Just prior to my 'bolting' from Calgary, my Brother in Law, Jimmi, dropped in to tell me of his recent trip to Scotland with his lovely wife Cassie. Jimmi and I both married into the Hargreaves family, and, as such, are both 'Outlaws' in the bosom of this fine clan. Because of the time difference between Ontario and Alberta Jimmi traveled via a time machine, and, in the picture above, you can see hi arriving through the time portal. I'd like to say that I managed to capture the shot just at the moment of his arrival, but, truth to tell, the picture is a product of Jimmi's potent imagination; generally a picture is worth a thousand words, but, by the time my fellow outlaw is finished with a picture, I'd estimate it's value at about one million!
The two of them had a grand time in Scotland and sent me a picture of cattle grazing at Glen Coe, a historic Scottish site. The day, February 1st, 1692, is still recalled by many as a day of infamy. The events leading up to that day were a distillation of politics and sadly twisted religious fervor. In August, 1691, King William III offered a pardon to all the Highland clans who had risen against him in earlier years but only if they took an oath of allegiance before 1 January, 1692. Alastair MacLain, 12th Chief of Glen Coe (who had joined Claverhouse in 1689), despite the four months notice, left it to the last minute to take the oath. This was because, like many other Highland chiefs, he waited for the approval of the deposed King James VII - which was late in coming. But he compounded this by going to the wrong place to take the oath and arrived at Inveraray after a dreadful journey through the snow, too late to take the oath by the deadline. The government had been waiting for just such an the opportunity to "make an example" of anyone who stepped out of line. The fact that it was this section of the clan Donald, was considered a bonus. Over the years in the "Wild West" atmosphere of the Highlands, they had done more than their fair share of raiding and thieving.
Plans were drawn up by the Lord Advocate, John Dalrymple. Dalrymple's orders to the commander of the force sent to carry out the atrocity were chilling. Here is an abstract (in the original spelling) -
"You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels, the M'Donalds, of Glencoe (The MacLains were a subsidiary family within the MacDonald Clan) and putt all to the sword under seventy. You are to have special care that the old fox and his sons doe upon no account escape your hands. You are to secure all the avenues, that no man may escape.... This is by the King's special command, for the good of the country, that these miscreants be cutt off root and branch. See that this be putt in execution without feud or favour, else you may expect to be treated as not true to the king's government, nor a man fitt to carry a commission in the king's service. Expecting you will not faill in the fulfilling hereof as you love yourself, I subscribe these with my hand. Master of the Stair (John Dalyrmple).
Around February 1st, 1692, 120 men of the Earl of
Argyll's Regiment of Foot, under the command of Captain Robert Campbell were billeted with various MacDonald families in
Glencoe, who
recieved them in the hospitable tradition of the Highlands. Captain Campbell was related by marriage to old
MacLain, and was
billited at the Chief's own house;
MacLain's youngest son was married to Campbell's niece. Their purpose in being there was to collect what was then called the "
Cess" tax, but on February 12
th a Captain
Drummond arrived bringing with him the orders, above, and delivering them to the hand of Robert Campbell. In all probability Campbell, up to that point, had no knowledge of the real intention of his mission, but, upon receiving his orders he accepted them, and set about their fulfillment.
The evening of the 12
th Campbell spent playing cards with his intended victims, wished them goodnight upon retiring, and accepted an invitation to dine with the
MacLain the following day.
MacLain was slaughtered in the morning while attempting to rise from his bed. His two sons escaped, as, initially, did his wife; but she was tracked down, killed, and the fingers hacked from her hands in order to pocket her rings. Not all the soldiers took part in the massacre; Francis
Farquhar and Gilbert Kennedy
deliberatly broke their swords rather than carry out their orders. Both were arrested and imprisoned for their insubordination; both were later exonerated and gave evidence at the trials of their superior officers. Two additional army units failed to arrive to complete the slaughter, their official reason for their tardiness was that they were held up by snowstorms, but it is generally accepted that their officers, aware of the true nature of their mission, held back, unwilling to participate in this
heinous crime. 200 MacDonald/
MacLain men dwelt in Glen
Coe with their wives and children; had not the two additional units held back it is believed that the slaughter would have been complete.
As it was 38 men were murdered that morning, either in their homes or as they tried to flee the Glen. Another 40 women and children died of exposure after their homes were burnt to the ground. In the Highlands murder was considered almost the worst crime; but the very worst crime was, "Murder Under Trust", and, to fit the bill, it had to be premeditated. If you accepted a Highlander's hospitality, had a falling out, came to blows and you killed your host, that was bad, but people
acknowledged that these things happened. However, to come hat in hand to a man's home and accept his
hospitality with the intention of killing him ....that was completely unacceptable. Because of this the Campbell name was drawn into infamy, and the watchword ever since has been, "Never Trust a Campbell!"
'Those that don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it,' I've heard said, and there may be some truth in the adage. I have several cubbyholes in my
Roadtrek, and these must be
battened down prior to transforming my 'cottage' into my transportation; failure to do this tends to change mundane objects into projectiles. But, rising at 3:00 am to 'get the word out' often defeats my generally 'hit and miss' memory. The one
cubby hole is directly above the microwave, and handy too as it is about 4 feet long, 6 inches tall, and slopes back about 9 inches. It is perfect for stowing condiments, coffee, tea, and the odd can of soup; because of the coffee it is the first thing to be opened in the morning, and, hopefully, the last thing to be shut. However, one morning, wheeling off the Trans Canada to rush to my paper route, it suddenly hit me! Thunk! Right in the back of the neck! The pain was intense and followed by a 'thud'. I braked and pulled over to the side of the road
simultaneously switching on the interior light. There it was, rolling on the floor, (to my ear laughing!), a can of soup! Campbell's soup at that! And, can you believe it?
Tomato! That does it! If ever again I bring soup into the comfort of my home ....it will be Heinz!
It's funny, but after living in the Trailer Park for nearly a month, and getting prepared to leave for Saskatoon, I'm finally getting to know some of the 'full timers'. The site
immediately to the west of mine I have never figured out; the curtains are always drawn, I never observe anything that might indicate any sort of regular schedule, and there seems to be three generations cohabiting there. The one fellow reminds me of my old pal Louis
Ashi; he's got the same frame, just a little younger, and is covered in tattoos, (I don't recall Louis ever having a tattoo.) What he lacks is Louie's confident stride, level gaze, and balls ....nobody has balls like Louie. However, as a neighbour I've never been able to get more than a grudging grunt out of him; I kind of suspect that they think I'm a cop ....it's an accusation I've run into
freakwently over the last 30 or so years. Yes, there's been ample cops in my family, but ....don't forget, ....I'm the white sheep!
However, one morning we were both headed to the office at the same time; I wearing my New York, "Statue of Liberty" shirt, and he, when we encountered by chance, a frown and a slightly furrowed brow! "Hey!" he exclaimed, "I have that exact same shirt!" His tone conveyed to me more than just a suspicion that I might have been fleshing out my somewhat skeletal wardrobe from the 'common wealth' of the camp laundry facilities! We got the matter straightened out to our mutual satisfaction, and, were it not for my immanent departure, I could foresee our neighbourly relationship blooming into a genuine friendship; hell ....I might even show him my tattoo! Actually, it's
tatone;
tattwo is only just on the books!
I'd just returned from my paper route one Saturday morning, and was tiptoeing through the swamp that is my camp site to plug in the Trek, when a voice called out, "Hey! Do you work night shift?" And that is how I met John, a
cabinet maker and finishing carpenter, born on a farm just outside of Calgary, and raised all over North America. We introduced each other, and, though I really wanted a coffee, chatted for well over an hour. The topics were numerous and broad ranging, just the way a conversation should be. John told me how he had migrated down to South Carolina, and worked there for 15 years,
finally going so far as to attempt
attaining a green card; but there he was stymied! "They said that there was no demand for my carpentry skills!" he exclaimed, "And here, in 15 years, I'd never been able to keep up with the work!" John explained that he'd sought out the green card because he was thinking of buying a house, and that, a lawyer warned him not to make the purchase the house without a work permit. If he was caught, the lawyer explained, the US Immigration department could, and possibly might, confiscate anything that he could not prove was brought with him from Canada.
John is of Germanic ancestry, his family having arrived in America in the 1720's. Germany was, at that time, a very
feudal society, and I wish I could remember John's surname, because it was the name of the town from which his family migrated. He told me that there
weren't too many Canadians with his family name, but the States was loaded with them. He went on to inform me that several years ago he'd been contacted by a very distant cousin from California who
was compiling a family
genealogy, and whom eventually sent him the work in progress. "I was so mad when they wouldn't give me the card," he said, "that I went home and got my copy of the book, and took it down to the Immigration Office." "I set it on the desk and told the officer, I'm more American than most legal Americans; my family arrived in this country 50 years before it even became a country!"
I couldn't help laughing at this had to ask, "Well, ...how did that work out for you?" John admitted that it had not helped his cause, in fact, it seemed to put the immigration officer over the edge! "So," he continued, "I came back to Canada, but those were 15 of the best years of my life; they call those people I lived and worked with Hillbillies and Rednecks, and, sure, some of them had rough lifestyles, but, when they looked you in the eye, and spoke to you, you knew that what they said was true. They spoke with earnestness and feeling, and when they told you that they would do something, you knew that it would be done!" I smiled and thanked John; "You know," I explained, "most of those Hillbillies and Rednecks are related to me distantly; either by family, or at least by place of
origin.Redneck
"The origins of this term Redneck are Scottish and refer to supporters of the National Covenant and The Solemn League and Covenant, or "Covenanters", largely Lowland Presbyterians, many of whom would flee Scotland for Ulster (Northern Ireland) during persecutions by the British Crown. The Covenanters of 1638 and 1641 signed the documents that stated that Scotland desired the Presbyterian form of church government and would not accept the Church of England as its official state church.
Many Covenanters signed in their own blood and wore red pieces of cloth around their necks as distinctive insignia; hence the term "Red neck", (rednecks) which became slang for a Scottish dissenter*. One Scottish immigrant, interviewed by the author, remembered a Presbyterian minister, one Dr. Coulter, in Glasgow in the 1940's wearing a red clerical collar -- is this symbolic of the "rednecks"?
Since many Ulster-Scottish settlers in America (especially the South) were Presbyterian, the term was applied to them, and then, later, their Southern descendants. One of the earliest examples of its use comes from 1830, when an author noted that "red-neck" was a "name bestowed upon the Presbyterians." It makes you wonder if the originators of the ever-present "redneck" joke are aware of the term’s origins - Rednecks?
*Another term for Presbyterians in Ireland was a "Blackmouth". Members of the Church of Ireland (Anglicans) used this as a slur, referring to the fact that one could tell a Presbyterian by the black stains around his mouth from eating blackberries while at secret, illegal Presbyterian Church Services in the countryside. "
John said that he wasn't surprised that I was having difficulties finding work in Calgary, and enquired as to what exactly it was that I was looking for. I told him that I'd been looking for just about anything, adding that I'd just applied for, and been granted, a job as carpenter's helper in Saskatoon. "A carpenter?" John exclaimed, "You should have no problem getting work here! Now, the fellow I work for is Oriental, and only builds high end housing starting at $1,500,000. and we have a full crew already, but, let me introduce you to the fellow in this trailer right over here; I know that he's always looking for someone." I thanked John for this consideration, and informed him that I wasn't a carpenter, but I'd been whacking boards together since I was a boy on the farm. John seemed pretty determined that I stay, but I assured him that I had made a commitment, and mentioned the $200,000.00 signing bonus that came with the Saskatoon job. "Yes," said John, "the difference in the cost of living between Calgary and Saskatoon really should be taken into consideration."
By this time it was 9:30 and I still had not achieved my goal of a cup of coffee, but, in one thing I am indeed my Father's son; if good conversation is at hand, there's nothing I prefer to shooting the breeze. In that short interval between placenta and shroud there is no better way to pass the time and get to know your neighbour; besides, it's part of my heritage.
CRACKER
"Another Ulster-Scot term, a "cracker" was a person who talked and boasted, and "craic" (Crack) is a term still used in Scotland and Ireland to describe "talking", chat or conversation in a social sense ("Let’s go down to the pub and have a craic"; "what's the craic"). The term, first used to describe a southerner of Ulster-Scottish background, later became a nickname for any white southerner, especially those who were uneducated.
And while not an exclusively Southern term, but rather referring in general to all Americans, the origins of this word are related to the other three. "
I told John that my
caffine level had hit the critical zone, but that I'd enjoyed our chat, and that I'd like to here more about his Germanic
origins. We agreed to get together later that day around a campfire and continue our discussion. However, when I wandered down the row of trailers that evening I found John busy helping his neighbour move his trailer to a different site, and just a little flustered by a visit he'd had from his son. I never did get the
gist of the matter, John told me his 40 year old son was an alcoholic, and had shown up drunk and in some kind of trouble; he was upset but acknowledged that there was really nothing he could do for Jr. We made a tentative 'date' for the following evening, but the next day it rained, and I never did see John again.
At loose ends I then wandered down to the office to pick up a couple items, and I noticed the big, black, fully dressed Ford 350 with "
Maverick Construction" written on it's side, had just had a bath, and that the owner, a fellow I'd noticed riding his big bike around, was standing there admiring his handiwork. "Looks good!" I said with a nod. "How much you got in your pocket buddy? It's yours!" the man said with a trace of a french accent. I laughed and introduced myself to Rene who, as it turned out, was the owner of
Maverick. Rene was from the west corner of New Brunswick, kind of sandwiched between Quebec and the US border. He'd run a contracting firm in Calgary up till the economy tanked
back in the late 70's; at that point he'd returned to NB, then migrated to New York State where he'd operated a business for a few years. What finally brought him back to Calgary was the revitalized economy, and a son whom he wished to get established in a construction business. '
Maverick' was born, and business was booming; they specialized in decks, fences and small structures and simply could not keep up with demand.
"I'm 62," said Rene, "and I want to take life easy now; I bought a great new home in NB two years ago, but had to come back out here to help my son." "This year we returned home for vacation, and invited all our friends and family to our new home for a party; it was a great party, but, the funny thing is, we still haven't slept in it! When all our guests went home, we went out to the driveway and slept in our trailer!" "I wish," I commented, "that I had run into you a couple of months ago, when I was looking for work." Rene is a lithe, energetic fellow with a great sense of humour, who, in a pinch, could pass himself off for a man of 40, at the peak of his abilities. "Why?" he asked, "You looking for work? Are you a carpenter?" For the second time that day I re-iterated my skimpy
creds, not mentioning that I'd gotten my
Phd at the tender age of 12, (
Phd, on a farm, means ....post hole digger!) There are no greater respecters of education than farmers; raised in, shall we say a. stable
environment, we know BS, (bachelor of Science), when we see it, and acknowledge that MS, (Master of Science), is More of the Same! Phd? Well, that's the same again, only this time, Piled Higher and Deeper!
I remember how I sweated to earn my Phd. The Farm was based on fine, heavy clay soil, and, while it would grow anything, (well, anything except crops like tobbacco, which require a very sandy soil), in a dry summer it baked up very much like a brick. The trouble with posts is that, before they are fully functional, they require a post hole! Not just any post hole; it must be at least four feet deep, and, because it will eventually have big, burly beeves of well over 1000 lbs leaning on it, you can't use the little, sissy posts that you see in town, no, the post must be at least 10" in diameter, and that means the post hole must be at least 14". That is only if you want to place your posts firmly, properly aligned, and permanent. The litmus test with posts is to come back 10 years later; if they are still standing just the way you placed them, then you know that you got the holes right!
I don't recall my Father ever embarking on venture that wasn't on a modestly grand scale, (at least by farm standards!) When I was 12 he decided to replace all the fencing on the home farm. Now, 100 acres is a modest size, but, when it's divided into 6 fields and a barnyard, you are looking at a lot of posts, or at least you hope to be looking at a lot of posts, the trick first, is to find holes to stick 'em in! Finding holes is simpler than it may first seem; you can dig 'em up most any place ....the key word is dig. Now, please recall what I was saying earlier about brick; better still, if you live in a brick house, get real close to that fine baked clay, take your hand, perhaps your fist, and give it a solid whack! Did it shift? Did little chunks fly gaily about? No? Didn't think so! Give it another whack ....little harder this time! What! Still the same? You really have to hand it to that third little pig ....he knew what he was about!
I remember the hot, sunny, very dry morning we set about what I came to refer to as my Father's 'half baked idea!'. About 9:30, after the livestock was tended to, the two of us set out up the farm lane, long handled spades resting on our shoulders;we even took a sharp crow bar along because ....well, just because you never know what you might run into. It's best to be prepared for any and all eventualities! Earlier in the Spring, between seeding and haying,we'd removed the old fence, and I admit, at that time, the soil had been fairly mallable. But, between then, and when we finally arrive to dig those holes, we'd had six weeks of Ontario summer sunhine; you know, the kind that feels very much like an oven! We laid out a fine, straight line, figured out our spacing, and prepared to lift our first patches of sod. You see, you really want a neat, tidy hole; the same diameter at the top, as it is four feet below the ground. There's a knack to it.
I remember when I put in the two little 'Flower back drop' fences at Helena St; my bride, that same Julie Ann Eliza that I've told you of before, was eager not just to get the job accomplished, but she also wanted to participate. Julie watched me dig the first few, and volunteered to do a couple herself; after all ...there's nothing to it! That's right, there's nothing to a posthole, the dilemma is, how do you get all that intervening, compacted 'stuff' out of the way, so that you can have the nothing arranged just so! Reluctantly I agreed to her experiment, after cautioning her that, "it's not as easy as I make it look!" Julie set to with a vengence, and, for a while, the sand flew! Then it coasted! Then it came to a complete halt, and just lay there, about 18" down the hole, flat on it's back, staring straight up at the two of us in complete defiance! Poor Julie took the failure of her experiment pretty hard; you see, there's lots in this world prepared to call a spade a spade, but few who have spent much 'quality time' with 'em. Myself? Well ...I'm made of sterner stuff; thick back and matching head have I. Don't forget now .... Helena St. was entirely sand!
Meanwhile, back at the farm, my father and I had lifted two nice concentric patches of sod, 14" in diameter; but, after all, that's what Sodbusters do! Sod usually lifts about 3" or 4" thick, once it's out of the way, all there is left to do is raise that spade high, and drive it into the earth below. This we did, and their bright sharp blades chewed through the first 3" below and ....came to an abrupt shuddering halt! We'd just hit a brick wall! All morning we toiled with that handy crowbar; it's point would sink into the brick, and, with a twist, would pop out one pathetic little chip of brick! At lunch we brought up buckets of water to soften the soil, but, when you stop and think about it, if brick was porous enough to allow water to pass through it, that third little pig would have drowned long before the wolf reached his door! It didn't pan out, and, at the end of two days we had dug ourselves 6 pathetic little holes; hardly adequate for rose bushes let alone 10" posts.
My Father was never one to take being stymied well; sometimes he would get quite quiet, and the air around would feel the same as the air that harkens an approaching storm. Other times he could get quite voluble, and I won't here describe those occasions. This occasion was one of the former variety, and, the third morning at our task he never said a word. Finally, at about 11:00 am, he gave me another chore to do, and disappeared in our truck. He arrived home around noon with a yellow contrapion in the box; my Phd! From that point on, I cherished the ground it rested on, but, for the next few years, it had little chance to rest long! Yes, we made many mountains out of mole hills, and it made our lives easier, well ....except for te odd occsaion when it would lodge on a rock. It never did this at the 1' level, but generally at the 6' level; then the shear pin would hit it's 'best before date', and my acquaintance with a spade would recommence. There's a lot of digging to free a 16" augar buried 6' deep, and these occasions would fall into the latter category of my father's moods, you know ....the voluble ones. I didn't describe them to you before, and have not the heart to inform you now.
Kinda' funny fella' my Father, and, before I get back to Rene, I'll share one little story with you of the man. It's a story I told in his eulogy, and it got me in trouble with little Bro, David, who afterwards said, "How could you tell people that about my Father; people will think he was a womanizer!" I'm afraid that David hadn't put much thought into the matter ....just another nut in my family tree! Oh, there might be a Dutch or German Mackay out there with a strong resemblance to myself, but, once James B. Mackay Sr. said his vows, there was no further possibility of womanizing.
It was sometimes an embarrassment to watch my Father haggle if he was buying something; that legendary Scottish thrift shone through in full force; but, he was quite unpredictable if he was selling something. A friend of mine, John, with two daughters, and a wife with equestrian aspirations, had rented a farm just a few miles from my own home, and, because of those aspirations, needed to put in quite a few rod of fence; you guessed it ....clay! John approached me on the matter of the possibility of putting my Phd to good use around his pasture. I was living on my own then, and called my father to make the appropriate enquiries. "No problem", was his reply, and we agreed that I would do this the following Saturday. Before hanging up, because this is a real world, and time and heavy equipment are costly commodities, I broached the subject which I knew to be a delicate one; "How much do you think you would charge them?" I asked. "We'll see!" was the reply, and I'd hung around with this fellow long enough to know that pursuing that matter any further would be futile, possibly detrimental to the planned project.
John was happy enough to hear the work would be done, but concerned about the matter of finances, as anyone who has been saddled with two just turned school age daughters, a farm, and those aspirations I mentioned would well understand. Saturday morning arrived, and I arrived at the farm to pick up the tractor and Phd, only to be foiled! It was a lovely day, and my father had nothing compelling to do, and there were few things he enjoyed more than a slow drive through the country, taking his time, and taking in the state of the world around him. On our arrivall the entire family came out to meet him. My Father was not a judgemental man on most things, but he was on children, or rather, the parents of children; but there was nothing amiss here, the girls, 5 & 7 presented themselves well with neat shiny hair, rosy well scrubbed skin, pretty clean dresses, good manners, and sweet smiles. It wasn't something you saw every day, and, in my father's books, it showed a couple doing the best that they could, in obviously tight circumstances. That was a good thing ....anything else might not have boded well on the cost of those postholes.
"Mr. Mackay," john broasched the delicate matter, "how much do you want per post hole?" My Father thought for a moment, and he had the curious habbit when making up his mind, of twitching his lip and drawing a little air between his teeth, as if trying to dislodge something stuck between his teeth; he did that now, looked John in the eye, and said, "We'll see." "Mr. Mackay," said John's wife, "would you like to join the girls and I for a cup of tea?" The four of them disappeared into the kitchen, leaving John and I to the task at hand. John was really concerned about the price. "Don't worry," I assured him, "I have no way of predicting what it will cost, but, whatever it is, it won't be too much. So, in a few hours, with the aid of my Phd, we sank a 100 or so holes, that, with shovel and crowbar, would have taken John a good chunk of the summer to do by his lonesome.
Finished in the field John and I adjourned to the house where my father, fortified with tea, conversation, and probably more than one piece of pie, was smiling, and ready to be on his way. The usual pleasantries were exchanged and, as Father was climbing aboard his tractor to depart, John approached him again, looking just a little blanched I might add, and asked, "Mr. Mackay, what do I owe you for those post holes?" That stoped Father in mid-step! He had to take his foot off the tractor platform and give the matter a few seconds deliberation. Finally, having weighed the matter carefully, he looked John straight in the eye, his lip twitched the way I'd seen it do all my life, and said, "Get something nice for the girls!" With that he climbed on the tractor, and putted off down the road, taking his time, observing, and taking a measure on the state of the world.
John was astonished! A fine fellow, and one I admired quite much. The kind of man who could get up on a grand morning, pull on the nose bag, get himself fully caffinated, pull a motor and transmission, replace them, and have time to wash up and enjoy a beer before lunch. A very capable chap, and one I wish I could say things turned out well for ....but I can't. Some people don't stand up well under unrelenting pressure, and John had more than his share. He ended up fellating a twelve gauge; it came ....he departed! There were the usual rumours that you hear in connection with these sad affairs, but I don't care to go into them here. But no, little Bro, of those rumours, neither word nor substance had anything to do with James B. Sr.
Yes, my father was, among many other things, a farmer, and, I might add, the top man in his field. And he was a "Cracker" and I say that with some pride; there was nothing that man enjoyed more, when time and obligation permitted, than to shoot the breeze, especially over a cup of tea. When I say, "Shoot the breeze," I'm not talking about gossip, I'm talking politics, world affairs, farm market reports, and history. What you had then, in that magic chunk of Nottawasga, was a generation of mountain men; men who'd worked brutal hard all their lives, who, when the call came, signed up and went to save the world, they saw much of that world, made their judgements accordingly, came back home, settled down on farms, and did the best they could to feed that world. A very well read bunch too, many of them; in summer there was little time for reading, but those long winter hours had to be filled somehow, and you can always find a library.
Sinchronicity is a marvellous thing, and, just when I get to talking about hillbillies, who should show up but the 'Ozark Mountain Daredevils'. Yes, I admit, a Redneck "jug" band, and they generally sound better when you are half way through the jug, but, I make no apologies for them; sing it fellas!
