I Like it Here

The last time I visited New York I hated it.

It wasn't that the place lacked vibrancy, it was just that all that energy was too frenetic: a sense of paranoic violence lurked beneath the surface of things. Gazes were directed downwards, the onwards hurtle toward home and safety not to be compromised by eye contact.

Times Square was a sleazy disgusting porn ridden dump. The subway was like a demented relative losing sight of the only thing that gave their life purpose.

These days people are happy to stop and talk. Is it the aftermath of 9/11 or a consequence of proper policing? I don't know, but I'm not complaining.

Some things haven't changed. People talk to themselves in McDonalds. Vagrants shuffle uncomplainingly, carrying their wordly chattels in bin bags. A black man with no legs rattles his tin. Wall Street disgorges its fat odiousness onto the subway.

I think I'll trudge across to the Rockefeller Center tomorrow. Sometimes capitalism in its rawest form produces something sublime. I plan to vist Trump Tower afterwards. If the ginger one is present I won't be able to contain myself.

Done 'n' Dusted

As plastic fantastic rip off enviroments go airports take some beating. Does anyone about to board a plane seriously require a Hermes scarf, a full manicure, and a pint of overpriced beer?

I am presently in a Glasgow airport hotel. I depart for New York tomorrow and am already rubbing my palms at the prospect of seven hours in cattle class followed by the hell that is American airport security. I haven't concealed a bazooka up my rectum and I don't sport a suspicious islamist beard. It won't make any difference. I will still be subjected to the full gamut of indignities.

Oh well, I shall console myself with the prospect of a large plate of corned beef hash crowned with a fried egg. It will have to do until I can afford a Learjet.

Star Trekking Across the Universe

Let’s face it, Star Trek, in all its various incarnations was utter keek (apart from Uhuru, obviously).

The original consisted mainly of polystyrene rocks and Kirk wrestling with monsters that were a bit slow on their feet and weren’t very scary at all. Then there was the ‘tribbles’ episode. Need I say more?

The Next Generation was even worse; most episodes consisting of tedious conversations between Picard and Mr Data. Talk about a snoreathon. Admittedly the Borg turned up once in a while to liven things up a bit, but that was just an intermission in a sea of tediousness.

Voyager was equally dire. 7 of Nine in a skin-tight leotard was mildly diverting in a vaguely sexual kind of way, but apart from that it was wall to wall conversations and holo deck tediousness.

I didn’t even bother watching Enterprise.

If only they’d allowed the Scots to do it. Just think what might have been.

Tree Hugging

I was interested to learn that the Forestry Commission has decided to appoint a cultural diversity officer on a meagre salary of £30K.

I would have thought that those of a non heterosexual persuasion would be more than delighted to don a hard hat and utility belt. I imagine that the prospect of wielding a massive chainsaw while performing a Kylie Minogue dance routine would fill their hearts with delight.

It’s good to see taxpayers money spent on such worthwhile projects. I’m actually quite tempted by the job myself. A full pension entitlement and free use of a big Land Rover with bull bars is not to be sniffed at.

I would have to point out to all prospective candidates that the chances of being squished by a large tree are rather high, and that forests are full of nipping varmints and biting insects. All that fresh air is all very well, but winter gales and lightning strikes should also be taken into account.

I’m sure I could cope with earning all that dosh while sitting in a leather executive chair ensuring that fair and equitable recruitment policies were fully implemented.
I could distribute circulars and everything. I think I may have finally discovered my true vocation.

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept

Like most right thinking Britons, my eyes turn westwards when the mighty greenback starts to look a little anaemic. The exchange rate with the £ is extremely favourable at the moment; a trip across the pond thus a more than usually attractive prospect.

At the moment I can get a direct return flight from Glasgow to New York, travel insurance, and 7 nights staying here for the derisory sum of £737. To put this in perspective, it would cost much the same to fly to London and stay in some disgusting dive for a week. Added to this would be the extortionate London prices for food and drink, the prospect of being knifed by a crack head, and dreary grey skies. There’s no contest really.

The hotel may be top of the budget range, but it should at least be a cockroach free zone. Anyway, nobody goes to New York to sit in a hotel room.

I could stock up on electronic goodies and clothing for a third less than in the UK, thus defraying some of the expense. Of course, in truth, I’d really be going for the breakfasts and the freshly baked bagels with a generous ‘schmeer’ of cream cheese and some smoked salmon.

I’m swithering*. The credit card nestles in my sweaty palm as I write this. Should I stay or should I go now?


* Scottish term for not being able to make your mind up.

Some bands are born to be shite, some aspire to shiteness, but very few (apart from Coldplay), get to announce their utter shiteness to an unprepared and gormless world.

I give you the View. Think of them as the hideous offspring of Supergrass and the Libertines and you won't go far wrong.



I am, however, prepared to give some credit to the numpties in two respects:

a) they come from Dundee, home of Rockstar games,
b) they've been banned from every Travelodge in the United Kingdom.

For those of you haven't sampled the delights provided by Travelodge, I say don't even think about it. Nylon curtains, a plastic fantastic bathroom sourced from a Kowloon coolies underpants, a 'continental' breakfast at £6 per crossaint, miserable gurning acned staff.

I could go on.

Paris

In Paris with You

Don’t talk to me of love. I’ve had an earful
And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two.
I’m one of your talking wounded.
I’m a hostage, I’m maroonded.
But I’m in Paris with you.

Yes I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess that I’ve been through.
I admit I’m on the rebound
And I don’t care where are we bound.
I’m in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre.
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysees
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that,
To what and whom.
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris,
This little bit of Paris in our view.
There’s that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I’m in Paris with you.

Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris.
I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I’m in Paris…with all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I’m in Paris with you.

James Fenton may be a baldy coot with a lugubrious Oxonian voice, but he is also one of the most underated poets writing in English today.

You can hear him read 'Paris' here. 'Jerusalem' is also worth a listen. If anything as pertinent to the mess in the Middle East today has been written I have yet to hear it.

Drenched

It rains a lot in the west of Scotland. So far this year there have been two dry(ish) days, the rest dominated by howling gales and horizontal rain.

I blame the Americans for this. After all, the depressions develop in the Gulf of Mexico and hurtle across the Atlantic with a little encouragement from the Jet Stream. Chuck and Wilma are happily ensconced in their Florida villa congratulating themselves on their escape from frozen northern climes. It doesn’t occur to them to spare a thought for Scots shivering beneath their eiderdowns. Some people just lack empathy.

I’m convinced that the melancholy Celtic temperament, and propensity for consuming vast quantities of whisky/vodka/rum, is an inevitable outcome of foul winter weather. Opening the curtains to another morning of torrential downpours and gales aspiring to hurricane status is enough to get anybody down.

I suppose being confined indoors watching daytime television does have a few meagre compensations. Snack foods may be consumed on the sofa, and the hundreds of DVDs purchased on a whim from Amazon viewed at ones leisure.

I’m thinking of moving to Vladivostok. It might freeze my bollocks off, but at least it won’t rain every day; and the vodka should be cheaper.

Like a Rolling Scone

I was pleased to learn that his Bobness has purchased a mansion in Scotland. At a mere £2 million this diminutive pied a terre should provide the aging scruffball with suitable accommodation when he takes a well earned break from his never ending tour.

Bob increasingly resembles a tramp. He looked pretty cool circa 1966, but since then his physical decline has been precipitous. Should he wish to mingle with Glasgow vagrants all he will need to do is swig from a bottle of Buckfast and mumble incoherently. Nobody will be any the wiser.

His new abode is actually quite close to were I live. Next time I’m invited to J K Rowling’s for lemonade and fish fingers I might pay him a visit. I’m sure he’d be delighted to meet me and reminisce about the sociological importance of leopard skin pill box hats.

The geezers more Zimmer frame than Zimmerman these days, so I’m sure he won’t look aghast at the tartan rug and shortbread that I intend to present to him. I’d give him some whisky, but that might induce some incoherent stream of consciousness ramblings that could result in a stroke.

I’m all in favour of the Jockocracy mingling with the rock aristocracy. It should be a true meeting of minds.

Ralfie Dahling

Some people are irritating. Impossibly good looking; debonair, and talented, they whisk effortlessly from success to success without ever feeling the need to glance at their reflection in a shop window to ensure that there isn’t a hair out of place.

I don’t like thespians as a rule. On the whole they are self regarding preening twats who have taken up permanent residency in their own anuses. I make the odd exception to this general rule of total dickheadedness: Ralph Fiennes being one of them.

He’s a very talented actor who doesn’t accept shit roles, and would rather commit hari kiri with his fish knife than agree to appear in a US mini series.

Unfortunately he goes and spoils it all by insisting that he is called Raife, not Ralph. And he’s shagging an old slapper.

What a knobhead.

Wildcat

I have had an unusual visitor over the past weeks. I have twice seen a Scottish Wildcat at the back of my house.

I am quite chuffed by this as the critter is the rarest wild mammal in Britain. Some experts think that there may be as few as 400 remaining in the wild. As with most predators, they were hunted virtually to extinction during the 19th and early 20th centuries.

Although resembling a domestic cat, they are much larger, with broad heads and wide bushy tails. Their gait is different as well, their movements similar to that of a small lion.

These days they are not endangered by the actions of man. The main threat to the species lies in hybridisation caused by interbreeding with domestic cats. Some people think that the only hope for their survival is for the neutering of domestic cats in areas where the Wildcat is extant to be made a legal obligation.

We used to have Wolves, Lynx, and Beavers. It would be a great pity if we were to lose one of our last wild predatory mammals. Since the last ice age the Wildcat has evolved perfectly to survive in the often harsh environment of the Scottish Highlands. It would be a shame if lack of interest were to lead to its extinction.

Unlucky Alf

There was a character in the Fast Show called unlucky Alf who, as his name suggested, didn't have much luck. He was constantly being electrocuted by household appliances and had an unerring ability to fall down open manholes (no comments PigTaz please).

I've always felt an affinity with Alf. It's not so much that I'm prone to misfortunes, it's just that fortune rarely smiles on me. Other people find £20 notes in supermarket car parks, win £32,000 on five race accumulators, and always bag top prizes in lotteries. It never happens to me. That's why I never gamble. Its got nothing to do with morality; It's just that I know that I'd always lose.

Amazingly, I had a serendipitous experience before Christmas. I ordered a Compaq notebook from PC world on a Barclaycard that I hadn't used for over a year. Two days later I received a letter stating that they'd stopped the payment as a precaution against fraud. I went back on the web site and tried with another card. Sold out. Bastard.

Several days later a grubby little delivery man turned up at the door with a package emblazoned with the brand name COMPAQ. I phoned Barclaycard, who confirmed that no payment had been taken. I phoned them again today and still no payment has been taken. It looks like the goons at PC World had been at the mulled wine a bit early and I have bagged myself a free PC.

At last, some luck. I'm sure it won't last. I'll probably be diagnosed with a ghastly little tumour later in the year.

Buggernation

I Like cars. I like fast cars. I like driving fast cars fast. Miraculously I've never had an endorsement on my driving license; until yesterday that is.

I was happily trundling along at 90mph on a 60mph speed limit road when I noticed a flashing blue light in my rear view mirror. I was nicked, banged to rights, collared by the long arm of the law.

It wasn't a local copper. They don't pay much attention to speeding, preferring to spend their time bird watching and playing cards. It's just my luck that a woolie suit had been drafted in to cover for one of the locals.

Now I can look forward to a fixed penalty notice and a fat fine. Not the best of starts to the New Year.

Oh well, never mind.

Jollies.

I don't really class Christmas/New Year as a holiday. Everyone's on the skive, so no self respecting malingerer can take delight in knowing that millions of hard working folk are grafting, and observe their ill advised labourings with a mixture of pity and contempt.

I need some more proper jollies. I think I've finally worked out my life/work balance, and am coming down firmly in favour of the former. Knitting, marquetry, stamp collecting et al don't really make the grade in my defintion of 'life'.

I could quite happily spend half the year abroad, moaning about poor sanitary facilities and the appalling manners of foreigners. I might suffer the odd hankering for a bottle of HP sauce, or a proper bacon sandwich, but I think I'd cope.

Beirut is looking rather attractive. The hotels are dirt cheap at the moment, the prospect of Israeli missiles landing in their jacuzzis having put off the limp wristed jet set.

Cowardy custards. Lets face it, the Jacobs usually only bomb the Shiite district. Even if the worst did come to the worst I'm sure the magnificent Royal Navy would send a big battleship to whisk me to the safety of Cyprus.

Given my immense contribution to the health of the British economy it would be the least I deserve.

April

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUoJhtLxx9I

Come back. Some of us love the bones of you.

It's Official.

Scotland is closed until the 3rd of January.

You won't be getting no milk off us. Come to think of it, the 3rd of January is a bit of a hungover washout as well. You might have to steal a cow.

Happy Hogmanay.

I'm orf for a couple of sherries.

The trouble with stuff.

Is that I'm coming down with it.

I'm not talking Ferraris and minor royalty here: it's just that I seem to be drowning in discarded video game cases, odd socks, and semi read paperbacks that just haven't managed to get a grip.

I suppose I could have a spring clean. Then again, I wouldn't be content without the detrius of my life spilling about my person. A clean white prison of well ordered normalcy doesn't appeal somehow. Maybe I could donate a few dog eared books and inadvisable trouser purchases to one of the legion of charity shops. I'm sure the £3 raised would cure some afflicted infant somewhere.

I've decided on my New Year resolution. I shall collect all the small change that I usually lose down the back of the sofa and contribute it to a charity of any poor deluded readers choice. Come to that, I'll contribute some trousers.

I'm sure it'll be easier than giving up smoking.

Stuffed

Celebrity chefs (apart from food porn priestess in chief Nigella, obviously) have much to answer for.

Citing impossible to obtain ingredients sourced from a Tuscan peasant's navel and swooning over pieces of offal are enough to put anyone off cookery for life. Then there are the endless coffee table cook books that everyone peruses once and then places on a shelf where they will linger until the apocalypse.

I'm usually immune to this kind of thing, prefering to recline on the sofa with a nice kebab and a teacake to follow. Unfortunately I fell for the pre Christmas 'goose is much nicer than turkey' twaddle bandied about by various culinary twats with stupid haircuts.

Come Christmas Day a perfectly roasted goose was presented at table to coos of delight from those about to partake. Unfortunately there was about enough flesh on the honker to feed an anorexic Pygmy, and even that tasted like a geriatric goat.

Thankfully a fine rib of beef on Boxing Day salvaged the situation somewhat.

I've got a turkey for New Year. The celeb chefs can go and roast their own giblets.

Commercial Break II

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VjOxrj84MfE

This is just some skinny white boys from East Kilbride, Scotland, doing what skinny white boys from East Kilbride Scotland like to do.

And why not?

Commercial Break.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z14wPTz6Pd

Unfortunately three months off the blog have left my depleted cranial cells unable to decipher html code.

I can't add links.

Never mind, I'll get there eventually. Mary's syntax leaves about as much to be desired as my profound technonumptieness.

I'm sure you love her anyway.

Pills, Thrills, and Bellyaches.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPT4iaHVFHo

Wa, hey, hey, hey.

Don't do drugs boys and girls.

Prime Numbers are Unique.

They are divisible only by themselves and one.

Sonnets are even more tricky.

As is iambic pentameter.

I'm off for a lie down.

Garfer says Yo Ho Ho.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Qn3tel9FWU


Happy Christmas ladies and gentlemen. I Hope you have a good one. Unfortunately I'm in the dog house because I forgot to defrost the mince pies. Hey ho.

Hey ho, here I go again.

I don’t have a particularly addictive personality. Sure, I like a drink; and I don’t turn down pneumatic blonde nymphomaniacs that live above a pub without due cause, but I can’t say that I’m addicted to either of these potentially lethal pastimes.

The only vice that has gripped me and doggedly refuses to let go is tobacco. I’ve tried cold turkey, eating two dozen mandarin oranges a day, and plastering my torso with nicotine patches. Alas, all has been to no avail; I still end up back on the chuffers within a couple of weeks.

My GP has informed that me that she can prescribe me a new wonder drug that apparently subdues all nicotine cravings. It costs a packet, but as I am a hopeless case she is happy to provide me with a course of treatment gratis on the NHS. Her generosity may have something to do with the fact that I don’t turn up at her surgery twice weekly complaining of a slight cough and a bit of a sore knee.

Of course, I won’t be giving up before January 3rd at the earliest. The west highland Scottish Hogmanay extends well into the evening of the 2nd, and I refuse to have my party spoiled by hankerings for a roll up. Come the 3rd my drug regime will commence. Hopefully this time I’ll finally make it.

I Hate Soduko

The all seeing, all knowing, psychologists have been cracking open the Krug recently

Proffesor Dimwit from the University of Bognor Regis managed to get his name in every quality newspaper in the country by revealing his stunning insight that women talk more than men. Why it should take a psychologist using empirical methodology to state the bleedin' obvious is frankly beyond me. All men know that women talk more: that's why we sit in the corner, quietly humming to ourselves.

It's not a question of vocabulary. Some of us have swallowed several dictionaries, but do not feel the need to play Scrabble on a regular basis in order to prove our familiarty with obscure words.

I've often wondered if it's possible to get the word 'Lysergicaciddiathilimide' on a scrabble board. Across a few triple and double sqaures it would rival solving Feormat's Last Theorem as a terminal nerds feather in the cap moment.

And no, I don't watch Countdown.

Abroad

Six weeks spent in Cyprus furiously imbibing tequila sunrises have miraculously left my fragile constitution somewhat intact.

I don't understand why anyone is remotely attracted to the idea of extreme sports. I popped across to Cairo only to find myself harangued by begging urchins offering camels for any conceivable use at a ridiculously low price. I may have taken them up on the offer, but unfortunately they only had dromedarys.

Isn't wifi great? Only £10 per 24 hours.

My Own Private Idaho

Some places, although not fictitious, certainly merit their place in the popular imagination as being somewhat other. I mean ‘other’ in the sense that although not particularly inaccessible in the geographical sense (with the exception of Timbuktu), they aren’t the sort of places anyone’s likely to visit, or can imagine anyone actually coming from.

Boise, Idaho, is definitely one of them. I actually couldn’t place it on a map. I know it’s in the USA, but apart from that it inhabits a mental terra incognito that might as well be populated with dragons and cannibals.

Imagine my surprise when, a couple of years ago, some luridly clad cyclists hove into view. They dismounted from their cycles and enquired, very politely (if a bit loudly), if they could rent a ‘hut’ for the night. I was a bit nonplussed. I don’t get many Americans, but when I do they are generally crammed into a small saloon car, or peer down at me from the lofty heights of a massive Range Rover that does 2mpg tops.

I asked if they were from the USA (I’m good at identifying accents). “Gee”, they said, "we’re from Boise, Idaho!”. By this stage I was thoroughly disorientated. I showed them into a ‘hut’ and they took it on the spot. I think it was the ‘hot tub’ in the bathroom that swung the deal my way. I almost pointed out the luxury of separate hot and cold taps, but my common sense prevailed.

I was feeling like Mr Super Salesman until one of the Boiseites asked: “What time do you serve breakfast?” I wasn’t wearing a chef’s hat at the time, and the sign at the road clearly indicated ‘Self- Catering Lodges’. Frankly, I was shell shocked, and asked: “What time would you like breakfast?”

They asked for ‘Granola’, so I fed them some ‘Weetabix’; which must have been an acceptable substitute as none of them said anything. They them scoffed a full fry up and pedalled off towards the horizon (after leaving me a large tip). I quite liked them.

In hindsight I’m convinced that they must have been CIA fact finders, or representatives of some strange esoteric rattlesnake worshipping cult.

It’s hard to tell, but I’m still convinced that nobody actually comes from Boise, Idaho.

Stress

An element of stress is essential, if only to prevent everyone sleeping in after composing haikus on the back of a cigarette packet at 3.00 am.

I prefer to avoid stress whenever possible. As far as I’m concerned my main calling in life is to contemplate the intolerable iniquities of humanity whilst smoking a cheroot. Sometimes it all gets a bit much and I consider moving to some god forsaken mosquito ridden swamp and devoting the rest of life to the betterment of the lame and the halt.

Thankfully reason takes hold. There are more than enough gap year students lugging rucksacks around the globe on the back of mummy and daddy’s credit cards to ensure that such gross social inequities will soon be a thing of the past.

I suppose I must be an incorrigible optimist. The Rev Thomas Malthus claimed that excessive shagging amongst the hoi polloi would result in a serious spud shortage, mass starvation, and the demise of the human race. It hasn’t happened yet, and judging by the global proliferation of fast food chains, it isn’t going to happen any time soon.

I’m sure that in my ancestry there must have been energetic sorts rushing about suffering thorns in their buttocks in pursuit of nuts and berries. Thankfully such exertions are no longer required. If the worst comes to the worst I suppose I can always eat the neighbours. Some of them have got enough lard on them to enable the graceful departure of an ocean going liner down the slipway.

On a darker note, my cat Oscar has finally departed for some far away nebula to hunt down strange silicon based mouse creatures.

Good luck to them. They don’t stand a chance.

Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, pa PAH.

It is most reassuring to learn that the froggies are to lead the UN task force in Lebanon. Hezbollah are no doubt quaking in their boots at the prospect of having their asses wupped by the garlic eaters.

The French generally hold their noses when the Americans or British send troops overseas. They noise off about vile Anglo Saxons tramping over downtrodden peoples in far flung corners of the globe.

This really is the rankest hypocrisy given the French predilection for stomping all over their former colonies given the slightest excuse. Their pursuit of ‘la gloire’ is far more indicative of a former imperial power fantasising about its world status than anything the British do.

No doubt they will send the Foreign Legion. The poor sods always get dispatched to futile wars in which they receive a thorough kicking (Algeria, Vietnam). Only the French could come up with the idea of having an elite regiment composed almost entirely of foreigners. If lots of them get killed the French don’t really give a toss as they can always recruit more.

It’s genius really.

Sigmund

Schizophrenia isn’t that rare a condition. I imagine that all humanity suffers from it to one degree or other.

Take food for example: a large cheeseburger with fries and a strawberry milkshake obviously appeals to one cranial hemisphere, while the other yearns for duck confit served with a balsamic reduction and a nicely crusted pomme dauphinoise.

It’s just one of those things. Claude Debussy and Black Sabbath are not as far removed from each other as we might like to think. Ozzy may not have had a timpanist to call on when injecting some lachrymose, sensitive, moments into his paeans to covens cavorting on gravestones, but I’m sure Claude would have been delighted with a bone dead drummer capable of injecting some venom into his rhythm section.

I suppose it’s all a question of perspective. Viewed from either end of the telescope high and low cultures are mutually incompatible. Glyndebourne and Glastonbury may share something in the alliterative sense, but they inhabit entirely different mental universes.

If I had my way, all violinists would be compelled to plug in, and all Yamaha organ players forced to plug out. There’s something in me that says a switch labelled ‘samba’ is an offence against humanity.

God help us all

I personally have no objections to the Persians acquiring a nuclear capability as long as they bomb this twat back to the Stone Age.

I mean, just look at him.

Walkie talkie

Isle of Ulva looking across to Ben More, Isle of Mull

I’ve never been much of a hiker. The distaste which lurid outdoor wear evokes in me, and my general hatred of exercise, has ensured that I resist the temptation to purchase a pair of Goretex lined hiking boots.

I do, however, make an exception when walking is restricted to well sign posted dry paths with gentle gradients. I went to the Isle of Ulva today and walked for three whole hours, only pausing to chuff on a ciggie on three occasions. Feeling rather proud of myself, I then repaired to the Boat House restaurant and pigged out on freshly caught langoustines doused in garlic butter. Any calories burnt off by this unusual exercise were consequently instantly replenished.

Ulva is one of the jewels of the west coast that most people overlook. Reached by a two minute ferry crossing, it is a world apart. There are no roads on the island, just a network of paths which lead into verdant woodland and unexpected views of wonderful seascapes.

I feel so proud of myself that I’ve decided to reward myself with some beer. I think I’ve actually earned it for once….hic.

Kippered

I like a nice kipper. A bony morsel it may be, but grilled with a little butter it is a real delicacy, especially if it’s an Arbroath smokie; the true aristocrat of the smoked fish world.

I take a different view of guests who decide to have a bumper kipper breakfast on the day of their departure. The lingering fishy odour they leave in their wake is impervious to even the strongest air fresheners and odour neutralisers. It is to my immense chagrin that I have to escort new guests into a log cabin that smells like Long John Silver’s underpants after a month on a pirate ship.

I watch their nostrils twitch as they trade brief glances. They don’t actually say anything, but I know they suspect that the previous occupant must have suffered from colostomy bag leakage. I pre-empt any potential complaints by launching into my ‘logs absorb odours and the fishy smell will soon dissipate' spiel. I know they don’t believe me.

I put out a heartfelt appeal to all holidaymakers. THINK BEFORE YOU KIPPER.

Some of us have to suffer the consequences of your self indulgence.

Kath & Kim

Maybe I’m just puerile. Come to think of it, I AM PEURILE. Only a lowbrow sensibility with a love of bum and fanny flap humour could possibly find the Australian stitcom Kath & Kim remotely amusing.

It makes me laugh out loud. It’s hard to say why. Every episode is ultimately a variation on the same theme and repeats the same jokes with minor variations.

Perhaps it just conforms to my existing prejudices regarding Aussies. Having never had the remotest desire to emigrate to a land where Aussie Rules Football (legalised violence) is regarded as a first rate sporting pastime, Kath & Kim has reinforced my antipathy.

I know that Australians aren’t all crass suburb dwelling ignoramuses with an obsession with barbies and slabs of tinnies (crates of beer), and I’m sure that the Sydney Opera House is a perfect symbol of cultural and artistic maturity, but even so, I think Kath and Kim have stamped their stilettos on the true beating heart of Ockerdom.

It’s got nothing to do with old world snobbery. I’m sure a Birmingham brick box housing scheme isn’t much different (apart from the sunshine and swimming pools).
In the end, I think that it comes down to the lingo. Any society that describes cracking birds as ‘hornbags’, and good looking males as ‘hunk ‘o’ spunks’ has to be a bit suspect.

Britain is so much more civilised in this respect. The sight of crowds of bevvied retards baying for the ladies to ‘get your tits out for the lads’, and micro skirt clad laddettes peeing in gutter, makes my heart swell with pride.

The Swifts.

I can’t claim to be much of an ornithologist: the lesser spotted mauve Flapwing and the irritable red flushed Bulltit are pretty much of a muchness to me.

A recent visitor to my veranda has, however, revealed an unexpected latent interest of which I have previously been unaware. A Swift has nested in the eaves of my balcony and I am now playing host to three diminutive chirruping Swiftlets. Personally I don’t hold with squatting, and I really should attach the extra long extension to my vacuam cleaner and dispose of the little varmints.

Unfortunately they’ve completely won me over. The sight of three small beaks craning on slender necks is enough to melt even my callous and stony heart. I have also been impressed by Mrs Swift’s bravery. She completes wide circuits as swiftly as only a Swift can before hovering two inches in front of my nose and glaring at me malevolently. I am convinced that any sudden movement on my part will result in my eyes being pecked out.

The only problem with Swiftlets is that they produce an inordinate amount of bird poo. God knows how many worms Mrs Swift is shoving down their voracious maws.
I’m convinced that if I collect their excretions I will be able to fertilise all the local flower beds (for a small fee).

No doubt the little fellas will be off soon. It will be a sad day. I suppose I should think up some kind of uplifting moral allegory to ameliorate my sense of impending abandonment. Unfortunately I can’t think of one.

Back for the Boyos.

Despite being of an unfortunate Welshish persuasion, it is undeniable that Cerys Matthews is drop dead gorgeous.

Having burnt herself out imbibing and snorting various inebriants of a legal and non legal nature she opted for rehab, moved to Nashville, got married, and dropped a couple of sprogs. This was most inconsiderate as I was available at the time and I’m sure I could have produced some suitable lyrics for her gutsy voice. Shame that, we could have been the new Elton John and Bernie Taupin (Elton being a big girl).

Never mind, she’s back fully shorn of all Britpop appendages and has just released a
new album. I might even buy it and muse wistfully on what might have been.

Cerys may have a jaw line to rival Arnold Shwarzenegger’s but she still floats my boat.

On This Island

On This Island

Look, stranger, on this island now
The leaping light for your delight discovers,
Stand stable here
And silent be,
That through the channels of the ear
May wander like a river
The swaying sound of the sea.

Here at a small field’s ending pause
Where the chalk wall falls to the foam and its tall ledges
Oppose the pluck
And knock of the tide.
And the shingle scrambles after the suck-
ing surf, and a gull lodges
A moment on its sheer side.

Far off like floating seeds the ships
Diverge on urgent voluntary errands,
And this full view
Indeed may enter
And move in memory as now these clouds do,
That pass the harbour mirror
And all the summer through the water saunter.

1935


W H Auden once described his face as resembling a ‘wedding cake left out in the rain’. Anyone as devoid of vanity as Auden (except where arch expression is concerned) has to be ok in my book.

The two best lyric poets writing in English in the twentieth century were Auden and W B Yeats. Yeats was a bit too up his own arse mystical Anglo Irish fuckwit for my liking, but he was immensely talented. Auden was a drawling upper middle class Oxonian, but he had an easy familiarity with the English language that enabled him to produce a seamless lyricism that hasn’t been equalled since.

I particularly like the way the Microsoft grammar checker has a head fit when I type some of his writing. Frankly, it’s a relief. There are far too many ‘technical writers’ out there producing sub literate blurbs describing the intimate functions of vacuum cleaners for my liking.

Cypriot Delight

Being a bone idle sort who takes great pleasure in watching other people enjoying themselves malingering on holiday, I rarely go on holiday myself.

I’m a short break specialist myself. I don’t pop on a plane to Barcelona equipped with the Rough Guide and a yearning desire to immerse myself in Catalonian culture; I book into a 4 star hotel within easy driving distance and seek out the nearest kebab shop. It’s the simple pleasures that appeal to me; albeit augmented with a monogrammed bath robe and some superior toiletries.

This year I’ve decided to go on a proper holiday. I briefly toyed with the idea of a four centre experience encompassing Baghdad, Kabul, Beirut, and Pyongyang. Thankfully my pathetic physical coward tendencies kicked in and I’ve decided to spend November in Cyprus instead.

It makes sense. The Cypriots all speak English, drive on the (proper) left hand side of the road, sell 12 year old brandy at five quid a pop, and have been known to rustle up the odd splendid kebab.

Maybe I’ll drive up to the Green Line and shake my fist at the Turkish soldiers (before running away very fast).

The Discreet Charm of the Slightly Skint.

Being personally devoid of any class whatsoever in shape, form, or movement, I have tended to ignore the subject whenever possible.

Some people are, I suppose, natural aristocrats. Tramps and whores can, on occasion,
rise above their lowly station and dismiss the world with an insouciant wave of the hand. Unfortunately, I’m just too petit bourgeois to get away with either glad handed magnanimity or a salt of the earth shrug of the shoulders.

Class is a British, or more particularly English, obsession that – not withstanding claims that a meritocratic nirvana has been reached – still permeates language, culture, and expectation.

Class has very little to do with money: a teacher is demonstrably middle class, while a plumber (despite earning twice as much) will always be a grubby little Sun reading individual clad in a boiler suit.

I suppose every society will inevitably produce a class structure. Even the Americans are still more or less (despite the odd toothy Kennedy) governed by the sensibilities of the New England families that can trace their ancestry to the seventeenth century. A hydra headed Cabot/Lowell/Bush/Prescott New England aristocracy governed the place for much of the twentieth century (and is having a woeful attempt at doing the same in this one).

I’d love to be a working class hero; but I wouldn’t feel comfortable sitting at a £30K Steinway piano in a Surrey mansion warbling about it. Being a wastrel aristo with massive gambling debts would be ok too, but I wouldn’t be so keen on drowning in a vain attempt to swim the Bosphorus.

I think I’ll settle for petit bourgeois mediocrity. It’s much safer on the whole. If I were to wear a pinz nez, or a flat cap, people might punch me on the nose.

Trackies

Some people (joggers presumably) regard track suit bottoms (jogging pants) as a garment signifying sexual allure. I’ve never quite got it.

Admittedly I don’t jog; a short stroll is enough to have me collapse in paroxysms of boredom. Even so, I suppose sports related fashion monstrosities have their place. Lounging on the sofa clutching a Special Brew can the modern male can indulge in vicarious sporting triumphs whilst simultaneously resting his slippers on a velour footstool.

The things are fine in principle: it’s just that I couldn’t bear wearing them, even in private. Ball scratching commodiousness, admirable as it may be, is no excuse for legs clad in Aladdin’s cast offs.

For some reason I have a mental image of jogging pants being sub consciously connected with jumbo sized family tubs of Kentucky fried chicken. The health aspect of a well honed torso sprinting back and forth on the running track is inextricably linked with a tub of barbeque beans and a super size coke.

Personally, I think it’s about time certain garments were restricted by law to use for their intended purpose. You don’t find people down the pub wearing radiation protection suits, or dressed up as a sewer inspector.

Skivers

As everyone has decided to clear off on holiday I have decided to do likewise.

I’m off to get pished in Edinburgh.

Back Saturday.

The Dear Departed

Illegal Immigrants

Herge Smith and his special friend have left the wilds of the Scottish Highlands and headed home to the bucolic delights of Malvern, Worcs. At this moment they are probably sipping white Russians, and reminiscing about their encounters with vicious Pine Martens and sundry hairy arsed highlanders in various states of inebriation.

Herge’s pooches, Dixon and Daisy Doo, have decided to stay with me. They are, frankly, fed up with what amounts to house arrest in an English market town. They much prefer the hills and glens of bonny Scotland, and are most enamoured with the ready availability of holes down which they can chase varmints. I can understand their reasons for staying, and being a hospitable sort have agreed to give them house room.

Dalek has also decided to stay. After an initial period of infatuation during which Herge provided ample extermination opportunities, he has recently found himself confined to a dusty cupboard beneath the stairs. Such is the fickleness of the sci-fi buff. Only a heart of stone could turn away a miniature Dalek, so I have provided him with his own bedroom.

I will receive some funny looks as I wander around with two miniature Daschunds, but I rest secure in the knowledge that should I receive any grief from an oik I can summon Dalek to deal with them.

All in all, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Silly Season

The silly season is definitely underway when the quality newspapers (no Daily Mail readers, you do not read a quality newspaper) start including stories about Tasmanian Devils (lack of), Tom Cruise being of Welsh descent, and ‘Why oh why do the Scots hate the English?’.

Why it should take a newspaper article to draw attention to the fact that Cruise is a closet Welshman beats me. His obvious dwarfism can only result from a genetic inheritance provided by diminutive valley dwellers or, failing that, a throwback to a vigorous conversation between a Bronwen and an in season pit pony. Scientology obviously holds a special appeal for the short of stature, allowing them to aspire to the stars without resorting to a step ladder.

As for the Scots hate the English bollocks; I think we can all do without tosspot politicians and ignorant newspaper columnists using a few reprehensible instances of anglophobia to claim that there is a widespread dislike of the English. Five hundred thousand English people live in Scotland. If they were constantly being bashed about the head with Irn Bru bottles I imagine they would choose to live somewhere else

On a lighter note, blogging genius Herge Smith is staying with me at the moment. He is enjoying himself, drinking beer, and going on hiking expeditions into the untamed wilderness. Actually, that’s a lie. He is sticking to well sign posted paths with gentle gradients, the short legs of his miniature daschunds struggling in his wake. He does look exceptionally gay sitting in the pub with a small pooch on his lap, but he hasn’t been beaten up yet.

Tina Cakesniffer is about to venture to the blasted wilderness of British Columbia, where vicious wolverines prowl with evil in mind, and the locals call a kebab a kabob.
God help her. If the plane doesn’t crash she will be devoured by a grizzly. Salford is much safer; but some people just won’t be told. Gawd help her.

Hotel California

I hope that Herge Smith, the creative genius behind Angry Chimp, is looking forward to his impending trip to damp and drizzly Scotland. His accommodation will be provided by the Garfer International Vacation and Leisure Conglomerate; a long established and highly respected institution which has obtained many plaudits from satisfied customers over the years.

I have very generously allowed Herge a blogger discount in respect of his accommodation. Of course, given my love of smackeroonies, he will fully accept that certain small compromises have had to be made in the quality of accommodation to be provided.

I am sure that he will find the sheds perfectly acceptable. The shed on the right has been specifically designed with the needs of miniature daschunds in mind. Containing as it does several rusty old saws, a dismantled outboard motor, and several open containers of Round Up super strength weed killer, I am sure that the pooches will feel at home.

The main accommodation is provided by the central shed. This is salubriously appointed with two broken down television sets, a rusty old fridge freezer, and a mildewed king size mattress the edges of which have been energetically chewed by mice. Instead of a shower, a small hole in the roof provides a constant and refreshing supply of rain water.

Some of my guests who have stayed in the shed have enjoyed themselves so much that they haven’t been able to leave. I keep them in cages in the shed on the left, and sometimes feed them when I remember….which isn’t very often. It’s nice to know that they are there. I get lonely sometimes and it’s nice to pop up to the shed and have a chat.

Bespoke.

Watching a drama last night based on the life of George ‘Beau’ Brummel, archetypal 19th century English dandy, I was forced to look at my wardrobe in an even more aghast manner than usual. Chain store Charlie, that’s me. I aspire to the nondescript and usually succeed admirably. Any designer clothing that I have purchased in the past has just ended up being churned to shreds in the washing machine, or has ended up a strange colour with cigarette burns at strategic points.

Brummel is apparently responsible for the modern two piece business suit. He also introduced the shocking, at the time, ritual of daily ablutions. We have much to thank him for. No sartorial imagination is required of the modern male, and although we don’t spend two hours each morning at our toilette, neither do we pong like a rancid badger.

I’d never have made it as a fop. Prancing about in a perfumed wig wearing a pair of silk knee britches and a pair of ridiculously pointy shoes wouldn’t have appealed. I wouldn’t have been very good at the mincing either, although I may have just about passed muster when it came to twirling my ivory tipped cane in a Charlie Chaplin manner.

There aren’t many examples of the modern dandy. Rock stars, football players and their ilk probably imagine that they are the personification of bohemian chic. In fact, they look like utter twats. I suppose Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen is the closest to the dandy archetype. He must spend at least an hour each morning twirling his Byronic locks and arranging his over large shirt cuffs just so.

Albert Einstein had a wardrobe of seven identical sets of clothing. This meant he didn’t have to think about what he’d be wearing the next day; he just got on with being a genius. I may not be a genius, but I think I’ll follow old Albert’s example.

Worms.

In one respect, and one respect only, worms are admirable creatures. The ability to grow a new half after being severed by a sharp object is obviously useful if you happen to be a worm. In the grand scheme of things though, it just means that worms are unlikely to die out as species. This may delight the worms, but I’m sure that the thrushes are even more delighted: the profusion of wriggly things that they can wrench out of the ground more or less guaranteed.

Worms are always out and about early in the morning (as are the thrushes). Personally I have never been overly enamoured with early starts. It’s all very well and good if you have something specifically enjoyable to get up for; like a day off, or collecting a lottery win. Apart from that they are an offence against the natural order of things. Getting up at the same time as everyone else just entails swearing at the cat and sweltering in traffic jams.

As far as I am concerned the onset of daylight is a fairly shocking experience. Galvanizing my sensitive constitution to movement, let alone effort, is a process which requires time. A gentle reintroduction to the world is what I require. A good hour or so spent refuelling on a fried breakfast, a newspaper, and a nice cup of tea, is what the British Empire was founded on.

All this grabbing a large latte from Starbucks and rushing to check out the Money Markets at 7.00 am is a profoundly misconceived practise. Arriving at 10.00 am, rested and sanguine, the late riser will obviously outpace the early riser in the speed of their mental functioning. All they have to do is make a few well rested trades and then they can consider the lunch options.

I don’t suppose I’d cope very well in the City, or Wall Street. The Belgravia Mansion and Condo in the Hamptons will always remain tantalisingly out of reach. Oh well, I can always console myself playing ‘Worms’ and congratulate myself on my freedom from the tyranny of the alarm clock.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.

I was a good cross country runner as kid. This may have had something to do with my reedy frame: my ribcage exposed like an anorexic glockenspiel. I must have had large lungs though, as I left all the fat tossers gasping in my wake. The lard arses tried short cuts and everything but they still couldn’t catch me.

It’s a good thing that I was good at cross country because I was utterly shite at all other sports; particularly the team ones. I was hopeless at football. I could dribble around in circles for ages but as regards passing the ball or heading it I was decidedly sub normal. I didn’t mind cricket so much: at least I could mooch around as a fielder, crushing insects with my shoes and fantasising about Michelle Sparks in her tight running shorts.

Rugby was perdition. Our games master was a perverted little sadist who delighted in making us play rugby when there was a good two inches of permafrost. He also enjoyed whipping our bare arses with a wet towel when we emerged from the showers. He liked to play gospel songs on his acoustic guitar and was a big cheese in the local Pentecostal church. These days he’d be arrested by the paedo police and incarcerated for a good ten years, but no one had heard of that sort of thing in those days.

Thankfully I grew up. The consumption of beer and burgers bulked out my frame somewhat and I discovered the joys of hanging around snooker halls all afternoon.

If I tried cross country running these days I’d need to carry an inhaler and an oxygen tank.

The Princess of Poo.

Everyone has to have an interest in life. Serial killing, bird watching, naked sky diving, stamp collecting, sushi preparation, and cat torturing all have their individual merits, but I’ve yet to meet anyone who takes conspicuous pleasure in poking about in other peoples poo.

Dr Gillian McKeith, midget nutritionist, is convinced that the source of all dietary maladies may be determined by poking about in faeces with a spatula. I’m not an expert in the field of nutrition, but this approach strikes me as having about as much scientific merit as water divination using a two pronged stick.

I was listening to Dr Gillian on the radio this morning. She was asked if she enjoyed her poo poking activities. She replied that it all depended whose poo she was examining (ha, ha). This left me mystified. I bow to no man in my admiration of the lovely Uma Thurman and the exquisitely lipped Angelina Jolie, but I would have to politely decline if offered the chance to stir their rectal excretions with a spoon. Even the offer of £100K to make a TV series about my discoveries would leave me unmoved.

Dr Gillian has a PhD from Penn State University (or so she claims), so there can be no question about her educational bona fides. Maybe poo stirring is the way to go, and I’m sure that there will be many learned articles in the Scientific American concerning the subject.

There can be no suggestion that she is not utterly genuine. The fact that she is an attention seeking peroxide blonde dwarf with the most irritating trans Atlantic accent this side of Lloyd Grossman is completely beside the point.

As the Joan Rivers (without the wit) of Poo, Gillian deserves full respect. As such, I intend to send her some of my post chicken madras poo in a Jiffy bag. I bet she’ll be dead chuffed.

Bang 'em up.

The liberal middle classes have reacted with consternation to the news that the British prison population now stands at 80,000. Surely, they cry, more should be done by way of rehabilitation: after all, the poor miscreants have merely reacted to severe social deprivation by knifing passers by and stealing stuff.

Frankly, I’m amazed that the figure is as low as this; 80,000 is the population of a large town like Gloucester. Given the number of semi house trained retards and bling ridden pychos wandering the streets off their faces, I’d have expected the figure to be nearer 250,000.

Rather than squander billions on NHS Trusts that would have trouble ensuring the efficient removal of a pensioners bunion, we should be investing the money in some shiny new prisons. As for rehabilitation, I imagine a prison officer’s charter that encouraged the screws to give the inmates a good kicking on a regular basis would do much to discourage recidivism.

I find the prevalence of knife carrying youths disturbing. Glasgow has had a problem with this since the 1920’s, but the problem seems to have spread to the rest of the country in recent years. The usual bollocks about education being the solution, and a pathetic knife amnesty, have been tried in Glasgow and failed miserably. You won’t find me on Sauchiehall Street at 2 am on a Saturday morning. I have no desire to find my innards dangling on the pavement after being stabbed by a pissed numptie in a Kappa jacket.

Carrying knives is culturally ingrained. The only way to stop it is to make the offence of carrying an offensive weapon in public subject to a mandatory five year jail sentence. It’ll cost a bit banging up the little tossers, but I don’t imagine it’ll cost much more than doling out their weekly state benefits.

An interesting educational resource on Glasgow’s knife culture can be found here. I particularly recommend the ‘Gallery of the Neds’.

Politics

I’ve never been a political animal. In my experience people’s political opinions count for zilch: after all, everyone thinks that their own farts smell sweet. I do make an exception where rabid Nazis (BNP) or unreconstructed fucktard Trots (Scottish Socialist Party, George Galloway) are concerned, but apart from that I say each to their own. They may be imbeciles with the intellectual capacity of an anorexic gnat, but I am pleased that they are allowed to voice their opinions in a loud and vociferous fashion.

I’ve met committed socialists who haven’t bought anyone a drink in their lives, and bampot torys who would shelter a homeless vagrant and lend them their last pound coin. A cunt is a cunt, whatever their political persuasion.

Britain used to be littered with MP’s who enjoyed a personal vote. This was generally because they raised hell on behalf of their constituents and didn’t give a monkeys fuck about personal political advancement. Unfortunately this rare and estimable breed has been driven to near extinction by the glossy ex Polytechnic educated Joe 90’s.

I’ve decided to stand for Parliament. I’m not attracted to the idea of standing as an independent as this suggests, to my mind, vague undertones of a cross between Norman Wisdom and David Bellamy.

I shall form the ‘Normal Party’. The only criteria for membership will be that normal people shall not apply for membership. I’ve already started to design the constituency office: it will have a full size snooker table, smoking booths, and a large lectern for my own personal use.

The world needs to hear what I have to say. If there were more people like me prepared to address the vital interests of the common man in a robust and forthright manner (not that I’m common) this world would be a happier and more inebriated place.

I can almost feel the ermine draping my shoulder blades.

Firebomb the Scottish Parliament

The latest wizard wheeze to emanate from the toy town Scottish Parliament had me gagging on my Weetabix.

The political numpties are not satisfied with their ban on smoking in pubs, they have decided to interfere with the God given right of all Scots to purchase multi packs of super strength lager and litre bottles of vodka while picking up their weekly supply of meat pies and lard at the local supermarket.

The useless ex toon cooncilors (stuffed to the oxters with tax payers cash) essentially have nothing to do. This is why they feel obliged to stick their snouts (usually snuffling in expense claims for free flats in central Edinburgh) into matters which are none of their business.

Do they seriously think that such a measure will reduce alcohol abuse? Having separate aisles and checkouts for booze will just result in everyone buying food, traipsing out to the car, and then going back in again to load up with the fruits of the grain. This is just a waste of everybody’s time and will not have the slightest effect on the average alcohol consumption per head of population.

Of course, that’s not important; what really matters is that these parasites are seen to be doing something to justify their ludicrously large salaries.

Hopefully the head honchos of the supermarkets will tell them to fuck off and die. If they don’t, I’m seriously considering emigration.

Salad Sarnies

I take little delight in the culinary abominations afforded by the vile coterie of perverse vegetablists and lentil torturers, but I am prepared to make an exception for the proper belt and braces British salad sandwich.

The ingredients for the salad sandwich are simple; it is the method (nay, the skill) of assembly that makes the difference between a pale facsimile and the genuine caboodle.

The essential ingredients are: white processed sliced loaf bread, butter, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and Heinz Salad Cream. Sounds simple enough, and indeed it is, as long as the sandwich is assembled in strict accordance with the method that I describe below:

Each slice of bread, all traces of crust removed, must be copiously spread with butter (margarine or other low fat substitutes are not acceptable).

The lettuce must be English or iceberg (foul tasting leaves like rocket, radicchio, or the truly disgusting lollo rosso, are a strict no no).

The salad mixture must be anointed with a thick smear of Heinz salad cream (use of mayonnaise will result in a swift kick in the balls).

Once assembled, the sandwich must be squashed flat, wrapped tightly in cling film or foil, and stored in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.

The resultant sandwich is a masterpiece. The combination of slightly soggy bread with the crisp tangy crunch of lettuce and Heinz Salad Cream is not to be sniffed at.

If trapped in a hippy commune I could happily subsist on salad sandwiches for a couple of days. Only then would my desire for meat force me to disembowel a crusty long hair or three.

Lard.

I’ve no personal objection to vegans: each to their own I say. As long as they sit quietly in a corner chomping on a cauliflower I resist the urge to assault them.

As far as I see it, I am descended from a 4’ 2” Kalahari bushman who spent most of his time rushing about, and pausing for a bit of a sit down and snooze behind a convenient shrub. This vantage point provided him with the unexpected opportunity to skewer a passing antelope with a pointy stick. Voila, meat.

Whilst he was engaged in this frenetic activity, his women folk were scouring a 100 mile radius in search of nuts and berries. Arriving back at camp, woman had foraged for, and obtained, the essential ingredients for beer, while man had provided the meat. Consequence: barbeque with booze. Everyone danced around for a week or so and then repeated the process.

One of the joys of modern civilisation is the ready availability of saturated fats in meat products, and beer in tins/bottles. No hanging around beneath a bush for modern Homo sapiens: just a short stroll to the off licence and kebab shop. If this isn’t a prime example of the onwards and upwards march of the human race then I’m a Koala bear with an antipathy to eucalyptus.

I like fat. Chips cooked in beef dripping, lovely; half a packet of butter squashed into a baked potato, delightful. I don’t eat processed crap, so I’m sure it’s not doing me any harm (ditto, salt).

I think I’ll found a treatment clinic for food freaks. Compulsory pepperoni pizzas all round and brownie points for excessive beer consumption.

I bet I’d make almost as much money as Robert Atkins.

I've been driving in my car, it's not quite a Jaguar.

In a fit of madness I bought one of these years ago. It was eight years old, and although a bit tatty at the edges, was drop dead gorgeous. I’m not normally that bothered about cars, but this was different.

It was fast, sublimely comfortable, and drank petrol like a dipsomaniac. I think the best I ever managed was 16mpg. It didn’t take me long to realise my folly in buying a car with a V12 engine assembled by communists in Birmingham. Bits of trim dropped off, the bottom of the doors rusted as I watched, and the exhaust collapsed. Sadly it had to go; the scrap yard owner offering me the princely sum of £25 to divest myself of my beauty.

No subsequent XJ Jaguars have come close to the beauty of the Series 3; their desirability further sullied by fat (ex) controller ‘Two Jags’ Prescott. I don’t want one of the new ones; they just don’t possess the magic of their forebear.

I am, however, tempted by one of these. Expensive they may be, but at least they won’t fall to bits if someone breathes on them.

At a minimum £28K for one I think I’ll be dreaming for a while. If anyone wants to contribute the contents of their piggy bank I won’t refuse.

Ol' Big Ears.

A kid in my class at school was somewhat less than blessed with classic good looks. The combination of buck teeth and the most enormous pair of sticky out ears this side of Dumbo the Elephant did him no favours in the pulling stakes.

His ears really were remarkable. When the sun shone through the classroom windows they glowed like a pair of red traffic lights; a tracery of capillaries revealed like the veins of a leaf.

Being nasty, evil, little adolescents, we took considerable pleasure in flicking these protuberances with a steel ruler. His squeals of annoyance just added spice to the whole exercise.

Most of us grew up to become useless ne’er do wells, while he is today a criminal barrister earning vast sums of money. I like to think that we played some small part in awakening his desire to vanquish injustice and evil by cross examining serial killers and the like. He really should be thanking us as formative influences.

Speaking of wing nuts; HRH the Prince of Wales is paying a visit to the Sunart Oak Woods Project, which is just down the road from where I live. I am somewhat miffed that not only have Charles and Camilla (who doesn’t resemble a horse, not even slightly) not invited me, they have not asked to stay in one of my cottages overnight. This is annoying to say the least. I would have been delighted to take part in a tree hugging session with Charlie boy.

I have a suspicion that their neglect of me is not due to an oversight. I am convinced that a little grey man in a small room at GCHQ peruses the blogosphere to determine who is unsuitable to mingle with royalty. I’m sure that he didn’t find anything amiss with my blog, and would be delighted for me to mingle with Chazza and Camilla (who isn’t even slightly equine in form). It’s the people on my blogroll who are probably to blame. Vile deviants and republicans the lot of them (and that’s just the Americans).

I have been judged by the company I keep. It’s just not fair.

Beer.

I like lots of things: fast cars, loose women, kebabs drenched in chilli sauce, pork pies, P J Harvey. These are all great pleasures, but fade into insignificance when compared with the wonderful 6X beer produced by the Wadworths Brewery, Devises, Wiltshire.

I’m not really your real ale type. I don’t have a beard, wear dungarees, or have a beer gut. I just like good beer; lots of it. Living in Scotland I can only get 6X in bottles: an acceptable substitute, but not a patch on a hand drawn pint in a Devon pub.

As a student, 6X provided my major source of calories and vitamins. Augmented by the occasional carton of fried rice from the Happy Valley Chinese takeaway, Bath, it provided all the energy required for lying in bed until midday, and whiling away the hours until opening time.

I’ve never felt healthier before or since: I was positively blooming with vigour. All this ‘eat five veg a day’ stuff is obviously utter bollocks. The powers that be should be providing small bottles of 6X for primary school children, thus inculcating them in the delights of a healthy balanced diet.

Apparently there are tribes in the Amazon rain forest that don’t regard beer as a drink: they consider it to be a food. Clever people these Amazonians. Sting would do them a damn sight more good shipping them some 6X than wittering on about the depletion of the rainforest.

Wadworths 6X rules.

"Fuck off you boring bastard!".

The man widely regarded as the rudest pub landlord in London (if not the world), Mr Norman Balon, has announced his retirement. This is indeed a sad day for the denizens of the Coach and Horses, Soho; one of the last proper boozers left in a sea of trendy wine bars and gastro pubs.

Norman didn’t suffer fools (or anyone really, come to that) gladly. He had a particular distaste for bores and would impolitely request that they “fuck off out of my pub, and don’t fucking come back you boring bastard”.

This kind of refreshing attitude towards the hospitality industry is sadly lacking in the modern world. The prevalence of the American ‘have a nice day’ attitude has resulted in a sense of entitlement amongst punters in hotels and pubs. They seriously think that these institutions exist to indulge their selfish desire for delight and delectation.

My neighbouring hotelier used to respond to the slightest complaint by informing the complainer that they could “fuck off home if you don’t like it”. He had a particular hatred of teetotallers, and people who asked for a glass of water with their meal. He certainly didn’t lack bravery. A large gentleman once approached the bar and requested a large orange juice, only to be told that he should “stop being a big poof and have a pint of beer like a real man".

He retired to Blackpool a couple of years ago. I believe he has a large stick, which he regards as a suitable implement for the chastisement of recalcitrant youth.

I think all Britons should face the fact that we aren’t cut out for service (which we regard as servile). Thank God for all those Poles and Ukrainians: they may not speak very good English, but they don’t shower Anglo-Saxon expletives on bemused Americans and Germans given the slightest (usually imaginary) provocation.

Laughing Len, the Suicides Friend

I was surprised to learn that Prince Charles is a big Leonard Cohen fan. Having always regarded him as big eared twit stuck in a philistine 1950’s time warp, I must give him a bit of credit for his unexpected regard for the big nosed Canadian wordsmith.

Poor Leonard recently discovered that his manager (an ex lover, naturally) has embezzled his $5 million retirement fund. This should be a warning to anybody who thinks that adopting life as a contemplative Buddhist, and scoffing copious quantities of lentils and mung beans, will provide protection from shysters.

Leonard’s worldly worth now stands at a paltry $90,000. In proper British money this equates to about £65,000, which isn’t enough to buy a one bedroom flat, let alone fund a decent retirement.

Leonard will have to take his lugubrious tones out on the road again. Perhaps he could be the warm up act for McFly, or woo the navel pierced masses at Lollapalooza. Wherever he decides to perform, he is sure of a warm welcome. If the geriatric Rolling Stones can make squillions prancing around in latex, I don’t see why the urbane and elegant Leonard can’t earn enough to keep himself in lentils.

I say get gigging Leonard. If you don’t, your ‘famous blue raincoat’ will definitely end up ‘torn at the shoulder'.

I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth.

I’ve always been irritated by the fact that I am not an aristocrat.

It’s not as though I want to be the Duke of Westminster: but I would be gratified with a minor Anglo/Irish estate; a small bijou Palladium mini mansion in County Mayo with space for my cat carrier would more than suffice.

As a natural gent, I’m sure that I could carry off the noblesse oblige thing with aplomb. I wouldn’t insist on any droit de signeur, but if the stable girls were willing, who would I be to demur?

This thought occurred to me while sitting in the car wash, being gently massaged with foamy suds to a backdrop of Bartok. It only cost £4.95, my penny pinching ways denying me the pleasures of a luxury alloy wheel scrub at a mere £7.95.

There’s no point in aspiring to Baron Von Munchausen status at any rate, my Walter Mittyisms have pole vaulted me into the realms of sheer whimsy.

What I really need is a butler, and some minions to attend to the detritus that drops around my person like dandruff. A couple of Latvians would do, or perhaps a Hungarian with an under appreciated expertise in goulash making and an adept hand with the Hoover.

I feel that I have a hitherto unappreciated gift for patronising the working classes. I would take considerable pleasure in introducing them to the delights of filet mignon and Birdseye boil in the bag chicken curry.

Oh well, back to the fuckin’ drawing board.

I hate work.

An Offence Against Nature

“We’ve gorn on holiday by mistake!”

The cult British film, ‘Withnail and I’, is to be adapted for the West End stage. This is very good news, and may be enough to encourage me to visit that there London for the first time in years.

I’m surprised that a stage adaptation wasn’t made years ago. The film script is a masterpiece, and the claustrophobic interiors of the sordid flat and squalid cottage where most of the scenes take place ideal for a theatre production. I’m sure that there are enough Withnail obsessives out there to ensure that a play will run for years to packed houses.

There’s only one problem. The Withnail role is apparently to be played by the prematurely balding Jude Law. Fine actor Law may be, but his Withnail can only be a pale imitation of the splenetic character portrayed by Richard E Grant. Richard E Grant IS Withnail: no one else can fill his shoes.

Admittedly he’s a bit old for the role, but his hollow eyed, cadaverous, Withnail wasn’t exactly the exemplification of hale and hearty youth in the first place.

Someone should start a petition or something.

Waltzing Matilda

I’ve been doing a lot of moping around lately; listening to long haired hippy singer/songwriters warbling to acoustic guitars and generally baring their souls.

I think it was during a Nick Drake track, or possibly nodding along to an excruciatingly doleful Leonard Cohen, that I suddenly thought to myself “sod this, what I need is some jump up and down brain dead rock music”.

I considered listening to Oasis, but they are a bit brain dead even for me. I briefly toyed with some Radiohead, but given their prog rock posturings over the last couple of years they didn’t cut the mustard either. Led Zep and the Who are too ancient to be worth mentioning these days, and P J Harvey is just a touch left field.

I decided that what I needed was some killer riffs, a squawking singer spouting cod sexist lyrics like his underpants were on fire, and a lead guitarist indulging in some turbo charged Chuck Berry guitar breaks. ‘The Darkness’ I hear you cry. Well no, I’ve never been one for men with screechy falsettos parading around in leopard skin leotards.

I settled on the original and best: AC/DC. The air guitarist’s idol, Angus Young, soon had me duck walking along the carpet like my dad down the disco circa 1975.

Some of the extreme American fundamentalists have a bit of a thing about AC/DC (see photo). They see them as emissaries of Satan, tempting wholesome youth into witchcraft and the like. These people should really get a grip, and appreciate that they were a bunch of boozy Aussie rockers taking the piss. That only one of them choked on their own vomit after over imbibing is, frankly, a miracle.

Since when has ‘effeminate hair’ been a crime against humanity anyway?

For those about to rawk, I salute you.

Mad as a Hatter

I was most gratified to learn that Prince Harry is doing his bit in support of the beleaguered British bowler hat industry.

Nobody, apart from Orangemen and (for some inexplicable reason) Nigerians, favours the outmoded headgear in this day and age. Personally, I think it is a far more distinguished cranial sunshield than the hoodie and the baseball cap worn backwards. I am convinced that the moral fibre of the nation would be augmented if such headwear were to be declared compulsory for all school pupils. It would certainly solve the truancy problem, and would ensure that chip van vendors did not inadvertently sell saturated fat laden chunks of potato to chain smoking adolescents.

Harry may be educationally subnormal (like the rest of the Windsors), but he has had the added struggle of overcoming the inheritance of his maternal ancestor, the late Lady Di (thicky) Spencer. Cracking looking bird she may have been, but she wasn’t exactly Simone de Beauvoir.

Let’s face it, Harry is a chav. No amount of time spent in the Blues and Royals, or devotion to ceremonial duties can alter this fact.

I quite like him. At least he enjoys a chuff on a fag and has been known to punch photographers.

I raise my hat to him.

Land Blubber

£4,000 o.n.o

Alas, my Captain Ahab days are at an end. No more shall this blogger sail the wide and briny oceans; engage in armed altercations with Thai pirates on the South China Sea, slumber beneath a rustling palm tree in the arms of a dusky Polynesian maiden, or land $50,000 bales of cocaine on a deserted and pristine Hebridean beach.

The old girl really has to go. I have grown immune to her charms, and she hasn’t dipped her keel in the sea for over two years. It was a brief and rewarding infatuation, a torrid but ultimately shallow affair that has now run aground. There shall be no hard feelings, and the circumstances of our parting amicable.

I have decided to use the proceeds from her sale to purchase a Landrover. This will necessitate the adoption of a Golden Retriever, and the wearing of a deerstalker hat. I imagine that I will look quite the country squire, although there is a slim possibility that small boys will point at me and shout ‘who’s that twat?’

The old dear is for sale for a very reasonable £4,000. With a touch of mascara and some new war paint I have no doubt that she will prove a credit to her new owner. Any blogger who wishes to purchase her will be reassured to learn that I accept all major international credit and charge cards.

Any prospective North American purchasers can easily reach Scotland by a 4/5 hour flight. At a stupendous top speed of eight knots, it should only take three weeks or thereabouts to complete the return journey. I am sure that the old girl would draw many admiring glances at Key Largo, or a swanky marina in New England.

Aristocratic class will always out. Better a stained and crumpled suit cut by Gieves and Hawkes of Saville Row than an immaculate new seersucker suit in wrinkle free fabric rustled up by a greasy Italian in New Jersey.

Callanish

Legions of imbeciles, conspiracy theorists, fruit cakes, and saddos are about to descend on Rosslyn Chapel near Edinburgh. They will be engaging in a fruitless search for a Star of David on the chapel floor which does not exist. They will protest vociferously about this, and claim that a Catholic Church/CIA/Protocols of the Elders of Zion sect is responsible.

Admittedly nobody in Scotland is complaining much. The canny Caledonians are fully aware that fools and their money are soon parted. This ancient esoteric knowledge, hidden from all but the adepts, has kept the Edinburgh financial sector in rude health over the last couple of centuries.

Da Vinci code hysteria is certainly good for tourism, but the poor deluded souls in pursuit of the mystical and unknowable would be better advised to direct their attention westward. The Neolithic stone circles and cairns of western Britain and Ireland date from prehistory. There are no written records, and the lives and beliefs of their creators are matters for conjecture.

Callanish, a ring of stones on the Isle of Lewis, is as impressive in its way as Stonehenge. The stones are on a much smaller scale, but the astronomical alignments are similar, and their physical relationship to the surrounding landscape superior.

Anyone interested in the subject should take a look at Julian Cope’s (fruitcake rocker) The Modern Antiquarian. He may be slightly off his trolley, and suffer the odd acid induced delusion, but nobody else has devoted as much attention to these structures and their significance.

I’m off to pick some magic mushrooms.

Peanuts.

People disappear every day. I imagine it’s very easy to walk out of your life, seeking the reinvention of personality and removal from obligations that most of us crave at one time or another. As a simple solution to seemingly unbearable situations it does have an undeniable logic.

It’s not as though it’s difficult to disappear. The Unabomber managed it for years, and everyone is still chasing a lanky bearded arsehole safely ensconced in a cave in Afghanistan. Hellfire missiles, pilot less drones, entries in the Evening Post, pictures on the side of milk cartons: you name it, if people don’t want to be found they can be extraordinarily resourceful in concealing their existence

Awful things do happen to people, but mostly I expect it’s an option that presents itself during a period of despair, and assumes its own logic subsequently. It’s not as though they don’t mean to contact their loved ones; they mean to do so every day, maybe tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. Somehow they exist in that limbo and it becomes habitual.

I’ve never run away myself. I remember a Charlie Brown cartoon, in which Charlie sat under a tree, and considered moving somewhere different where no one knew him. Lucy informed him that there was no point as he was Charlie, and everyone would treat him exactly the same once they got to know him. I believe that Linus was sucking his comfort blanket at the time.

Please Release me.

As a nipper, I suffered from an inexplicable infatuation with popular cabaret crooner Englebert Humperdinck. I was six years old at the time, and I can only ascribe this strange affliction to a precocious love of ridiculously attired, big haired, velvet clad crooners. It was a phase of my life that was thankfully brief: my attentions in later years focusing on the lovely Linda Carter (cracking norks) as Wonder Woman, and the killer cheek boned Debbie Harry.

For some reason I had always assumed that Englebert was American. Britons are not normally prone to Liberace tendencies, and have a general distrust of pompaded twats in large bow ties warbling meaningless lyrics to an audience of polyester clad homebodies from Boise, Idaho.

Imagine my shock when I recently discovered that Englebert is actually from Leicester. The shock was almost as great as discovering that Gary Glitter was a paedo, although, in retrospect I probably shouldn’t have been that surprised.

Englebert’s chief claim to fame is that he managed to keep the Beatles ‘Strawberry Fields/ Penny Lane’ off the number one spot in 1967. I think ‘Please Release me, Let me Go’ was the musical masterpiece responsible.

My Englebert worshiping days are thankfully a thing of the distant past (honest). I stick to P J Harvey and the Black Crowes these days. Not that they’re exactly at the cusp of modernity: but they do have the edge on James Blunt and Snow Patrol.