Charlie sat there. Stunned. Confused. Wondering what in the hell was going on. The scene in front of him had the feel of some old gangster movie. The lads out on a hit. But this was a distillery – not a bank. The shop wouldn’t have anything other than the morning float and that was hardly worth getting all ‘Goodfellas’ on the place. Maybe what he was witnessing had a more innocent explanation. A plausible reason to haul an E class Merc into the distillery and empty out three men top to tail in black. A movie? The distillery was a set and Charlie hadn’t been informed? But where were the cameras, the filmmakers – the production crew?

A mistake. It can happen. Some drugged up team who had mistaken a whisky distillery for the local branch of RBS?

April Fool – but a bit late?

The Merc spun its rear wheels and headed up stream.

Charlie’s heart beat hard and he squatted down.

When Charlie was offered a small promotion two years later he took it but he already had his eye on the visitors. Questions worked both ways and Charlie had a natural way about him that visitors loved. No question too hard or too trivial and before long he had taken up the role of tour guide. A rare position back then. Sure, nowadays, there could be up to twenty of them on the go. After all fifty thousand people a year came to see the magic going on inside the copper and wood. But back then he had been king. Still was. Or rather would be until five o’clock today. The king is dead. Long live the king.

The day was cranking up for a hot one but in the shade of the glen there was still a touch of ground frost from a chilly mid summer snap the night before. Charlie swung his legs against the wooden barrel, beating out a rhythm with his heels.

Charlie jumped when the black Mercedes screamed into sight.

He reached the shop but didn’t enter. He didn’t want to look at the rows of fine whisky, lit by spotlight, cocooned in fine wood. It would just remind of him of what he would miss. He passed the visitor centre with its balcony hovering above the waters of a small lake and followed a stream up to the bottom of the waterfall that poured down at the far end of the distillery.

Hidden from view he planked himself on one of the wooden barrels that lay scattered on the banks of the stream and stared back at the place he had worked for most of his adult life.

Twenty four he had been when his father’s friend told him that Glengoyne were looking for some manual labour. He had been lean and fit back then. Six feet tall and not a scrap on him but muscle and bone. A sharp dresser and one for the girls. Labouring at Glengoyne had provided the pennies he had needed to lord it up in Glasgow city centre once a week. He loved the new job.

Charlie took to Planet Whisky like a child to a toy.

In between these bookends, the world also sees off Alfred Hitchcock, Steve McQueen, George Raft, Peter Sellers, Mae West, and Jesse Owens, who won four gold medals at the Berlin Olympics in 1936.

As if the very earth were heaving at these losses, Mount St Helens erupts in the US,  with a colossal column of ash rising twelve miles into the sky, and an accompanying explosion that could be heard 200 miles away.

In happy geological coincidence, it is also the year that father and son team Luis and Walter Alvarez announce their theory  that mankind only got the chance to take over the world because a giant meteorite strike killed off the dinosaurs. It’s been one of the biggest scientific controversies of the last thirty years, an international panel of experts deciding only in 2010 that the Alvararez’s were right all along.

There is also the Iranian Embassy siege in London, ended after 6 days by an SAS assault led by Stirling-born John McAleese, which precipitate action is so dramatic that it interrupts the TV coverage of the final of the World Snooker Championships between Cliff Thorburn and Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins. Many snooker fans still resent that interruption  to this day, though it was not enough to deny  John McAleese earning the Military Medal for his service to his country, including being Bodyguard-in-Chief for no less than three British Prime Ministers .

On the cuter side of the news – and Edinburgh Zoo might want to take notes here – a giant panda in Mexico gives birth to the first cub born naturally in captivity, and, in other animal-related news, Stirling’s own resident celebrity bear, Hercules, who lives with his wrestler owner Andy Robin and his wife Maggie at their pub, the Sheriffmuir Inn, creates global media interest, by wandering off while filming an Andrex commercial on Benbecula in the Outer Hebrides, and going missing for 24 days. Quite how he could remain hidden for so long a place so small and flat as Benbecula is a mystery, but he is eventually spotted and recaptured, and is rewarded by getting a part in the James Bond movie Octopussy, is featured on the cover of Time Magazine, and even caddies for Bob Hope at Gleneagles.

And last, but not least, the WHO declares that the scourge of smallpox has finally been eradicated from the world – except of course in Hollywood, where it is routinely resurrected for filmic purposes,  to give hardworking actors a bit of cash.  Hercules Fights Horrible Dieseases in the Hebrides hasn’t yet made it to the big screen, but if it ever did, I’d be first in the queue for a ticket.

Make the most of your Jubilee weekend!

Britain’s best loved home event and the Consumer Show of the year, The Ideal Home Show is returning to the SECC in Glasgow from 2nd­5th of June. The Glengoyne team along with Olly Smith will be there offering some wonderful whisky tasting tips too. And for all our friends we are delighted to have a 241 ticket offer just for you.

There is no shortage of brilliant and inspirational things to see to buy, from exploring the spectacular Prince¹s show home, expert advice, stunning interior room sets, celebrity chef live cooking demonstrations, ideal woman pampering, tasty treats, brilliant show gardens, the latest gadgets and gizmos, and all the shopping you could wish for!

Not only a great day out for the family but you can see a whole host of celebrity ambassadors at the show from Lorraine Kelly, Laurence Llewelyn Bowen, Gregg Wallace, George Clarke, Diarmuid Gavin, Suzi Perry and John Amabile.

To claim your 241 tickets (£15 full-price adult tickets) simply call the 24 Hour Box Office on 0844 894 2010  and remember to quote WH241 Or alternatively, visit www.idealhomeshowscotland.co.uk, where you can also claim tickets quoting WH241

Charlie looked over the road beyond the gate at the storage buildings in the distance. He had been here for four decades but there was whisky lying in the stores that had been laid down before Elvis had his first number one. Charlie was a youngster compared to some of the barrels that oozed the angel’s share out year after year.

He didn’t even have anything to do today. He had been due to finish a week ago but when one of the other tour guides had fallen sick Charlie jumped at the opportunity to work one more week. But it had been a mistake. Charlie wasn’t needed. All the goodbyes had been said and when Charlie reappeared, awkward was the most used word of the day.

Charlie had never felt so unwanted.

For Charlie there was no feeling of elation as his last day approached. As the clock ran down, instead of cutting back, he had ramped it up. Putting in unpaid overtime. Filling in at weekends. In the last month there wasn’t a spare hour that he hadn’t grabbed. ‘You’d bloody live there Charlie!’ Nora was right. He would have loved to live there. But all good things come to an end. At least that’s what he had told himself when he informed the girl at HR that he wanted to call time on his job.

He’d expected a little resistance. ‘Why do you want to quit Charlie?’ ‘Have we done something Charlie?’ Not that his colleagues hadn’t been surprised.  But rather than challenge his decision they had taken the light hearted route.’ I thought they’d bury you here.’ ‘The place will collapse when you go.’ ‘Have you informed the papers?’

Charlie felt cheated.

Happier times for Margaret Thatcher in the UK, who becomes Conservative Prime Minister, and immediately quashes Labour’s plans for devolution in Scotland and Wales.

It is a good year, though, for crime-related happenings, seeing the wild success of Stephen Sondheim’s musical Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, and also the publication of Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song – an account of the dismal life of incompetent criminal and double murderer Gary Gilmore, whose claim to fame arises only because he is the first person executed in the US following the reintroduction of the death penalty three years earlier. Offered the choice of death by hanging or  firing squad, he chose the latter, ending his days in the deserted canning factory at the back of the prison strapped to a chair. Despite the bullet-damage, a large portion of him lived on, however, most of major organs sent for transplant, including his corneas, which earned him a place in one of the most memorable songs of the punk rock era: Gary Gilmore’s Eyes, words by T.V.Smith, frontman of The Adverts.

Speaking of murdering songs, it is also the year when Sid Vicious, bassist of the world’s first ever punk band, The Sex Pistols, dies, following various spells in prison charged first with stabbing his girlfriend to death, and then with assault. It was during a party celebrating his release from prison on bail that his mum had a load of heroin delivered. The next day, despite having been clean and sober for months, poor Sid was dead as the pet hamster from which he took his name.

Your family may not be perfect, but think on Sid’s and count your blessings.

And we absolutely cannot leave 1979 without commenting that it is the hundredth year since the Tay Bridge Disaster, which occurred on 28^th December 1879, and will be remembered for a very long time, according William Topaz McGonagall who is remembered for his stirring ballad on the tragedy, which ends with such good and sound advice:

For the stronger we our houses do build

The less chance we have of being killed.

Precisely.

Following hot on the heels of Ann Cleeves and Clio Gray…fellow writer, international marketeer, lover of all things crime fiction and Co-Founder of the Bloody Scotland International Crime Writing Festival (does he ever sleep?) Gordon Brown has taken the brave step of writing a brand new and exclusive 12-part short crime story sure to get the creative juices, not to mention the whisky, flowing freely.

We’ll be publishing the story over the next few weeks in bite-sized 250-word chunks,  but before we do that, we caught up with Gordon to ask him a few questions about his writing career, his involvement in the Bloody Scotland Festival and that all-important question of where he gets his ideas from.

Keep your eye on the blog for the first update, and remember to check back each day for the next instalment!

So, Gordon, can you tell us a bit about how your short story developed?

‘Bottle’ started in a much darker place. As a crime thriller writer I had visions of bodies hidden deep in the distillery. Kidnap, murder – the usual. But after a kind invite up to Glengoyne I scrapped the original idea. After seeing the care that went into the making of their whisky it seemed a better idea to make the whisky the hero. The finished story was originally written as single piece but I liked the idea of releasing it bit by bit and changed it to allow 250 words to be published each day.

I’m delighted that Glengoyne are supporting the short story competition. As part of the discusions around Bloody Scotland it was key that we had an outlet for new talent and the shortly story competition is central to this. I’ll be intrigued to see what entries we get. With such an open theme in ‘Worth the Wait’ it gives license for the writers to explore a wide range of areas and with the opportunity to win a fantastic prize and have the story published we are hoping for some great stories.

How did your writing career start?

I’m sitting on the edge of my Gran and Grandpa’s creaking old brass double bed. It fills every inch of the room and it’s where I’ll one day divvy up the north east of Scotland allocation of tickets for the nineteen seventy six Scottish Cup Final between Rangers and Hearts (3-1 in case you wanted to know) – my Grandpa was connected to the Scottish Football Association. It’s the late summer of nineteen seventy-five and I’m three floors up on the corner of Cross St and Mid St in my dad’s home town of Fraserburgh and the smell of the fish gutting factory is heavy in the air. I’m thirteen years old and I’ve just finished ‘Tom Swift and His Cosmotron Express’. Tom and his friend Bud Barclay have seen off the evil VIPER and I’m clean out of books. I’ve read every Hardy Boy, Tom Swift and Famous Five book going. Then my Gran walks into the room. ‘I’m going to the library. Do you want anything?

A book,’ I mumble. I’m so a teenager.

An hour later she returns and drops James Herbert’s The Fog on the bed. I pick it up and read the first line – “The village slowly began to shake off its slumber and comes to life.

Life changed.

People lopping off other people’s private parts – blood – violence – SEX. I was hooked and the fact I read it from cover to cover that afternoon and went out the next day to get James Herbert’s first book, The Rats,  told me that Tom Swift and the Hardy Boys were history.

Since that moment I can’t remember a day that I haven’t had at least one book on the go – more likely three or four. I was, and still am, a book junkie. And from this came a deep desire to write.

It is all so prescient now – right now – with my third novel in the offing novel and I can trace it all the way back to that day in Fraserburgh. Without my grandmother’s efforts to please her eldest grandchild I reckon my life as a novelist would have been stillborn.

Thanks Gran.

How did you get involved in the Bloody Scotland festival?

I’m a member of the Crime Writing Association (CWA) and the chair, Alex Gray, organises a monthly lunch for the members. About a year ago fine food and fine company were merging at the British Overseas Club and we were chatting and enjoying the view of Edinburgh Castle when the talk turned to Crime Writing Festivals. Alex along with Lin Anderson, two great authors, had, over a bottle of Proseco, discussed the idea of a Scottish Crime Writing Festival a few years before and Imade the mistake of asking why it hadn’t happened? Go figure but the next thing I’m banging on about ‘How hard can it be?’. One thing leads to another and a team was formed to talk over the opportunity. Clock forward to today and we are closing in on a forty author, twenty event, three day, two venue International Crime Writing Festival in September.

How would you suggest budding crime writers get their work published?

I attended a session at the Edinburgh Book Festival the year before my first book was published. Sad to say I can’t remember the name of the author. I had been bashing out pages of material since my twenties and had got nowhere. The talk was inspirational. Not because it was well presented or even that interesting but it triggered in me a memory of a book by Stephen King, called On Writing. When I got home I dug it out and re read it. It’s the best book I know on the craft and from then on I had one objective – write something that someone wants to read. Mr King had three rules – well he has a few more but the three that worked for me are:

a) Always write about something that you enjoy – it makes for a better story.

b) Set yourself a target – a hundred words a day, a thousand – whatever – that way you go from the phrase ‘I’m going to write a book,’ to the far better ‘I’m writing a book.’

c) Keep reading. It’s the best way to keep the stimulus coming for your own work.

After this it’s just perseverance and leg work. For any publisher or agent you need to check out if your work fits with what they want – it’s all on the internet. There’s no point sending a crime novel to someone looking for factual history books. Next step – make the letter and the synopsis a killer – work it until it hurts and then work it again. Make it as engaging and interesting as you can. If you can’t do this then why will they believe you can write a book. Then get down and dirty and start sending. And if all else fails maybe the book you have isn’t the winner. Then it gets tough but maybe you need to start a new one. Stories of authors that succeed after forty or fifty rejections are common but the reality is that it doesn’t happen that often. Many authors have a trail of unpublished manuscripts behind them. Not what the aspiring author wants to hear but why kid yourself?

Where does your inspiration come from?

‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ It’s the most common question in the literary world. The short answer – from anywhere and everywhere. The long answer is that you need to find your own way to unlock the creativity in your head. In my day job I teach creativity and the good news is anyone can be more creative – it’s not an innate skill but a learned one. The secret is stimulation. Take it away from writing a book and look at the way ideas appear in the non literary world. Where do you have your best ideas? The shower, the bed, the pub? Not many people have their best ideas sitting a desk in front of a keyboard. Staring at a blank screen only works for a few. Find your own source of stimulation – take Raymond Chandler’s thought –  ’When in doubt, have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand.’ Think it through. What would happen next? What are the implications for the characters? Where does it take you? Then forget about the man with the gun and see what you have left. I like being extreme. What if the main character died right now? What if their left leg fell off? Anything to get me out of that drying up river. Ideas are cheap and they don’t mind if you throw them away. So find as many as you can and choose the ones that work.

In England, Louise Brown gives birth to the first ‘test-tube’ baby, even as Japanese explorer Naomi Uemura reaches the North Pole all on his own – if you don’t count the dogs – the first person ever to do so. And up above them both, in the heavens, another kind of endurance record is being set, as several Soviet cosmonauts remain in orbit on the Salyut 6 space station for 139 days and 14 hours.

But forget all that – mere trifles!

For this was the year that also brought us such miracles of celluloid as The Deer Hunter (who had heard of Russian roulette, or The Cavatina, before then?) and Ingmar Bergman’s Autumn Sonata; close on the heels of these masterpieces come two more films that would soon stand as landmarks for the seventies: the very imitable National Lampoon’s Animal House, and the seminal one-word titled Grease, that boosted the sales of spray-on latex jumpsuits by about four and a half billion, which, by chance, is the approximate population of the world at the time.

All time-lines are by necessity incomplete, yet we cannot leave 1978 without marking the passing of Kurt Gödel, inventor of the Incompleteness Theorem, which dragged the Liar’s Paradox into the 20^th century, and squeezed it until it screamed…