Clootie was way to Sean’s good books
It was a clootie dumpling which gained me Sean Connery’s approval. I had flown to Spain to record a political broadcast with the star in the late 90s.
When he appeared at the gate of his walled villa, my woman taxi driver almost collapsed. “Señor Bond, Señor Bond,” she yelled. I had to calm her before she could drive back to her rank.
Sean’s greeting to me was dour; he was no luvvie. I thrust a bomb shaped object into 007’s arms, explaining, “It’s a clootie dumpling. I thought it might bring back memories.”
The dour look vanished – it was “come away in” time. He was off, remembering life in his childhood home, a Fountainbridge tenement. He recalled “My mother used to make clootie dumplings in the washhouse boiler out the back. Us kids would hang around the outhouse when the dumpling was nearly done and letting off great smells.” He pointed out that clooties weren’t just for New Year but for birthdays.
He remembered when Fountainbridge was nicknamed “Stink Row” because of the local breweries and biscuit factories. The lad from
Stink Row grew up to represent the screen’s most sophisticated character. How unlike the privileged rich kids and Etonians who make it in the movies today. Sean was the last and greatest of his kind.
In his hacienda’s main sitting room, Sean stressed his obsession with kids being educated. He said: “I left school at 13 because of the war. Some ladies opened temporary schools in their drawing rooms but not for me.”
A milk boy was allowed to keep delivering despite
Dorothy-Grace Elder
Former SNP MSP the bombing risk – but not to continue education in upmarket houses.
No longer dour, but a comfortable fellow Scot without pretence, Sean was a pleasure to talk to.
But there was comedy in the encounter – the script had been faxed via New York. It arrived blacked out, unreadable.
It was a Saturday, we couldn’t reach anyone so Sean asked if I could write a new script on the spot. There was only an old electric typewriter, his secretary was off. No laptops in the late 90s.
Sean waited patiently as I dreamed up another script. But it came out littered with Xs and Ys, with Sean asking “Is this in Polish?”
Tired, I fired back: “You can be paid a million dollars for just a walk on. I bet you can read that beautifully for nothing.” He laughed – and he did read superbly between the Xs and Ys. He did everything for free for the independence cause.
I met Sean again when I was an MSP in the new Scottish Parliament, Everyone was delighted to see him in the gallery on opening day, tartan clad and with frilly jabot beneath that huge smile.
Months later, he visited again. The SNP hierarchy tried to take him over – but Sean remembered other contacts, including our “clootie dumpling” experience.He visited my office later and praised a campaign I was doing to get 30,000 windows repaired in Glasgow, after a child had fallen and died.
“That’s a campaign we should be doing,” he said.
Goodbye, Sean, you were the greatest.