Founded and edited by Fine Art graduate Craig Allan, [Untitled] exists to promote the value and contribution of artists and

arts/crafts groups within Falkirk District. By providing a free publication,

online content, an art map, reviews and consultancy [Untitled] offers artists, photographers, writers, theatre and art groups the opportunity to showcase the districts diverse creative talents to a

wider audience.

By constructing a dialogue between artists, local art groups, local authorities and the general public, new information about the arts

can be published, attracting new group members and opportunities within the community as well as raising the awareness of the importance the arts play in the regeneration and conservation

of communities.

If you are currently a member of an amateur arts group or an artist working within the area of Falkirk and would like to see your

work published in the next issue visit untitledfalkirk.blogspot.co.uk

[Contents]

1/ My Gayvourite Thing / Peter Callaghan3/ Harvest Dream / Laura Ann Murtagh4/ Falkirk Art Map5/ Dung Diane / Paul Cowan8/ Andys Nap / Gordon Robertson9/ Protect Yourself With Fire / Dickson Telfer11/ White And The bairns / Alun Robert12/16/29/35 Photo Essay / Craig Allan13/ Taps Aff / Paul Tonner17/ Dookin For Apples In A Hot Chip Pan / Gordon Legge22/ Eddie McEleney23/ Like A Virgin / Emma Mooney26/ Sonja Blietschau27/ Helen / Morgan Downey30/ Quiet Moments / Janet Crawford31/ Vinegar Stroke / Paul Cowan36/ Review / Helen McKinven38/ List of funders40/ Acknowledgements

[MY GAY-VOURITE THINGS]

Twinks in tight tank-tops and bears in black leather.Hairy arsed blokes who say, Please, call me Heather.Married men cruising the loos by the swings.These are a few of my gay-vourite things.

Prissy young fairies and hissy fit drag queens.Butch muscle marys and straight-acting non-scenes.Tory MPs stripped and whiplashed in slings.These are a few of my gay-vourite things.

Lip-synching Streisands and in vogue Madonnas.Fag hags who offload their sand bags upon us.Priests on their knees giving choral blessings.These are a few of my gay-vourite things.

When the dogs bite,When yah poof stings,When Im feeling sad,

I simply remember my gay-vourite thingsLike Golden Balls Beckham while masturbatingAnd then I dont feel so bad.

Peter Callaghan

[A Harvest Dream]

When Harvest Moons ascend in Autumn skies, And peach-kissed sun beams dance til their last breath,Our hope does not fly out as summer dies,But bathes itself in light and conquers death.

The geese come fast to winter on our land,In hundreds strong to make their voices heard.They gather now with space to only stand,The quiet dream at last with millions shared.

With vigour flows our passion once again,A chorus echoes loud from every field.United songs sing strong from every pen,Our movement has its time and shall not yield.

For now the path we seek is lit and clear,As one, we take each step, our prize is near.

Laura Anne Murtagh

Falkirk Art Map provides a new way of documenting and promoting voluntary and amateur art groups, events, venues and

landmarks across the entire Falkirk District, with the aim of providing an easy accessible guide to Falkirks rich cultural

landscape. Proudly displaying the locations of over 40 arts and crafts groups, ranging from metal detecting to sculpture, the art map

aims to have a marker depicting the arts in every town and village throughout the district. Local members of art groups are encouraged

to get in contact with [Untitled] at the address provided below to have their group placed on the Falkirk Art Map.

The mission to have at least one arts or crafts group from every town in the district requires groups to come forward and make

their group known regardless of how small or amateur it is. On first glance of the current Falkirk Art Map its clear that the towns in the South of Falkirk - Hallglen, Avonbridge and Maddiston - are under represented. If you are a member of a group operating in these

areas then Falkirk Art Map wants to hear from you.

Visit the art map at untitledfalkirk.blogspot.co.uk

[Dung Diane] His sleep ended with a golf-ball-sized brown nugget lodging in the back of his throat as he viewed Tuesday morning from a field somewhere outside Caldecruix. He knew it was Caldecruix because of the large signpost right next to the gate of the farmers field that said Caldercruix Ahead.

Before the horse hung its huge arse over his head and pushed out some fresh dung that fell into his snoring mouth, Gordon Campbell had lain passed out in a Glayva induced sleep for 7.5 hours. He jumped up and thrashed around gagging as the potent package that had seconds ago began absorbing into his taste buds was spat out like a bullet and hit the horse in the face. The large beast just stood giving it heavy breathing as Gordon cavorted around like a battery hen. Ya dirty bastard that ye are! he shouted, as brown spray coated every syllable like a chocolate dipped strawberry.

He flapped his arms and went into this rave dance as a tractor rounded the corner adjacent to the entrance. Inside sat an old gnarled man wearing a matted John Deere skip cap. He narrowed his eyes and bounced out the cab like a ninja turtle and hurdled the steel gate in one fluid movement. Gordon knew this wasnt going to be a nice, serene Tuesday morning blether about agriculture. He edged his now shit stained Johan Cruyff dress trainer back two paces and his left stayed solid as Donatello glided towards him like a bull seeing the red cape of war. Ok bawbag, can I ask you why youre in my effin field at 7am on a Tuesday morning harassing big Marcus and eating his dung for breakfast? Gordon was still wearing the false glayva muscle t shirt and shouted back listen tortoise man, I was having a five minute kip and THAT big streak of pish, Marcus, decided to strategically insert a dung brick right into ma gub! I didnt find this field on Trip Advisor, look at the menu and go oh the Dung Diane looks nice I think ill head up for a hearty munch ya auld prick! John Deere man executed a left hook to the tip of Gordons jaw that cut the electricity to his arms and legs as he sunk back into a fresh pile of dung Diane. Big Marcus bent down and snaffled up two of Gordons smashed teeth like Smints, rested his head on the hedge and gazed blankly across the road at the oncoming headlights.

Gordon woke up and stared at a perfect blue sky. For a moment he felt like he was wrapped in a morphine blanket. He let out alittle whistle and remembered the time he and his dad had gone to Portobello for the day during the school holidays and he fed the beach donkey a McChicken Sandwich and five Jawbreaker bubble gums in one go. He had stood there waiting for a big balloon to come out its arse, but the poor animal just started braying and his Dad skudded him over the back of his head! Whistle Whistle Whistle He felt a horrific fisted knot in his gut as reality oozed back into his body and mind computed as reject. Never in his life had he been able to whistle, but he now matched Alan Whittaker as his two front teeth, now floating in Marcuss gut, were waiting there to be turned into a honking pillow. He made his way to the bus stop about 100 yards down the road and tried to clean himself. He looked at the timetable just as a Maddiston bus pulled up and stopped. It was empty and he said yes, no one will see me in this state to himself as the doors opened, the warmth of the bus covered him like a freshly run bath. The driver took a look at him and said, just go and sit up the back pal, you look like youve had a shit morning!! Gordon closed his eyes as the ironic joke made him laugh and he thanked the driver before sitting down, thanking God for this little bit of cosy solitude. The bus started to pull away then skidded to a halt, the doors opened and Gordon froze as Tanya Brownley got on and clocked him sinking into his seat up the back. He had just sent her a friends request on Facebook on Saturday and a private message asking her on a date which she had accepted in the space of about twenty seconds. She shouted up, holy shit Gordon, fancy seeing you on the Caldercruix to Maddiston bus. Hahahahah,holy shiiiiiiiiiit!.

Paul Cowan

[Andys Nap]

Ah cannae really mind jist whit the time wis But the news hud jist went aff an ah wis waitin fur the film Sheila wis in the kitchen, clutterin aboot makin tea, an singin a wee song tae hersel Ah dinnae even ken whit triggered it aff It could huv jist been the watter heatin up an bangin against the pipes The wean hud made a noise jist like it when ahd held hum in ma airms at six ocloak Ah thought ah still hud time tae poke ma heid aroon the door - jist tae check he was awright - Afore settlin doon tae watch the film Mibbe it wis the air-conditionin, or the broken landin windae But as soon as ah passed ma ain bedroom an walked intae Andys ah felt ma airms git cauld An when ah looked doon at the cot an ah couldnae see his face Well, ma hert hit ma heid an the room pressed intae me Ah touched his wee heid wi ma haun an turned hum aroon tae face meHis cheeks wur blue - the same colour is his eyes It wisnae really an immediate thing; ah didnae scream or greet Ah think ah thought he wis mibbe still sleepin; huvin me oan, ken? So ah played wi his hair an ah sung hum a wee song A song that wid eyeways pit hum tae sleep Ah didnae even think o shoutin fur Sheila, or phonin the polis Why phone the polis? Thur wis nae need Aw ah wanted tae dae wis sing the wee laddie tae sleep Ah think ah whispered his name a coupla times - jist tae see hum smile - But ah didnae dae it loud Sheila came up twinty minutes later an ah wis still stannin there Singin ma wee song an soakin ma face wet wi ma tears She screamed like a banshee an grabbed the wean like it wis a bar ochocolate an she wis starvin Haudin an shakin an skelpin an greetin But nane o it worked Andy wis awa Sleepin an dreamin o angels

Gordon Robertson

[Protect Yourself with Fire]

Tuesday, 23nd September 2014

Ken, some folk actually hink ah voted YES cos ah hate the English. Fucks sake, whit is that aw aboot? Del says, glancin roond the tube at the melancholy faces, checkin tae see if onyones listenin.

Ah voted YES fur various reasons, ah continue, bit mainly cos the bellends who run this country plan oan spendin ten billion quid o taxpayers hard-earned dosh oan weapons o murder an yaesin Scotland as the storage space. Ah point in a direction ah believe tae be North, bit its hard tae tell when yer undergroond.

Its goat fuck all tae dae wi no bein understood doon here, or the union fuckin jack, or 1966.

Whit happened in 1966 like? Del says, an we blurt oot shoulder-bobbin laughs, resortin tae the default silent-sombre etiquette o the London Underground once they fade. Here, dae ye hink shes gaun tae the gig? Del nods at the rid heels o a glamorous black girl.

Every chance, ah say, an ah look doon at oor bright rid suede brogues, kennin fine thit folk in London willnae bat an eyelid fellow Kate Bush fans excepted bit if we wore thum oan a night oot in the wrong part o Glesga, the chances o bein cawed a poof or bein threatened wi physical violence wid be somewhaur between 92 an 100%.

We walk oot o Hammersmith station an the place is packed.Fuckin hell, Del says. Its Tuesday efternin! Ye forget how many folk live doon here, ay?

Aboot the same as the hale o Scotland, ah say, accidentally rattlin ma shooder off the jaw o a passin Rastafarian. We simultaneously turn roond, holdin up hands o apology, then disappear intae oor respective crowds.

Del, hing an a second, ah say, ahm jist gonnae nick intae this shoap, ahm parched. Ye wattin onyhin?

Naw, yer awrite, ahll jist wait here, he says.

Ah lift a boattle o Sprite fae the fridge an place it oan the counter.

1.30, please, says the grey-haired guy at the till. Ah hand ower a fiver an he examines it wi intense scrutiny, as if its a high court writ or ransom note.

Nah, sorry, mate, dont take Scotch money. It aint legal tender daan ere. Ah feel ma face flush wi anger bit try tae stay calm.

These are pounds sterling. It says so on the note. And its Scottish, not Scotch. Scotch is whisky. Ah resist the temptation tae add the suffix ya tit.

Aint you got no normal money? he says.

That is normal money.

Nah, sorry, mate, I cant risk it. You not got coins or summit?

No, I dont have coins. Thats all Ive got. Ah twist the cap oan the boattle psssssshhhh an take a swig. So its that sterling, or no sterling.

His scowl softens an he bursts oot laughin. Awww maaaaate, good on you for fighting your cause. He opens the till an hands me ma change. Ah laugh along, relieved the friction hus passed.

I worked in Inverness for a couple-a-years, he tells me. Cant stand that shit wiff the money, sterlings sterling, innit? An listen, bad luck last week, mate. Ah take another swig o the boattle.

How do you know I didnt vote NO?

Cos you aint an idiot, are you? I mean, what the fuck do those twats in Westminster know about life in Inverness, eh?

We chat fur a couple o minutes aboot oil, media bias an the vow until thurs a queue behind me. He shakes ma hand an ah walk oot intae the London sun, whaur Del is standin, eyes half-closed.

Whit a lovely efternin, he says.

Four hoors later, people fae aw ower the world unite tae watch Kate Bush. We speak tae Australians, Kiwis, Germans an Geordies, an clock plenty o rid shoes. While Kate is mashin ma brain wi The Ninth Wave, ah hink aboot David Camerons shoes bein rid. Rid wi blood, his pricey suit jaicket bulgin wi the severed heids o the innocent as he preaches tae his right honorable gentlemen aboot the benefits o lyin in bed wi America tae fight futile wars. An then ah hink aboot the people o England an how theyre stuck wi this cairry oan for noo onyway. At least we hud a chance. A ticket oot. In 1314, oor ancestors died fighting for freedom. Aw we hud tae dae wis pick up a pencil an pit a cross in a boax. An we made an absolute cunt o it.

In the second half, Kate blows us awa wi An Endless Sky of Honey, a performance ahll nivur be able tae dae justice wi words. Dels close tae tears. Durin the encore, it occurs tae me thit the last time Kate played live wis the last time thur wis a referendum: 1979. Ah chuckle tae masel at the notion thit its aw her faut.

Efter the gig, we go fur a couple o pints, which leaves me weak, so ah head back tae the hotel an sleep. An dream o sheep.

Dickson Telfer

[White And The Bairns]

In the Reggie Smith era when I was a ladstood with my Dad on Cooperage Lane terracejust behind the goal and looking up to the northto cheer on the Bairns in all kinds of weather

where first we watched John White in 58young lad from Alloa with great footballing skillscould pass the ball across our narrow parkto split the opposition defence time and again

and he wore our blue shirt with consummate pridebut he went off to London to sign for Spursand played for our Nation in twenty odd matchesafter leaving an indelible mark on Brockville Park

our spiritual home that departed too early for fansas did John White The Ghost back in 64.

Alun Robert

[TAPS AFF!] TAPS AFF!

With first sight of piss-weak, lukewarm sunand although spring has barely sprungon our high streets and public placesthe peely-wally and the ginger skinned,loud-mouthed exhibitionists, every one,proud members of our moon-tan racedecide that the time is nighto embrace the ultra-violet raysto discard their replica football topsand strip down to cod-white flesh

TAPS AFF!

as if it was a human rightto expose their fishlike ribs and spinesand tattooed torsos with dedications tothe burd, the weans, the wife or tribeThen to monkey walk, loose limbed,with weapon dugs let off the leash,shitting freely on our urban streets,and swagger up to Cally Parkand kick a ball until it gets dark

TAPS AFF!

until that loose cannon staffie,a streak of white, all teeth drool and jawbrings the game to an early drawand alas, too late, the roasters roastedcooked, well done and crisply toastedhot pink and boiled lobster redno sleep tonight in yer murder bedbut sweet, sweet Stella will soothe the painuntil they next see the sun againthe shout goes out, the rallying call

TAPS AFF! TAPS AFF! WHERES THE BALL!?

Paul Tonner

[Dooking For Apples In A Hot Chip Pan]

Every other year, internationally renowned best-selling specialist scud mag If You Were A Lassie, Id Shag You coughs up for a bunch of us, its finest examples of is-he-or-isnt-he, to sally forth and descend on the normally sleepy retirement burgh of Stam-ford, South Carolina; where, over the course of an extended Thurs-day to Sunday weekend, the most representative globe-spanning gathering this side of the Olympics can be seen to show off the kind of wares that turned If You Were A Lassie... into such a rag-ing success story. I get the call in my capacity as Scotlands most Scottish looking Scot, a position Ive managed to maintain, on and off, mostly on, since records first began to be kept back in the early 1980s. At last count, the January just gone, by virtue of being selected number four tartan male, and number seven tartan female, I became the first person to be officially recognized as having claimed a title in each of the four main demograph-ics: young, prime, post-prime and past-it.

Stamfords massive exhibition and conference centre (the states largest such venue, and more commonly home to local NBA side the Stamford Cannons) serves as our host for the course of our stay. Were each of us allocated a space and given a lopsided mound of moulded polystyrene - the size of an upside down rowing boat, maybe bigger - which will have been ably and tastefully decorated by local schools in such a manner so as to represent our homelands. Were also given trestle tables upon which to lay out free samples of our national staples, the do-it-yourself homegrown fire water, gruel and daintees with which were known to relax and take in our daily doses of fuel and energy. One of Stamfords highlights is undoubt-edly seeing the fraternity boys tackle the tablet, or its overseas equivalent: first, theyll try a taste, the merest crumb, happy with that, theyll try another, a bigger bit, before finally risking it and going for a full-blown bite-sized chunk. What follows is known hererabouts as anything can happen tummy time.

In saying that, for the most part our merch-bedecked, Kodak-toting chums are essentially thoroughly decent and respectful archetypal young and not so young southern gentlemen. Of course, this means theyre never quite sure how to address you, whether it should be sir or maam, and a few would-be smart alecs invariably try and catch you out. Obviously, were wise to this and neither speak nor respond. On the other hand, we cant afford to be seen having the

boys move on too quickly, best to be seen to be busy, so Ill motion them on to the big bit of moulded polystyrene, for the photos. The change in perspective and the, for them, strenuous clambering over what is essentially furniture combines to puts the boys at ease, encouraging a sense of brashness and a release of their inner rascal. To get things going, Ill strike a few poses. My default look, by the way, is ruddy, ruddy to the point of what the fuck is that? Additionally, weve most of us got specialist body parts. With the Balkans it tends to be breasts. With the Patagonians its most definitely legs. For me, my proudest moment came in 2004, when my arse was presented with a lifetime achievement award. One inch-long ginger hair on each consummately rounded, coot-like cheek, and thats it. If it wasnt for the lack of symmetry - the curse of many a Stamford-ite - you could easily be fooled into thinking these mis-matched rings - affectionately known hereabouts as the hob - belonged to no less a personage than Hollywoods latest sex pics scandal starlet. Of course, the frat boys have to watch what they do with their hands, watch and not get too carried away, strictly no contact, but, other than that, when my backs turned and the hobs gone from off to full on they can pretty much do away as they please.

On the subject of photos, its probably worth pointing out its been estimated that more photographs are taken over the course of an average Stamford weekend than are taken for the corresponding period in the entire sunshine state of California. Breaking it down even further, that could mean that for the time its on display more photographs are taken of my celebrated hob than are taken of a medium rated tourist spot such as, for instance, Boston. Now and again, Ive got to pick on one of the punters, point them out for no good reason whatsoever, and have security either remove them or at least move them on. Its not something I enjoy doing but its got to be done, Im afraid: its in my contract; its what is known as a designated national characteristic. In Scotlands case, picking on folk for no good reason.

Weve all got DNCs. The sub-Saharans have to be cute, wide-eyed, smile all the time, and get their kill at some daft board game the Chinese - scowl-y geniuss - have labelled little short of incomprehensible. The Scandinavians act up to their triple u legend of upright, uptight and up themselves. While the Amazonians - about as far removed from their mythological namesakes as you could possibly imagine - are only allowed to

remain indoors for forty five minutes at a time, otherwise they go batshit crazy. For those of us that are a bit more evasive of eye contact, and by instinct and disposition timid and biddable, its possible that we make for slightly easier subjects: folk arent frightened to stop, stare and study, and as long as they keep to the parameters everythings fine, whereas with your more responsive and interactive urban hispanic and latino types - designated national characteristic, gesticulating - where its more about come hither-ing hair and come-to-bed handshakes, its not unknown for first-timers to suffer the ignominy of spontaneous spurts in the trouser department, if you know what I mean.

Needless to say, the East Asians - what used to be called the Far Easterners - get the bulk of the attention. Time and time again, they get told, dont doll up, its in the rules, no glitter, no glam, no glad rags, and what do they go and do? They doll up. Oh, they say, but its a designated national characteristic, and prance around like theyre in the middle of a pyjama party. Personally, I dont think its fair, Stamford was never supposed to be about cosmetically-enhanced androgyny, or being immaculately turned out, anybody can be immaculately turned out, its supposed to be what the fuck is that? See, ideally, to my mind, what you want is a bona fide specimen from some place youve never heard of, where lifes a genuine struggle, somewhere you know fuck all about, when what youre presented with is a head of hair that you could bounce bricks off of, a set of teeth you could count from thirty yards away, where nothings in proportion and half of its not where you expect it to be, but who, all the same, you look at and go: you know what, theres something about you thats kind of sexy. That to me is what youre looking for, quintessential, the ideal subject.

To be fair, I have to say Im not exactly immune to the charms of the perfectly put together sphinx-faced Bambis of the peninsular Pacific Rim, as I like to call them. When you see them just normally, before the doors open, away from the cameras, theres an elegance, a grace, an efficiency to their movement, thats nothing less than totally stunning. Still think they should be made to go easy on the slap, mind.

Over the course of our extended weekend, 30 000 plus come through Stamfords doors, spending upwards of two and a half million dollars. Throughout the year, one out of every thousand that clicks on If You Were A Lassie...s website goes on to take out a

subscription. This figure alone, this one out of every thousand, is still enough to rake in the owners an annual turnover well into the double digit millions. Sure, we get protesters, going round in their circles: We Shall Overcome. The religious right make out were all degenerates, and demand we be sent back home. The liberal left make out were nothing more than a nineteenth century freakshow, and demand we all start feeling sorry for ourselves and write regular self-abasing columns for The Guardian. As youd imagine, the folks back home are far from happy: but, then again, what would you expect from a statistically-proven shower of shitebagging, alcohol-induced paranoiacs? (Which, funnily enough, is the look the main rival for my national title has got down almost to a tee.)

While were around, a couple of identically dressed, morbidly obese locals position themselves in Stamfords main square. In a take-off of the Lincoln Memorial, they appear to be twins but are actually husband and wife. Their t-shirts proclaim, If You Cant Be The Center Of Attention, At Least Be The Center Of The Kitchen. When asked to comment on events down the road they say, Whatever floats your boat. Everybody knows theyre on the payroll, but nobody seems to bother. 30 000 visitors doesnt exactly harm the local economy.

The Sunday night climax is the big unveiling. Submissions to If You Were A Lassie... s Manhattan offices come from all over, from Antarcticas most potentially Antarctic looking Antarctican right through to the Vaticans most Vatican looking Vatican, weve had them all. Applicants validity is rigorously checked by an international network of what are known as either diggers or fixers, depending on your habitual hemisphere.

In the prescribed manner of all ceremonies since time immemorial, the new ones make their way into the arena, proudly waving their national flags. The volume increases for those whose lands are currently blighted by conflict. Lest we forget, many risk their lives in coming to Stamford. With all eyes fixed on the big screens, the nether regions, are then, one by one, gradually revealed. Mostly, its polite applause (as polite as youd doubtless expect a man to applaud another mans penis) with the odd gasp of, Wow, I never seen that coming! Of course, the trick, the showstopper, is that some of themll actually be lassies, womenfolk, and thats when you should hear the roars.

As they say in these parts, damn near takes the roof off the motherfucker.

After a slight delay, the audience then decides upon its winner: the candidate most deserving of the title If You Were A Lassie, Id Shag You is simply the one that gets the biggest cheers, the one that proves to be the most popular. By now, us old hands, wary of the anti-climax that inevitably follows the winners announcement, are usually well on our way to being completely out of our faces, having necked whats remained of each others staples, well have and moved on to the previously cash-only contraband weve contrived to liberate from the polybags that up until now have been secreted under the trestle tables.

As much as it dismays me I dare say Stamfords got to go with the times. You see candidates being put forward whore basically nothing more than species-defying fat lumps, or wrecks so wasted they somehow contrive to make the Pacific Rimmers look 100% natural. You see Tex-Mex pizzas, the curry and chips, popcorn containers filled with beer thats as much fizzy bubbles as it is alcohol. I was brought up to believe that if something had more than three ingredients it wasnt something you ate, it was something you studied in chemistry.

But then, thats the thing, isnt it, things change. Some say its getting ugly. Some say it always was.

Gordon Legge

[Like A Virgin]

I pull the bedroom door shut behind me, waiting for the faint click that tells me its closed properly. Jimmy will kill me if he finds out Ive been in there. I rush back through to my own room only to find Pamela sitting cross-legged on the bed, the contents of my old shoe box tipped carelessly across the Wham covers in front of her. Shit! The box itself lies discarded on the floor, my name scribbled over the lid in various colours of felt tip pen. And then I see her. The china figurine is lying face down in the centre of the bed on top of George Michaels dazzling, white teeth. Whyve you got a statue of the Virgin Mary? Pamela asks. I stare at the cassette box in my hand, pretending to study the track list while I try to think of an excuse. I know shes watching me closely, waiting for me to answer. No idea. What do you mean no idea? She picks up the statue and examines it closely. The Virgin Mary. Ive no idea how she got there. Well youd better get rid of it before Steven sees it. Why? Why? Pamela looks at me. Why? You know why. Hed smash it into a hundred pieces. She pauses for effect. And then hed dump you. Stop saying things like that. Its true. Why would he do that? You know he plays in a flute band, right? I still havent heard Steven play yet but I know he practises in the church hall every Monday and Wednesday night. So? He likes music. Yeah, and when was the last time you heard The Sash on Radio One. I thought it was great when Steven said he played in a band. The only instrument I ever tried to play was the recorder in primary school, and even then the only tune I learned was Three Blind Mice. I press the eject button on the stereo and the tape deck lurches towards me. It gives me the creeps, says Pamela, putting the statue down. I mean what the fuck are you doing with the Virgin Mary under your bed? Ive told you I didnt know she was there. She reaches forward and picks up a small, brown bear clutching a

red love heart with the words miss me across it. And this? A neighbour gave it to me when he moved away. He? The opening bars to Material Girl burst out of the speakers. A boy gave you this? Even though I know all of the words off by heart I still pull the lyrics out of the plastic case. Did you see Top of the Pops last night? I ask. Im right, arent I? She waves the teddy in front of my face and I wish shed put it back in the shoe box. Not that I care about it. I havent seen Thomas once since he moved away. Hes barely crossed my mind. Still, its my bear and I wish she would put it back. Carefully. I step forward to take the bear and this is the worst thing I can do. Pamela sees the opportunity for a game and seizes it. She jumps onto the bed and waves it above her head. You want it back? she teases. Just tell me who gave it to you and then Ill give it back. I told you, it was just a neighbour. I cant even remember his name. His, his, his, she squeals. I was right; I said it was a boy. Downstairs the front door slams shut. Shit! Jimmys home and hell kill me if he finds out Ive taken his new Madonna album. I forget about Pamela and the bear and slam the eject button and snatch the tape. But I grab it a second too soon and the spool of ribbon gets caught in the machine. Help me, its stuck. I try to free the trapped cassette but the reel of magnetic tape starts to unravel and curl, and I can hear Jimmy coming up the stairs. Shit, shit, shit. The ribbon coils and twists like a snake between my fingers and an old childhood nightmare threatens to surface. Pamela senses the urgency and leaps down from the bed to come to my rescue. Where the fuck is it? Jimmy bursts into the room and Pamela yanks the cassette sharply. She slides it into her pocket before he can see it. Cost me a weeks fucking wages so youd better not have leant it to any of your fucking pals. He flashes a look at Pamela. Im going out and that tape had better be back in my fucking room by the time I get back or Im telling Mum that you and Pamela have been drinking her Martini.

Thats a lie, Pamela shouts. Jimmy grins. Yeah, well who do you think shes gonna believe, eh? Pamela walks over to where hes standing and looks him directly in the eye. For a brief second I could swear theyre the same height. You do that, she says, and Ill make sure your mum finds out that you fucked Sarah Cochrane round the back of the health centre and she had to go and get the morning-after pill. The colour drains from my brothers face and without a word he turns and walks out of the room. Quick, where is it? I hold out my hand and she drops it into my palm, two snapped ends of brown tape dangling freely. What am I going to do now? Theres no way Ill ever be able to save up enough money to replace it. Pamela tilts her head to one side and smiles. Theres only one thing you can do.

Emma Mooney

[Helen]

Helen of Troy props up the bar at Mucky Mulligans and listens again to the Ace of Spadesbecause thats the way she likes it baby and dont you forget it.

Was this the face that once launched a thousand ships, could stop a room with a glide of her hips, drawthe breath, quicken the heart, by pouting her lips?

She leaves no tips, ignores the snipsof sniping tongues, crimson-tipped with jealous venom, immune to the drip, drip, dripof any innuendo.

Helen of Troy lights a cigarette and tries to explain to the waiting policemanwho is not so much younger than her distant, bloodied sons, that really she was born of an egg.

And does he know he is handsome like that Hector she once knew,and him too, beautiful and stupid,unaware no cause is worth dying for, especially if its someone elses.

Helen of Troy with her smashed mermaid face laments to the empty street.She should have died young, sailed on another ship, been a different mans wife,

but then rememberingand queenly, rebukesher faceless myrmidon.Mirrored youth,what can you know?

Helen of Troy lets her voice echo up into the corpse strewn sky.What a destiny.What a destiny.

Morgan Downey

[Quiet Moments]

Listen to the sound around the space you stand inHear the way it swirls and echoes through the airIt transcends your meaning as it invites others in

With a sense of belonging it envelopes every beingWrapping them in a protective embrace with a deep understanding of them in that instance

Welcoming newcomers and old friends alike The sound is still, yet slowly changing

Silence, a peace of mindOr A peace of heartYou decide...

As you embrace the space that the Quiet surrounding you creates

Janet Crawford

[Vinegar Stroke]

Excuse me Scud Book? Your names Scud Book, isnt it?He extended his hand and there was a long pause as I absorbed what this Neanderthal had just said. His patter was secondhand, but his sweat was fresh, the concentrated odour from his oxters forming a cloud around my head.

As he came closer, my attention was drawn to the monstrosity that sat on the tip of his nose like a beacon. I couldnt make eye contact because of an invisible nasal magnet that kept drawing me into its peaks and valleys. Let the mountain come to Mohammed I thought.My names Eric Whitehead he said. Sorry, Im just pulling yer leg, eh?

I shifted in my seat and shook his hand, wishing I had broon sauce smeared on it.

My names Ross McCallum, I said, and trust me, my good man, theres no need to apologise. I mean, you mustve been up till three oclock in the morning downloading that cutting edge, original patter Im the one who should be apologising to you. Such sharp wit is difficult to come by these days, in this world full of mere amateurs.Ohhhhh, he said. Good stuff, Ross the doss. Looks like Ive a little competition on the factory floor, but remember this Im a precision knife thrower and one of my honed blades might find its way in between your ribs, so Id recommend you grow eyes on the back of your neck.

My induction was in five minutes. I watched Eric disappear into the huge factory with its blue flashing lights, and I recalled its deep rumbles, which are like sitting above London Kings Cross underground at peak time, seven million drones commuting into its heart. FTV fucking Aceweld, a germ-ridden boagle dangling from the nose of Glenrothes, and the company I had crawled my way back to, once more into the breach for another bout with wretchville.

As rain battered the windows, I looked at the floor and drifted back three years to my previous stint, my mind sifting around the outskirts of morbid reflection. These miserable boards had been well treaded by yours truly, a human being who must have a thing for self-inflicted pain, especially the kind thats the root of all his

troubles. And who was the main instigator in all of this?Ross McCallum? Ross McCallum?

When I lifted my head, I was staring into the cleavage of a middle aged woman, whose lopsided name tag read Brenda. Hi, Brenda, I was trying to read your name but your tag was all squint. My names Ross, Ross from Falkirk, the home of the Kelpies, ken? And dont forget the wheel that looks nothing like a wheel, I laughed.

Follow me, Ross, she said, rolling her eyes. She led me into a small room where I was introduced to Karl, Acewelds safety officer, who was going to take me through the companys safety dos and donts. When he started, I anticipated a slow descent into a valium-induced sleep as his monotone voice floated around like a local anesthetic. I fought to stay with him as he guided me through two hours of dullness. Even if he was reciting the lyrics to Sesame Street, I still would have been oblivious.

In the background some light tunes were filtering through the walls. It sounded like lift music, a relic twisting the turntables of time in a dusty loft. Every time I floated to the surface, Karl was staring into the corner of the room, droning on and on.

So, Ross, he said, are you aware of Acewelds stellar safety record since I took the reins? I like to get involved with the boys on the shop floor when I can and see if theres any way we can improve the conditions.

I wanted to say well, Karl, if you can stretch your mind back three years to when I was here before, youll remember you were the WORST safety officer on the planet, who did nothing but spout fabrications of the truth.

Oh, yes, Karl, I mumbled, I often catch myself admiring your prowess as you hover about the factory with your safety wand, turning potential catastrophes into no lost time accidents. Youre the Mother Teresa of the safety world and I for one would relish the opportunity to be part of the family and accept Acewelds vision into all aspects of my life.

Well, Ross, you come across as someone who is charismatic and eager to climb the ladder, so how would you feel about being my eyes and ears on the front line? If anyone steps out of place, you assess the situation and reportback to me pronto. What do you say?

So if I heard you correctly Karl, you want me to be a grass who runs around dishing out gutter snipes like a snake?No, no, no, not at all! I was just trying to get you involved in running a tidy ship because at the end of the day, eh? At the end of the day . . . Listen, how about I play you the safety video to round off the induction? Then you can meet the main man, who would like to say hello before we set you free. He always likes to talk to the new recruits. He gives them a ten minute booster chat to get them lit up about starting anew with the company. Were very lucky to have him as a boss actually, hes easy to get on with, a bit of a Don Corleone in the world of metallurgy, he laughed.He stood up, opened his little black briefcase, pulled out a DVD and inserted it into the player. He switched off the lights and stood behind me. I could hear his breath as it laboured in and out. Every now and then, he would breathe in through his nose and I could hear the snottery gloop shifting around. I wanted to elbow him in the Adams apple as my misophonia itched, but I fought the urge as such behavior, although appealing, would shorten my contract considerably.

Paranoia started to kick in as I pictured him standing behind me, staring into the back of my head. Maybe hes stared at the back of lots of heads in the confines of a dark alley amid cries of pain, joy and the vinegar stroke, gargling up at the moon, bathing in euphoric puddles of man gulch.

The DVD ended and the lights flickered back on. I could hear the buzzing from the strip light above and there was a soft tapping noise. I looked up and saw a moth flying repeatedly into the white glare, its small form jerking around like a broken kite.So Ross, said Karl, I would like to thank you for listening to me rabbit on about safety, but at the end of the day we want you to go home to your family with the same amount of fingers and toes that you arrived with this morning.

He pulled out a piece of paper and pushed it across the polished

white surface of the table. From his shirt pocket, he produced a Parker pen for me to sign my name. I had a brief delusion of grandeur as I etched it onto the dotted line. His hand eerily lingered then slowly pulled away. I noticed the nail on his left pinky finger was long and painted with black nail varnish. The letters c k protruded from his sleeve, which obscured a fading tattoo; I imagined the letters d i preceded them. I looked up at him and for a nano second we made eye contact. I broke away and focused on his wet nose, glistening in the reflected light, and saw a mountain of green grunge waiting to give way.

PainJoy Vinegar strrrroooaaaak ahhhhh!!

Knuckles rapped against the door and I jumped in my seat. Ah, thatll be the main man, said Karl. I turned to give my greetings to the Don, but my heart sank when Karl opened the door and watch it close on its own accord. When he turned round, I was once again drawn to the monstrosity at the end of his bugle.

Ross the doss, hows it going son?

Paul Cowan

[Home Game Review]

Thanks to the work of Craig Allan and other volunteers, the arts scene in Falkirk is thriving and regular events such as Wooer With Words, a monthly mix of poetry, short stories and one act plays have made the town a destination for writers to share their work in a friendly and supportive atmosphere.

Being born in Falkirk, I qualify for the official status of a Fawkurt bairn and Im always keen to support any arts event in the area. Im also behind any fundraising efforts for Foodbanks, the existence of which seems appalling in 2014, especially in a week when shops promoted Black Friday to encourage consumer greed.

So when I heard about Home Game, [Untitled]s latest event in partnership with Gordon Johnstone editor of The Grind as part of the excellent Book Week Scotland programme, I was keen to go.

The poster promised a great line-up so I braved dreich weather and took myself along to Behind the Wall to enjoy the spoken word acts which included the launch of Dickson Telfers new short story collection, Refrigerator Cake. Ive heard Dickson perform his work before and he really is an engaging speaker who thoroughly entertains with his offbeat take on everyday life. As before, Dickson won the audience over with his unique style of performance. After this taster, I cant wait to read my copy of his new book.

I wasnt able to stay until the very end of the event but other highlights of the night were local writers Samuel Best reading from his work in progress, Bethany Anderson reading from her novel Swings and Roundabouts and Stephen Watt who knocked it out the park (surely the Home Game theme merits at least one or two cheesy football puns?) with his performance poetry.

As a local writer, feeling part of a community is important to me and events like Home Game provide an opportunity to connect with like-minded folk as well as help to showcase and develop interest in Falkirks new talent.

Theres no doubt that this event was a win on home ground!

Helen McKinven

Were OnlineFor news on Falkirks art groups, events,

arts opportunities and a chance to promote your group to a wider audience, follow or email us.

Facebook/Twitter - @UntitledFalkirkemail - untitledfalkirk@gmail.com

web - untitledfalkirk.blogspot.co.uk

[Small grants for small organisations]

Alan and Babette Sainsbury Charitable Fund Grant

The Alan and Babette Sainsbury Charitable Fund Grant is provided and administered by The Sainsbury Family Charitable Trust and is available to voluntary and community organisations in the UK.The scheme is intended to support projects with the following themes:Arts and education projects which help young people to achieve their potential or show support for UK charities which defend civil liberties and human rights.

Enquiries call 0207 410 0330

Awards for Young Musicians

The charity supports the UKs most talented young instrumental-ists aged 5 to 17, because of financial need, may be prevented from fulfilling their creative potential.Grants of between 200 and 2,000 are available, based on evi-dence of musical talent and financial need.Key Criteria: Aged between 5 and 17 years.Financial need (all applications are means-tested).Exceptional musical talent and potential.Visit http://bit.ly/1h6d1UK for more details

The Cardiff International Poetry Competition

The Cardiff International Poetry Competition is run by Literature Wales (Llenyddiaeth Cymru) with support from Cardiff Council. The competition is an annual award open to poets from any country, working in any style or subject matter. The competition aims to showcase poetry from around the world and is designed to allow writers to convey their own unique approach to poetry.Contact post@literaturewales.org for more details

Grants for Community Groups in Falkirk

Community groups and schools across the Falkirk Council area have the opportunity to apply for grants of up to 500 from the Falkirk Community Schools Charity Board. The Charitys objectives are to advance education and to provide or assist with the provision of recreational facilities. Projects previously funded include creation of eco-gardens, equipment for school clubs, art clubs, local sports clubs and historical societies. Since the beginning of the scheme in 2010, more than 12,000 has been awarded. Applications to the scheme are assessed on a quarterly basis. More information at http://bit.ly/H2xus8

Falkirk Councils Community Grant Scheme

Supports community groups and voluntary organisations to deliver projects that make a positive difference to communities across the Falkirk Council area.The Community Grant Scheme can offer support up to a maximum of 5,000 towards community-based projects that can usually be completed within a 12 month period. Falkirk Councils External Funding Unit01324 506065/506260funding@falkirk.gov.uk

Live Literature Funding

Live Literature Funding is provided by Scottish Book Trust with funding allocated by Creative Scotland.The scheme is a Scotland-wide initiative that will part-fund the cost of hiring authors, poets, writers, storytellers and illustrators to attend public literary events, such as readings, workshops and residencies.Funding can cover 50% of the authors fee, plus their travel and expenses.Contact Live Literature at live.literature@scottishbooktrust.com

[Acknowledgements]

[Untitled] would like to thank the artists, writers and groups that either directly provided help in the creation of this publication, or whose information and images were used with permission. All images are the direct property of the groups or the collection from which they were obtained from, and all copyright laws should be observed.

This page does not necessarily represent the opinion or policy of the groups involved nor does their policy represent that of [Untitled]. This page is the sole property of [Untitled], and all funding for its creation came from the small private funds of [Untitled]

[Acknowledgements to our contributorsFor bios please visit our website untitledfalkirk.blogspot.co.uk]

Peter CallaghanPaul CowanJanet CrawfordMorgan DowneyGordon LeggeEmma MooneyLaura Anne MurtaghAlun RobertGordon RobertsonDickson TelferPaul Tonner

[Untitled] is edited by Craig Allan

Artist led publication that shines a light on writing and visual arts from the other part of Scotland......Falkirk

http://untitledfalkirk.blogspot.co.uk/