brae South. Of all the gin joints in all the world as Bogey once said this was where the Scotland adventure really began. If I could I’d go back for a weekend maybe two but in that time, back to 1986/87. Beyond a weekend or two it would require a health warning but my God the laughs, the characters. There were a few hard men, a few who thought they were and a few nutters but they seemed manageable to me in an acceptable way if that makes sense. I spend quite a bit of time on The Rainbow or more accurately its patrons. It gets its own chapter and frequent references for good reason, it deserves a special mention but towards its end I did read it had become somewhat less reputable becoming a gathering place for drug fucked idiots. It’s now an Indian restaurant. I ducked in for what turned out to be a quick beer only for old-times-sake in 2016 just to take a look at the place. It’s never the same when you go back but that’s to be expected and it’s probably just as well.

The incredibly friendly natives in Scotland didn’t have to try hard to do their bit which enabled me to capture much of it on film. It was their warmth and generosity which as far as I’m concerned is second nature to most Scots. Hospitality comes naturally, there was no effort required to make me feel welcome, the moments and memories I have tucked away will always be there. I love those little gems that sporadically come your way like, ‘You lot come to Scotland to take our jobs and steal our women’. On occasion Derek yes we do, it’s called globalisation.

Another incentive was an interview I accidently caught on a television news segment in Australia a few years back, it was pure chance with Sharleen Spiterri no less being interviewed outside the soon to be unveiled Scottish Music Museum. In the event you are asking yourself Sharleen who? I don’t Want a Lover I Just Need a Friend should take care of the blur, song writer and lead singer of Scottish band Texas. The interview was conducted outside the new tribute venue to Scottish music and its musicians, those creative writers and talented performers that Scotland seemed to produce in droves certainly during my music time, the 1980s. There was Simple Minds, Big Country, Deacon Blue, Annie Lennox, Runrig, Capercaillie (Karen Matheson's voice was described by Sean Connery as that of an angel) and of course Texas all high achievers. She captured the point most eloquently and accurately when she said, ‘We Scots like to be heard’ and just as importantly she followed this up with, ‘we like to tell stories’. If you ever happen to turn these pages Ms Spiterri please be so kind as to say hello to your bass-man Johnny McElhone, no need to hazard a guess I have absolutely no doubt we fell out of the same tree.

The compulsion for this book then probably arrived on the day I did but I knew nothing of this little country that was to lend so much of itself to my upbringing and thinking. For anybody in the know a member of that community of tribes known to the rest of the world as the Scots the title is a give-away so you’ll be familiar with what a gadgie is. Well, a fair proportion of you will. The Volvo-Estate (we call them station wagons) drivers who take their kids to Inverleith Park in Edinburgh when Dad is putting in the hard yards at the bank may be the exception. Invariably there will be two children, a boy and a girl, Sebastien and a sister called Monica, they might struggle a little with gadgie as their mother did with the coil sprung dolphin in the playground being a mammal. Put it down to the examination factory schooling where your name and the ability to afford the fees qualifies you entry and probably gifted hubby the first rung of his career at the bank. If they can’t put enough ticks in the right boxes at school because there were too many first cousins in the family tree at least the pretty ones become a good catch. More about Edinburgh’s social divide and the amusing wealthy folk gene pool limitations and related nuances later perhaps.

After an absence of many years I arrived back in Edinburgh late on the evening of 21 November 2016. The following day I was up and about and walking along Rose Street strolling past Scott’s Bar, heading toward the West End post cards in hand thinking about where the nearest Post Office was to off-load them. It was early afternoon and for a reason unknown to me and no doubt to Ian Cooper who happened to be outside chatting with someone as he was lighting up, we both looked and spotted each other at the same time.

Coops always had a gravel pit of a voice and sometimes the words don’t even make it out but there was no doubting the recognition, his barrelling tones managed a, ‘Big fuckin Kiwi John, fuck sake mon’, all said in that distinctive single monotone he has. My response quite simply, ‘Ian Cooper’ and then you have two grown men who hadn’t seen each other in over 25 year embracing each other in the middle of Rose Street. After some small talk we set about getting reacquainted via the age-old invitation, ’Get yourself in here for a bevvy mon’. I didn’t need much convincing, my darling Granny Robertson may have been on to something. I spent a couple of enjoyable hours re-living the past with Coops who was full of questions on what and where over the bygone years. He mentioned that a few of the boys I knew well who were regulars at The Rainbow back in the day tended to drink in the Centurion Bar so I made a note to swing by on the Saturday coming which was only a few days away.

In this digital age when social media maniacs occupy bar stools and cyberspace seems to be the road to all destinations the thought of writing a book did play with my mind a little. I have written so many submissions, reports, agendas, board papers, academic assignments, funding applications, policies, procedures, terms and conditions, countless issues papers directed at influencing politicians and a few; for your information educational pieces to idiots (the Australian Financial Review or the Fin Review as it is colloquially called is a newspaper) who aren’t qualified to write articles on the economy but I have never written anything for my own personal satisfaction and enjoyment.

If you are a finance journalist how can you not have a clue about what a demand curve is? In an article I read over a coffee some years ago a finance reporter suggested an increase in house prices would lead to an increase in their demand and hence construction activity. I countered this with a letter that explained the theory of demand and why the curve slopes downward and to the right. While I acknowledged property investment can be a price driver I never did get a response to that Financial Review article critique but then again I didn’t expect one. I did however marvel at how a journalist who is paid to inform the readership on the economy wasn’t aware of the theory of demand and that price rises lead to reductions in quantities demanded. The Economics of Housing won’t be the title of my next book but I hope to someday read the book on, Why the Australian Financial Review Failed.

Then finally there was, ‘Dae ye ken Frank McIlhone’? It was these words that became the last piece of prompting I required to get serious about this book. It extinguished in a flash the procrastination and the other lame excuses I had been harbouring for years which seemed to vanish when Jim Burns asked me that question in a small pub in Edinburgh in 2016. I’m not sure if things are preordained, I don’t dwell on fate much but in the Centurion Bar on St John’s Road in Edinburgh on the off-chance a few friends from way back when might have been there, his question changed everything.

The Centurion isn’t a big pub so it became obvious soon after entering that Frank Armstrong and Paul Thomson weren’t there that Saturday afternoon. The place hadn’t changed much over the years which is far from a criticism. I went to the bar, had a quick glance about the place for any other familiar faces, spotted no one I recognised and ordered a half-pint thinking I’d just have a quick one and jump on the next bus back into the Town. It was reasonably busy and I found myself sharing one of the semi-circle seats braced against the walls with an older gentleman. There was a brief nod from him and an acknowledgment from me after I sat down. He was sitting by himself but I found out later he was a well enough known regular although his immediate attention that afternoon was on the television screen. He was betting on the horses, drinking a half pint of beer and nursing a whisky.

It doesn’t take long for the conversation to kick in when you wander into a pub in Scotland, which started with a straight forward question from Jim. ‘What’s your name son?' Well, being up for a chat I said, ‘John’. Thinking about it, I would normally give anyone asking my full name although I was about nine before I realised my surname wasn’t, ‘Can you spell that please’? So on this occasion it was just John, I’ve no idea why I didn’t give him my full name as John satisfied my new acquaintance for about five seconds. ‘What’s your surname son?' ‘It’s McIlhone’, thinking the next question may well be, ‘can ye spell that son’? Instead I got, ‘What'? Jim was a bit hard of hearing. ‘It’s Mc-Il-hone’, I said, a bit louder this time, hanging onto the syllables, accentuating the vowels and adjusting the vocals for Jim’s hearing, he needed the volume. He’s paused ever so slightly at the McIlhone, repeated it for me in his guttural tone word perfect and without missing a beat then asked me whether I knew Frank McIlhone but it was put to me as such, ’Dae ye ken Frank McIlhone’?

We chatted for a while and I stayed for another drink. I learned that Jim was born in the Cowgate as was my grandfather (Advocate’s Close) and his father (Stevenlaw’s Close) before him, that the Burns family had moved to Granton which was where my father was also brought up and that he went to St David’s and St Anthony’s schools as had my father. I’m sure he would have known my dad but I couldn’t quite get that across to him, Jim had had a few. There was one thing that he did say that made a lot of sense and I’ve repeated it to a few people since because it highlights the knowledge that can be or is lost when people die. During a pause in our discussion about who was who from his childhood he quite casually but sincerely said, ‘I wish my faither was here, he kent all the McIlhones’. I was quite touched at the sentiment but didn’t give it too much thought there and then although if Dad had been there that day the two of them would have had plenty to talk about and I have absolutely no doubt each of their fathers would have known each other very, very well.

This then is a story about a few notable individuals, mostly Scots who I have encountered on this little journey we call life and the humour which to this day makes me smile. There are the relatives who still live there, my mother and late father both proud Scots who gave me my start and a few others including some who are also no longer with us.

Whether it’s the Scottish people, the location, the impact of those people to the south who share the Island that has enabled this small country to retain her identity, I don’t know. Despite the mass migration, the loss of so many skilled people welcomed by those other countries who benefited from their presence and their contributions it continues undaunted. It has had to contend with poverty made excusable by some as a sanction from God, sustained by ignorance and a lack of compassion or by imposition from an encrusted class system courtesy of feudal overlords. All of this compounding to excuse the intervention and assistance that so many people were in need of. I can very much sympathise with those who chose not to stay and if you look up Gypsy in the Dictionary it reads ... see JOHN McILHONE.

I think there will always be a place called Scotland and a more than fair proportion of the people who live there will rightfully claim and state, first and foremost, I’m Scottish. For the most part then this is a story about a number of those people who to this day make me feel part of the equation and which has me convinced that Scotland and its inhabitants will always retain a very distinct notion they are a place and more importantly a people apart … wha’s like us.

[1] John Mellencamp, Cherry Bomb, Mercury Records, 1987.