I survived Bloody Scotland

I’m getting t-shirts printed up which say ‘I Survived Bloody Scotland.’

It’s not that it’s especially gruelling – it’s actually more fun than watching drunken monkeys do a ‘Big Brother’ spoof. It’s just that three late nights in a row are just not what my body is used to. I’m a bed by ten sort of fellow, jammies on, bed socks, night cap, cup of Ovaltine and a book, but not something scary because it may give me nightmares.

The revelries began on Thursday night in Glasgow when I attended a book launch for ‘In Place of Death’ by someone called Craig Robertson. It was held in a pub within Tennents Bewery on Duke Street and it was a highly enjoyable evening. The book looks good, too.

A quiet moment in Stirling. It wasn’t all like that during Bloody Scotland

On Friday I made my way north to Stirling, taking in the Falkirk Kelpies on the way. I’d seen photographs, of course, but was not prepared for their sheer magnificence. I spent about an hour there, just wandering round. If you’ve not seen them, then you really should try.

The Falkirk Kelpies – bloody magnificent

I hit Stirling, checked into my hotel, dumped my gear in the shoe box that was my room. It was so small, eI had to step into the hall to change my mind. I then headed off to the Festival hub to see what was what and also to meet an old friend (Lisa Morton, with whom I wrote ‘Frightener’) for a drink.

On Friday night I had the honour of chairing the opening event featuring the shining star that is Val McDermid and the equally luminescent Peter May (I think that’s enough crawling – Administrator). I was as nervous as a potato in a waffle factory but thankfully the two headliners carried the day. However, when I walked onto the stage and saw the veritable sea of faces looking back at me stretching off into the darkness beyond the lights, I thanked heaven for sturdy incontinence trousers.

Pater May, Val McDermid and some idiot doing a Tommy Cooper impression. Picture courtesy of Eoin Carey/Bloody Scotland

On Saturday I bummed around a bit, took in a panel or two, before attending the Crime Book of the Year dinner at night. I’d been asked to host a table this year and I met some very nice crime fiction fans over the haggis stuffed chicken. I didn’t know chickens ate haggis, but there you are. I didn’t win a prize but I did get to see Matt Bendoris in a kilt. Thak God for strong liquor, that’s all I can say.

I’d hoped to get to the ‘The Curly Coo’ pub later but I heard they were standing cheek to cheek in all directions so didn’t get there until after all the fun had passed. A whole selection of crime writers had agreed to do a turn – singing, reciting, sword swallowing – and I’m sorry I missed it. I would’ve done some of my world-famous mimes – you know, walking against the wind, finding a wall, being hounded out of a pub by furious customers. That last one isn’t a mime, it’s generally what happens when I do them.

Sunday saw the Scotland v England rematch. After Gordon Brown explained to me that football was the one in which the ball is kicked I understood the concept slightly better. It was thoroughly enjoyable, even if the score was an anti-climactic 5-5 (last year the Scots won 13-1. Not that I’m rubbing it in). At least the visitors managed to get a few past the Scottish goalie, someone called Craig Robertson. I think Captain Ian Rankin should have a strong word with him.

The opposing sides have a pre-match gossip before kicking the ball around

I had to leave the match a few minutes early to take part in a panel with the always wonderful Caro Ramsay and the ever urbane Michael J. Malone. I had to work to keep up with them but I think they brought the best out of me. Or the worst, depending on whether or not you saw it. It was great fun, we had no idea what the questions were going to be and so had to improvise. One of the questions was ‘Would you like to do something interesting with Craig Robertson?’ I had to ask who Craig Robertson was.

And that was it. I’d shared a stage with top names, I’d chewed the fat with pals, I met some great authors, I got some new Facebook buddies and I got a hug from Alexandra Sokoloff, which rounded the weekend off perfectly.

But I still don’t know who Craig Robertson is.

PS – special mention must go to all the committee members, staff, volunteers and Dom Hastings for putting together such a great festival. I really don’t know how they do it. And if that crawling isn’t enough to have me invited back next year, I don’t know what will.