A wander round the land of my childhood brought back some old and very old memories from the days when I stupidly thought life had some meaning.  If you click the picture below you’ll get the big version.

Considering how legendary the Hamiltons are I’m surprised at the dearth of blue plaques.  Maybe it’s because we’re aw deid.  Anyway.

Picture 1 shows the pub formerly known as the Clachan where my Dad was captain of the darts team who were all Edinburgh champions.  Many is the night I stood outside waiting for him with some fizzy orange and a bag of crisps.

2) a hundred yards away from the Clachan you’d have found Yesterdays.  This was the venue for the first official date of the future Mr and Mrs H.  (7th December 1992 since you ask).  Natty wee booths up the back for privacy. It later became a biker pub called the Black Pig before ending up as the current heresy.  Mrs H will be turning etc…

3) back to my Dad for pics 3 and 4.  3 is the old Meat Market sign.  With historical revisionism being all in vogue, the Meat Market wasn’t actually there.  It was 100 yards along the road.  My Dad was the on call plumber there so was often called in to clear innards oot the drains.  He took me in once to meet a wee, skinny bloke he drank with in the Clachan.  He had one skinny arm and one huge one because his job was breaking cows necks.  Why waste money on a bullet or the mess of a blade when you had him.

Just around the corner was number 4.  A fancy dan hotel now it was the Grove Street doss hoose.  Again my Dad was the on call plumber there so had the pleasure of cleaning oot the shite off assorted jakeys and tramps.  The third time he brought home lice my Mum marched in to see his boss and demanded the contract be cancelled.

Picture 5 is where the old Marcos used to be.  It was here, early in our courtship, that Mrs H realised I was The Man.  It was back in my long haired, biker days, so I was well equipped to be crowned King Karaoke after a rousing rendition of Bob Segers ‘Old Time Rock’n’Roll’.  She (and many others) swooned. I was in.

There may be no blue plaques but just round the corner from Marcos they have named a row of buildings after me.  It’s a scaffy, shitey wee street.  Which seems just about right.  Finally, a gratuitous picture of Mrs H for your viewing pleasure.



I’ve been whispering softly, trying to build a cry up to a scream
We let the past slip away, and put the future on hold
Now the present is nothing but a hollowed out dream