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Fuelled by apples and stovies, neeps and tatties, we scribbled paths through Blantyre, East Kilbride, Rutherglen, Falkirk, Bo’ness, Kilsyth, Wishaw and Motherwell. Wherever teenagers were educated within reach of an orbital bypass, they found the Bookmobile catapulting itself into their car parks.
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Allowing ourselves to be caught briefly on GMTV (right) for World Book Day, and again for North Lanarkshire Radio, we kept moving, kept ducking and diving, kept finding those schools. Alarmed teachers spread word about an Irishman who shouted at their students, who hurled abuse at them and made clumsy attempts to mimic their speech. Like some Mao Tse MacTung, he waved a notebook at them. A snowball assault failed to shut him up.
On we went. No wind, nor rain, nor snow, nor dual carriageway pile-up could stop the Bookmobile’s twisting progress, until it came to a spinning, sprawling halt in Edinburgh, disgorging its dazed passengers.
The Bookmobile fell silent. The sat-nav went dark. And we looked back over the Scottish landscape at what we had achieved, and we saw that it was beast, nay, it was yaldy – some might even say . . . minted. Our work was done.
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