Rave on John Donne

Newfoundland.

Well congratulations, you got here first and reconnoitred the upsides and the downsides before bagging a trawl of fish and considering further horizons.

I am a frustrated imperialist: desirous of new regions of potential conquest and the prospect of a fine cockaded hat and a retinue of obsequious servants and willing stable wenches.

It's not too much to ask; a mere small domain like Sarawak, or French Polynesia with a lifetimes supply of free dancing girls and sundown cocktails would do. Unfortunately they've all been taken and I'm faced with the prospect of negotiating the rings of Saturn if I'm to have any chance of inculcating the rubric of British truth and justice in the breasts of the unruly heathen natives.

It's a tough piece of gristle to chew on, but what can I do?

I am, potentially, undone.

Made from Girders

The head honcho (or 'big heid yin' in Glasgae parlance) of Barr is to hand over the closely guarded Irn Bru recipe to which only he and an unnamed other are privy. The recipe is apparently stashed in a secret bank vault, where it is presumably guarded by various Indiana Jones type booby traps and a contingent of mean and moody Gurkhas, and has not seen the light of day for 50 odd years.

Irn bru is exceedingly popular in Scotland, rivalling even the mighty Coca Cola in sales. Its most successful export market is Russia, which may seem odd until you consider that the main ingredient of the orange elixir is sugar. Sugar rich drinks are, as we all know, rather a good hangover cure. It is unsurprising that whisky debilitated Jocks and vodka purblind Ivans should both turn to the Bru the morning after a night on the brew.

Personally I think the stuff is utterly ghastly, but I suppose it has its merits when the pains of indulgence make the sight of a full fry up a nausea inducing experience.

All power to the Bru. It might give us diabetes but we'll always be fit for a bevvy before noon. I think it's what the marketing bods call a USP, whatever that is.

Suffer the Little Children

I am compelled to devote another post to poetry given that the last one, despite my hymn of praise to Miss Dolly Parton, produced a non-existent response from all but the most ardent poetastic adepts.

It can't be helped I suppose: most of us are brought up reading the back of the Kellogg Cornflakes packet as the clock hurries us and the egg timer clicks away our tomorrows. I could draw attention to Byron's proto rock star tendencies or Burns' shag 'n' tell propensities, but it wouldn't make any difference.

I quite like: this

I can't quite bring myself to post the video (embedding disabled by request) as nobody would watch it. And quite right too.

Trawling the Depths

When in my cups I turn to poetry. At the perfect point of mild intoxication I am inclined to seek out a soupçon of iambic pentameter and a perfectly formed sonnet. When this point of perfection has passed I am prone (literally) to recite a soliloquy from Hamlet.

Perhaps this is why I get punched so much.

Trawling youtube in the one handed inebriated prone position the other night I was delighted to discover the putting a poem to music nadir. Talk about missing the point on purpose. Miss Dolly Parton (may her name be blessed) would be dead chuffed.

There's something to be said for serendipity:



I think the Kings of Leon should do 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock' by T S Eliot. That would be serious rawk.

Celebrity Tits

Worra Tosspot

Celebrity chefs are almost always total titheads. The likes of Anthony Worra Tosspot, Heston Bloominghell, and Hugh Fairly Windscreen Wiper make me gag on my creme caramel.

Anthony can't cook, he just does his "I'm a big cuddly bear me" routine on TV while flashing his enormous Rolex at the cameras. Thankfully he's had to shut a couple of his rip off steak restaurants due to the recession.

Heston used to be a bailiff, a profession normally reserved for psychopaths who enjoy breaking down debtors doors and scaring the hell out of them so that they pay up. It's no surprise that the bullet headed bully now charges enormous sums of money for snail porridge and engine oil tirimasu. I shall not be gracing his restaurant, The Fat Tit, with my presence.

Hugh is just too posh. I'm convinced that he doesn't like broiler chickens because they provide cheap protein for the proles. All Eton educated toffs know that it's best to keep the working classes stunted in case they get ideas above their station and start demanding foie gras pasties.

Only the saintly and extravagantly thighed Nigella is worthy of the accolade 'Celebrity Chef'. She can't cook, but that is an irrelevance. Her wholesome wobblesomeness is the reason we watch.

If Nigella is feeling a bit peckish I think she should eat Jamie Oliver and his annoying wife Jools. They would make nice carpaccio, and would also be tasty deep fried. It's important that Nigella keeps her strength up and obtains the requisite wobbling nutrients.

Soor Plums and the Consolations of Philosophy

There is a particular puckered up expression displaying extreme distaste that is as visually arresting as a baboon disporting its scarlet buttocks. It has a Scottish Presbyterian provenance, beloved of Schoolmistresses and Sunday School teachers when presented with an obstreperous urchin or intimations of untoward sexual practices. To look as though one is 'sucking on a soor plum' is to be an obvious examplar of moral rectitude and Calvinist fortitude.

Here are some soor plums:



Here is a soor plum expression:



There are a lot of soor plum expressions around at the moment, what with the recession and all. I refuse to join their number, and shall instead read Sartre's 'Being and Nothingness' and say to myself "what in the name of bejasus is that ugly little French git on about?".

Thank goodness for the consolations of philosophy.

Socks

My mother has dementia, my nephew has Asperger's, and my father has developed an unhealthy obsession with Wellington bombers and Paddy Mayne.

It's a wonder I'm normal at all.

My sister is seeking the vodka solution, but being feisty will no doubt surmount that obstacle and rediscover the rejuvenating qualities of the teacake.

I am inclined to retire to my garret and consume a nice piece of cheese, if the mice haven't got to it first. There I shall toast Carol Anne Duffy as the first lesbo Glaswegian/Somewhere else poet to be Poet Laureate. Hopefully Queenie will treat her to a large portion of Weetabix and a stern talking to.

She's not as good as Philip Larkin though. Forget the Velvet Underground: rarely has a man deployed a pair of spectacles so effecively.

I need some bifocals. If I had some I'd look intelligent and could mock peoples choice of socks.