In days of yore, when candles ruled and yer toothless aunt Aggie sat breaking wind before a turf fire, this Halloween business would have had a bit of bite to it. Annoying urchins would have been scared crapless and spent their evening cowering pathetically in a corner.
Unfortunately the advent of electric light put the mockers on the whole affair. Uncle Kenneth wearing a Jack Nicholson mask and wielding a rubber axe just doesn't cut the mustard.
For the full on hairy Celt experience one really has to look to the annual Beltanefestival held on Edinburghs Calton hill for inspiration. There really is nothing like seeing painted naked mamas with big bazoombas shaking their stuff and waving flaming torches about.
It warms the cockles of me old heart and gives me the urge to strap on a pair of stag antlers.
Beltane could only be improved if a properWicker Man were to be constructed and a popularScottish politician strapped within and burned alive. Just imagine the cheers and whoops of delight.
I would like to make it clear that I am not of the golfist persuasion and have no truck with those who are. I would, in all seriousness, prefer to prance about on the roof of Buckingham Palace wearing a gimp suit than trundle about in a paraplegics milkfloat.
My good friend Collette is not a golfist either, but she does have a pair of golfing shoes. She keeps them next to her muck encrusted wellingtons in her front porch. The other day I summoned up the courage to ask her what possible use she could have for them. She honoured me with a look of pity and withering contempt and said "I use them to aerate the soil on my lawns". I was somewhat nonplussed by this reply and said "don't the worms do that already?"."Yes", she said, "my activities merely augment their efforts".
Kenneth for example. Anyone who allows themselves to be called Kenneth in public probably has buck teeth, big hairy ears, and the most execrable dress sense this side of Elton John. Even the diminutive 'Ken' sucks. It evokes images of youth club leaders who like to fiddle with their bits in public. As for 'Kenny', that's just pure Country 'n' Western retard material.
Then there's Richard. Not such a bad name in itself. It wouldn't be so bad if people called Richard called themselves Richard. Unfortunately they don't: it has to be 'Rick', 'Dickie', 'Rickie', or 'Richie'. I feel inclined to assault them with my surfboard.
I'm not telling you my name. It's not as bad as Ebeneezer or Nebuchadnezzar, or quite as embarassing as Rupert, but it's still mildy discomfiting.
If only I'd been called Harrison. Things could have turned out so differently.
When in Manhattan it is a habit of mine to visit the Algonquin hotel in order to commune with the spirit of the late Dorothy Parker. I fully concur with her pithily expressed comment that "I love children but I couldn't eat a whole one".
WHY are YOU expected to shell out YOUR hard earned dosh so that children are educated to not read, write, do hard sums, or provide a basic account of the reasons for, outcome of, and consequences of the Pellopenesian wars?
WHY is YOUR progress along supermarket aisles impeded my wailing infants in pushchairs?
WHY can't YOU have a bevvy in peace without having to tolerate infant hollering in so called 'family areas' in public houses?
WHY are YOU annoyed by scrounging little gits tryng to extract beer money from YOU at Halloween?
WHY are YOU expected to subsidise the likes of SID in their vain and futile proceastic attempts to produce their very own troupe of Minime all singin' all Dancin' Osmond Family.
* All sprogless citizens shall pay a flat rate of income tax of 10%. * All 'Early Learning Centres' will be closed with immediate effect and turned into betting shops. * Munchkins will not be permitted in public houses. * SID will be forced to accede to 'the snip'.
Many's the happy hour I've spent browsing in charity shops. There's nothing like some purple polyester flares and a pair of cracked broques with pointy uppy toes to set my heart a flutter.
The whiff of the dear departed in my nostrils reminds me of the late (not much lamented) SID, and gets me rummaging in the racks of Super 8 cassettes to find some artefacts of his Country Music genius.
I'm not sure if the staff in charity shops are alive. They certainly don't look it. They clearly derive their dress sense from the racks of luridly coloured garments displayed in their shops. If it wasn't for the delicate scent of dry cleaning fluid emanating from their oxters the whole shebang would be overpowered with the smell of formaldahyde.
You can't even get a manky Harold Robbins paperback for a decent price.
No, I definitely can't be doing with charity shops.
I can't claim to be a huge fan of Cunnry and Wessern music. I put the source of my antipathy down to a deeply traumatic experience in my youth. Anyone who has been trapped in the back seat of their Uncle Norman's Ford Cortina while the dulcet tones of Philomena Begley (a name to conjure with) belts out from a pair of tinny Pye speakers will understand exactly what I suffered.
I don't know what it is with the Irish and Country music. Why anyone peering out at the drizzle and the morose donkey tethered to a tin shed from their bungalow window should develop a sudden desire to listen to some lachrymose wailings about drinking moonshine in the Osark Mountains and shagging their 12 year old second cousin senseless beats me.
I do make an exception for the late great Gram Parsons, and the really rather lovely Emmelou Harris, but apart from that the yehaers can stick their stetsons and rhinestone cowboy outfits where the sun don't shine.
Although he trys to keep it under his hat, I know that SID (the Bard of Bollix) is a big fan of all things country. He actually moonlights as Declan the Singing Moron, and holds a Hooley on the Costa Del Sol every year. He is particularly renowned for his internationally acclaimed rendition of the seminal 'My Lovely Horse' by the late Father Ted.
He tried to explain away that drunken plavaver with the Spaniards the other night as a 'meet and greet' session in preparation for a conference on autism. This was just a smokescreen to cover up his final preparations for this years Hooley in Fuengirola.
I've decided to put my trip to the Pishnish on hold and visit this cultural event instead. I am reassured to learn that there will be a 'specially prepared menu to suit the Irish palate'. I'm assuming this means that mounds of boiled potatoes will be stirred into the paella and that the calamari will be fried in lard.
The geezer doesn't act: he just plays himself being David. "'Oh look at my lovely puppy fat!" I bet that's what he says to himself when he preens before his dressing room mirror. His technique is almost up there with Clint Eastwood in the 'he's either smiling or he isn't' stakes.
Not satisfied with the afterglow of the intense sexual chemistry (not) he displayed with Gillian Anderson in the X Files, he's now smiling and not smiling in a new series 'Californication' in which he says 'fuck' a lot.
I hope the Red Hot Chilli Peppers sue the arrogant Yankee arse for nicking one of their song titles.
Big tongued liver lipped tosser Jamie Oliver has recently been wowing the British populace with al fresco cookery displays from the ridiculously huge garden of his preposterously large faux Rod Stewart Essex country pile.Here is my version of a Jamie recipe.
1. Build a huge fucking ginormous wood burning oven next to the patio of your bijou semi detached house.
2. Procure two snipe, two quail, three wood pigeons, and a big bastard cumberland sausage.
3. Chuck the dead fowl and sausage into a big ceramic roasting tray along with some thyme, rosemary, garlic, and a ‘good old slug’ of extra virgin olive oil procured from a Tuscan maiden’s navel.
4. Roast the 'old boys' for 40 minutes in your big bastard wood burning oven.
5. Chop up the resultant dogs dinner and lick your blubber lips.
6. Jump about in a stupid woolly hat looking a right twat.
I’d give that Nigella one.
N.B Note to self. Do not attempt to compose stuff in Word and attempt to import it into Blogger. It doesn't
I don't what it is about lost weekends that make them so enjoyable. It isn't as though you can recall much of what happened. This is probably a good thing, what with the benumbed and befuddled shenanigans which have an unerring ability to produce intense embarrassment when harsh daylight assaults ones sensitive corneas.
There was the time when I woke up in the Lochmaddy hotel, North Uist, with no idea where I was or how I came to be there. I blame it on the rough mash Talisker whisky foisted on me by a hairy Celt. Rough was the word. The stuff had been 'liberated' from the distillery and was no less lethal from being dispensed from a litre Blackthorn cider bottle.
It's the time change, the countless hours seeping through the pores that do the trick.
This is why I'm off to stay in the Mishnish Hotel on the Isle of Mull. It should be interesting.If I can recall anything about the experience I may even Blog about it.