SATURDAY NIGHT AND SUNDAY MORNING
THE LATEST FIRST BASE BOOK
Fifty years ago a new film took Britain by storm.
It was called ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’ and it gave a screen debut to a young actor from Salford called Albert Finney – you will maybe know him as one of the CIA bad buys from the Jason Bourne movies.
So what was the big deal about the film way back in 1960?
Well, for the very first time it offered millions of Brits an up close and personal view of an exotic place called ‘The North’. It told the stories of those who worked in the smoke belching factories that were once upon a time a common sight right across the northern half of Britain.
Up until then, films were made by people who lived in nice houses in LonDan. They steered well clear of the hard northern streets and the plain speaking folk from the terraces. For the first time half of Britain was able to watch how the other half lived with open mouthed surprise.
In many ways the idea behind this book is similar. Every day, adults read horror stories in the tabloid press about how completely dreadful the young people of today are. Few adults however have the faintest clue about the reality of a modern day ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’: of what kind of mini dramas are played out every weekend in parks and alleyways across Scotland.
Hopefully the stories you are about to read will give you an insight into the reality of this weekend world, just as Albert Finney’s movie did all those years ago. Obviously I couldn’t have written the book without the help of lots of young people who pointed this fifty year old writer in the right direction. In particular, I need to thank Robbie for putting meat on the bones of the stories. You should know that all the various characters are completely made up and so if you think anyone is you, then you’re wrong! No doubt some of you will have a view on who the SYT and AMP represent. I’m saying nothing!
Anyway. Enjoy the book. And if you reckon you can do better then turn to the section at the back.
Mark Frankland
2010
It was called ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’ and it gave a screen debut to a young actor from Salford called Albert Finney – you will maybe know him as one of the CIA bad buys from the Jason Bourne movies.
So what was the big deal about the film way back in 1960?
Well, for the very first time it offered millions of Brits an up close and personal view of an exotic place called ‘The North’. It told the stories of those who worked in the smoke belching factories that were once upon a time a common sight right across the northern half of Britain.
Up until then, films were made by people who lived in nice houses in LonDan. They steered well clear of the hard northern streets and the plain speaking folk from the terraces. For the first time half of Britain was able to watch how the other half lived with open mouthed surprise.
In many ways the idea behind this book is similar. Every day, adults read horror stories in the tabloid press about how completely dreadful the young people of today are. Few adults however have the faintest clue about the reality of a modern day ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’: of what kind of mini dramas are played out every weekend in parks and alleyways across Scotland.
Hopefully the stories you are about to read will give you an insight into the reality of this weekend world, just as Albert Finney’s movie did all those years ago. Obviously I couldn’t have written the book without the help of lots of young people who pointed this fifty year old writer in the right direction. In particular, I need to thank Robbie for putting meat on the bones of the stories. You should know that all the various characters are completely made up and so if you think anyone is you, then you’re wrong! No doubt some of you will have a view on who the SYT and AMP represent. I’m saying nothing!
Anyway. Enjoy the book. And if you reckon you can do better then turn to the section at the back.
Mark Frankland
2010
EXTRACT
A DOCTOR’S SURGERY WAITING ROOM IN DUMFRIES
TEN YEARS FROM NOW
It wasn’t like there was only the three of them in the room. That would have been way too weird. The waiting room was packed of course, just like waiting rooms were always packed. The days when patients could pick up the phone and fix an appointment with their GP had become a very distant memory indeed. Like a faded old photo on a faded, peeling wall. Some of the older patients could remember days when doctor’s surgeries made an effort to make their waiting areas comfortable with easyish chairs and water coolers. Another distant memory. There was nothing remotely easy about the five lines of cold metal chairs that faced the gleaming white wall.
Fifty pairs of eyes were morosely fixed on the 3D holograph that danced and jumped in the space beneath the ceiling. Once upon a time this kind of 3D vitual reality had been deemed ground breaking and exciting. Now it was nothing more than the norm. A beaming blond woman was enthusiastically reminding her audience to avoid the latest happy, happy pills that were flooding in from China. With bubbling energy she pointed out that the problem with the happy, happy pills was that they didn’t make you happy, happy at all. Oh no. Anything but. Instead you would become depressed and violent and more than likely to end up in one of the new detention camps in the North of Scotland. And suddenly the bubbly blond lady had vanished from the air and in her place there was a line of grim looking men wearing yellow jumpsuits digging away at a pile of sand. A jingle reminded the audience that happy, happy pills only ever made you sad, sad. The guys in the yellow jumpsuits certainly looked suitably sad, sad. They looked cold and bored and sick to the back teeth of shovelling sand. Think your life is bad? Well try doing this for a month or two….
There was no clock on the wall.
Research undertaken by the University of East Anglia had concluded that a clock only made the time seem to go more slowly. There was no doubt that getting to see a doctor had become a horribly time consuming business. It was something that the British had come to discuss endlessly. Even the weather had been demoted to second place in the hit list of things the Brits liked to moan about. Politicians were forever making promises to reduce the waiting time. Well. They promised lots of things. Nobody believed a word of it any more. Those in the room who had downloaded newspapers onto their various multi-media players were able to read that the average November waiting times had stretched to six hours and fourteen minutes. But that of course was an average. Those at the front of the queue had already been in the room for well over eight hours.
The pensioner who was first in line had taken his place in the queue at ten past two that morning. He came from a generation that had been taught that the early bird would catch the worm. Surely the queue would be smaller at two in the morning? No chance. The queue was never any smaller. Not in Dancaster. Not in Dunoon. And not in Dumfries.
“William Burns please.”
The tinny voice from the hidden speakers snapped over the sound of the latest hologram which was by now the news: a group of hollow eyed soldiers calling in an air strike from a dusty trench somewhere in the Iranian desert.
The old man at the front of queue got to his feet slowly. The long hours and the hard chairs had seized him up. It took him a while get his body straight. There was a slight impatient shuffle in the room. Come on. Get a move on…
With the dignity of age, he collected his walking stick and made his way through the door to the waiting doctor. And now everyone else got to their feet and moved from one metal chair to another. Another chair nearer. Ten minutes closer. By now the Secretary of State for Defence was hovering in the air looking suitably grim faced. Of course the news from Iran was disappointing. No, he was not ready to accept that the army had suffered a defeat. Absolutely not. It had been a tactical withdrawal. He offered his condolences to all the families. He promised that the forces of the coalition would regroup and consolidate their position. He promised that the Government was absolutely determined to make sure that every single brave British soldier had the very best equipment available…
The patient who took the old man’s place at the head of the queue was much younger. How much younger? Well that was hard to say. He was the sort of guy who no-one would give much of a second glance. Unless they happened to be a shopkeeper of course, in which case they would watch him like a hawk from the minute he walked in to the minute he walked out. His rumpled charity shop coat and jeans might as well have been a uniform. Drug addict. The rest of his appearance merely confirmed the first impression of the clothes. Lank hair. A thin pinched face in need of a good wash. Bony fingers capped by dirt encrusted nails. Dark, hollow eyes that were locked onto the hologram in front of him without registering any of what was being said. Had he smiled he would have revealed a sad collection of stumpy brown teeth care of five years daily Methadone treatment. Not that he smiled much. What was there to smile about?
He wasn’t on his own of course. In the ranks of chairs behind him there were ten more just like him. Nobody noticed them much and why should they? They had become a permanent part of the scenery. The crash that had set Britain spinning down towards the Third World had created hundreds of thousands like the man at the head of the queue. They were the ones who looked to pills, potions and powders as a way to hide away from the grinding misery of their lives. In a world where there were hardly any jobs, they were destined to remain at the back of the queue. They lived off their food tokens, and when the chance came to steal something, they would steal it. But that didn’t happen all that often. Not many had much worth stealing any more and those who did lived in the new gated communities which were guarded by hard faced veterans of the Iranian war.
Every day the ghost like figures would take their Methadone and count down the hours in their boxy little rooms. They were the nowhere people.
By now the hologram had become a talk show. The A list host was cosying up to her A list guest. They chit chatted about people they both knew and the fabulous places they both frequented and fifty sets of eyes watched and envied and hated. These were the ones who lived behind the high gates and never, ever had to queue to see a doctor. These were somewhere people of the holograms.
“Arthur Seaton please.”
Hearing his name seemed to send a slight jolt through the nowhere man at the front of the queue. Had been wearing a watch, it would have told him that it had taken eight hours and thirteen minutes. But of course he wasn’t wearing a watch because he didn’t have a watch. The last time he had worn a watch had been nine years earlier. It had been a birthday present from his Nana. He had pawned it for a tenner bag of heroin. Just like he had pawned everything else.
He jumped to his feet and scurried through the door to the doctor’s room where he was waved to a seat. She was new. Well, she was new to Arthur. Twenty something and smart as paint. She gave him a brief ‘hello, sit down please’, but her eyes never left the screen.
He sat and stared at the screen himself. Not that any of it made any kind of sense to him. After a couple of minutes the doctor obviously felt that she was up to speed. She pulled her glasses from her nose and dropped them down onto the desk.
“Methadone, yes?”
“Aye.”
“Are you still happy with the level?”
“Aye. It’s OK.”
“Good. Any other problems?”
Any other problems! How about every single second of my useless, lousy life? How about that? But he didn’t say it of course. And he very much doubted that she would have heard him even if he had said it. Instead she was already pecking at her key board.
“No. I’m alright.”
“Good. Excellent. I have renewed your prescription. We’ll see you in a month then shall we? Of course. Well. Good bye then.”
“Aye. Thanks.”
Her back was already turned. A couple of taps with her manicured nails triggered the voice outside to summon the next in line. Did she even notice that Arthur had left the room? Probably not.
Nobody noticed the nowhere men.
TEN YEARS FROM NOW
It wasn’t like there was only the three of them in the room. That would have been way too weird. The waiting room was packed of course, just like waiting rooms were always packed. The days when patients could pick up the phone and fix an appointment with their GP had become a very distant memory indeed. Like a faded old photo on a faded, peeling wall. Some of the older patients could remember days when doctor’s surgeries made an effort to make their waiting areas comfortable with easyish chairs and water coolers. Another distant memory. There was nothing remotely easy about the five lines of cold metal chairs that faced the gleaming white wall.
Fifty pairs of eyes were morosely fixed on the 3D holograph that danced and jumped in the space beneath the ceiling. Once upon a time this kind of 3D vitual reality had been deemed ground breaking and exciting. Now it was nothing more than the norm. A beaming blond woman was enthusiastically reminding her audience to avoid the latest happy, happy pills that were flooding in from China. With bubbling energy she pointed out that the problem with the happy, happy pills was that they didn’t make you happy, happy at all. Oh no. Anything but. Instead you would become depressed and violent and more than likely to end up in one of the new detention camps in the North of Scotland. And suddenly the bubbly blond lady had vanished from the air and in her place there was a line of grim looking men wearing yellow jumpsuits digging away at a pile of sand. A jingle reminded the audience that happy, happy pills only ever made you sad, sad. The guys in the yellow jumpsuits certainly looked suitably sad, sad. They looked cold and bored and sick to the back teeth of shovelling sand. Think your life is bad? Well try doing this for a month or two….
There was no clock on the wall.
Research undertaken by the University of East Anglia had concluded that a clock only made the time seem to go more slowly. There was no doubt that getting to see a doctor had become a horribly time consuming business. It was something that the British had come to discuss endlessly. Even the weather had been demoted to second place in the hit list of things the Brits liked to moan about. Politicians were forever making promises to reduce the waiting time. Well. They promised lots of things. Nobody believed a word of it any more. Those in the room who had downloaded newspapers onto their various multi-media players were able to read that the average November waiting times had stretched to six hours and fourteen minutes. But that of course was an average. Those at the front of the queue had already been in the room for well over eight hours.
The pensioner who was first in line had taken his place in the queue at ten past two that morning. He came from a generation that had been taught that the early bird would catch the worm. Surely the queue would be smaller at two in the morning? No chance. The queue was never any smaller. Not in Dancaster. Not in Dunoon. And not in Dumfries.
“William Burns please.”
The tinny voice from the hidden speakers snapped over the sound of the latest hologram which was by now the news: a group of hollow eyed soldiers calling in an air strike from a dusty trench somewhere in the Iranian desert.
The old man at the front of queue got to his feet slowly. The long hours and the hard chairs had seized him up. It took him a while get his body straight. There was a slight impatient shuffle in the room. Come on. Get a move on…
With the dignity of age, he collected his walking stick and made his way through the door to the waiting doctor. And now everyone else got to their feet and moved from one metal chair to another. Another chair nearer. Ten minutes closer. By now the Secretary of State for Defence was hovering in the air looking suitably grim faced. Of course the news from Iran was disappointing. No, he was not ready to accept that the army had suffered a defeat. Absolutely not. It had been a tactical withdrawal. He offered his condolences to all the families. He promised that the forces of the coalition would regroup and consolidate their position. He promised that the Government was absolutely determined to make sure that every single brave British soldier had the very best equipment available…
The patient who took the old man’s place at the head of the queue was much younger. How much younger? Well that was hard to say. He was the sort of guy who no-one would give much of a second glance. Unless they happened to be a shopkeeper of course, in which case they would watch him like a hawk from the minute he walked in to the minute he walked out. His rumpled charity shop coat and jeans might as well have been a uniform. Drug addict. The rest of his appearance merely confirmed the first impression of the clothes. Lank hair. A thin pinched face in need of a good wash. Bony fingers capped by dirt encrusted nails. Dark, hollow eyes that were locked onto the hologram in front of him without registering any of what was being said. Had he smiled he would have revealed a sad collection of stumpy brown teeth care of five years daily Methadone treatment. Not that he smiled much. What was there to smile about?
He wasn’t on his own of course. In the ranks of chairs behind him there were ten more just like him. Nobody noticed them much and why should they? They had become a permanent part of the scenery. The crash that had set Britain spinning down towards the Third World had created hundreds of thousands like the man at the head of the queue. They were the ones who looked to pills, potions and powders as a way to hide away from the grinding misery of their lives. In a world where there were hardly any jobs, they were destined to remain at the back of the queue. They lived off their food tokens, and when the chance came to steal something, they would steal it. But that didn’t happen all that often. Not many had much worth stealing any more and those who did lived in the new gated communities which were guarded by hard faced veterans of the Iranian war.
Every day the ghost like figures would take their Methadone and count down the hours in their boxy little rooms. They were the nowhere people.
By now the hologram had become a talk show. The A list host was cosying up to her A list guest. They chit chatted about people they both knew and the fabulous places they both frequented and fifty sets of eyes watched and envied and hated. These were the ones who lived behind the high gates and never, ever had to queue to see a doctor. These were somewhere people of the holograms.
“Arthur Seaton please.”
Hearing his name seemed to send a slight jolt through the nowhere man at the front of the queue. Had been wearing a watch, it would have told him that it had taken eight hours and thirteen minutes. But of course he wasn’t wearing a watch because he didn’t have a watch. The last time he had worn a watch had been nine years earlier. It had been a birthday present from his Nana. He had pawned it for a tenner bag of heroin. Just like he had pawned everything else.
He jumped to his feet and scurried through the door to the doctor’s room where he was waved to a seat. She was new. Well, she was new to Arthur. Twenty something and smart as paint. She gave him a brief ‘hello, sit down please’, but her eyes never left the screen.
He sat and stared at the screen himself. Not that any of it made any kind of sense to him. After a couple of minutes the doctor obviously felt that she was up to speed. She pulled her glasses from her nose and dropped them down onto the desk.
“Methadone, yes?”
“Aye.”
“Are you still happy with the level?”
“Aye. It’s OK.”
“Good. Any other problems?”
Any other problems! How about every single second of my useless, lousy life? How about that? But he didn’t say it of course. And he very much doubted that she would have heard him even if he had said it. Instead she was already pecking at her key board.
“No. I’m alright.”
“Good. Excellent. I have renewed your prescription. We’ll see you in a month then shall we? Of course. Well. Good bye then.”
“Aye. Thanks.”
Her back was already turned. A couple of taps with her manicured nails triggered the voice outside to summon the next in line. Did she even notice that Arthur had left the room? Probably not.
Nobody noticed the nowhere men.
INTRODUCTION FROM DGHP
Introduction from DGHP – Saturday night and Sunday morning
Through life we all face many challenges and hard decisions which ultimately have consequences for the rest of our lives.
This book talks a lot about decisions which can change lives – especially where alcohol is involved.
And here at Dumfries and Galloway Housing Partnership (DGHP) we know all about challenges – both those facing us as an organisation and those facing our 10,000 tenants across Dumfries and Galloway.
One of the challenges we come across at Dumfries and Galloway Housing Partnership (DGHP) is the issue of antisocial behaviour – much of which can be alcohol-related.
We are pleased to support this latest book which highlights not only the dangers, but the consequences of alcohol-fuelled antisocial behaviour.
Decisions taken when alcohol is involved not only affects your life but it can seriously impact on the life of those around you – whether that is your family, friends or neighbours.
Alcohol-related problems don’t always ‘happen to someone else’ – we are all at risk of being affected. Hopefully reading this will go some way to making everyone think twice about these issues.
If we all work together and help each other make educated choices and decisions then we can strengthen the communities we serve - now and in the future.
We applaud Mark for this hard-hitting, in-depth look at this subject and we hope you enjoy reading it.
Through life we all face many challenges and hard decisions which ultimately have consequences for the rest of our lives.
This book talks a lot about decisions which can change lives – especially where alcohol is involved.
And here at Dumfries and Galloway Housing Partnership (DGHP) we know all about challenges – both those facing us as an organisation and those facing our 10,000 tenants across Dumfries and Galloway.
One of the challenges we come across at Dumfries and Galloway Housing Partnership (DGHP) is the issue of antisocial behaviour – much of which can be alcohol-related.
We are pleased to support this latest book which highlights not only the dangers, but the consequences of alcohol-fuelled antisocial behaviour.
Decisions taken when alcohol is involved not only affects your life but it can seriously impact on the life of those around you – whether that is your family, friends or neighbours.
Alcohol-related problems don’t always ‘happen to someone else’ – we are all at risk of being affected. Hopefully reading this will go some way to making everyone think twice about these issues.
If we all work together and help each other make educated choices and decisions then we can strengthen the communities we serve - now and in the future.
We applaud Mark for this hard-hitting, in-depth look at this subject and we hope you enjoy reading it.
![](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qI4yreyugdc/TTQkjDNMwYI/AAAAAAAAADw/HUZ90cDNADE/S250/Wickerman.bmp)
INTRODUCTION FROM THE WICKERMAN FESTIVAL
FOREWARD
The Wickerman Festival has all the ingredients needed for a good party, lots of people you know, lots of people you don’t know, loud music, food, drink and the come hither hues of neon lighting.
You may be tempted to “Live for the moment” at the Wickerman or indeed any party, however as Seato, Daftie and Bexxy will tell you actions have consequences and in their cases particularly grim and long lasting consequences.
Are we then saying do not live life and enjoy yourself?
No we are not, but we are suggesting that you should read the following stories and work out ways to avoid becoming a real life Seato, Daftie or Bexxy.
If reading these stories inspires you to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard then I for one will be very excited to read the finished results.
Adults can view the lives of young people from a second-hand perspective but each generation has its own language and its own culture and customs.
My feeling is that stories written by young people for young people will have a far greater impact than anything we adults can produce, so what are you waiting for? Read the following stories and be inspired to create your own characters and scenarios.
As Mark points out the five best stories will win a pair of weekend tickets to Galloway’s biggest hoe-down of the summer The Wickerman Festival.
Sid Ambrose
Artistic Director
The Wickerman Festival
The Wickerman Festival has all the ingredients needed for a good party, lots of people you know, lots of people you don’t know, loud music, food, drink and the come hither hues of neon lighting.
You may be tempted to “Live for the moment” at the Wickerman or indeed any party, however as Seato, Daftie and Bexxy will tell you actions have consequences and in their cases particularly grim and long lasting consequences.
Are we then saying do not live life and enjoy yourself?
No we are not, but we are suggesting that you should read the following stories and work out ways to avoid becoming a real life Seato, Daftie or Bexxy.
If reading these stories inspires you to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard then I for one will be very excited to read the finished results.
Adults can view the lives of young people from a second-hand perspective but each generation has its own language and its own culture and customs.
My feeling is that stories written by young people for young people will have a far greater impact than anything we adults can produce, so what are you waiting for? Read the following stories and be inspired to create your own characters and scenarios.
As Mark points out the five best stories will win a pair of weekend tickets to Galloway’s biggest hoe-down of the summer The Wickerman Festival.
Sid Ambrose
Artistic Director
The Wickerman Festival