It was with with some sadness that I read this morning of the death of that famous chronicler of a Scotch childhood, Mr Ivor Cutler. Mr Cutler was an obscure figure in his later years, but no one who heard him recite his story, Gruts For Tea, could have any doubt that he had an acute understanding of the grim medical condition known as Scottishness.
Mr Cutler was a Scottish original, as true a reflection of the North-British psyche as pan drops, jaggy balaclavas and joyless ministers pedalling to the bowling green through the haar of a late spring evening.
Somewhere, I trust, a buxom angel is serenading him on a wheezy harmonium.
More about Mr Cutler can be found by clicking his name, above.
2 comments:
Great sadness indeed to lose any poet, especially a genius loved by another genius, John Lennon...
At the last Ivor show I was at, in I think 1999, at the Queen's Hall, he managed to silence a roudy bunch of mostly 30 something males with one disapproving glance. A great man.
Now I I shall go and sit upon the grass and feel my lumps whilst playing with my grain of sand.
Mr K fae M'side.
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