Well, Everybody Else is Doing It.

This is silly, I'm off to read some Dostoyevsky.

Astral Weeks

Van Morrison is, famously, a bit of a miserable bastard. It's quite understandable really. Having a face like a squashed badger didn't give him much chance with the 1960's 'beautiful people'. The gutteral Belfast accent, once accurately described as 'like listening to a Glaswegian being strangled', can't have helped much either.

I suppose the final blow to his fragile self esteem must have been having a girlfriend called Janet Planet. I know the hippies were all tossers, but a name like that really takes some beating.

It's a shame he's so crabbit, but I suppose it's one of reasons why he's one of the few genuine white bluesmen.

I don't think I could live without Astral Weeks. Its not that I listen to it that often, it's just that I know that it will always be there when I am half cut and feeling maudlin.

There can't have been many people writing songs about transvestites in 1968. Even Leonard Cohen wasn't into gender benders, and I can't imagine Jim Morrison singing paeans to male blouse wearers (even if he wasn't averse to wearing one).

Anyone who can get their head round Van's voice (he sounds like he's sitting on the toilet squeezing out a hedgehog turd) on this album will be a convert for life. The songs are wonderful and their delivery inimitable. Best of all are the spare backing arrangements: a loping, ethereal, jazzy undertow that haunts.

Van Morrison was 23 when he recorded Astral weeks. He hasn't bettered it.

Positively Fourth Street

I don't know why she had to pick on me.

She could have chosen from any number of well heeled rugger buggers and trust fund Adonis aesthetes. I suppose it just proves that being a hangdog Ingmar Bergman loving cynic with a copy of T S Eliot's Four Quartets protruding from your jacket pocket does have its advantages.

Julie had a problem. She'd had surgery as one of her breasts was bigger than the other. The operation had gone wrong and she'd been left with extensive scarring. This wasn't a problem as far I was concerned, but it was definitely a problem for her.

We went places in her hand painted pink Mini. It was an interesting eight weeks, and then she buggered off to drama school. I haven't seen hide nor hair of her since.

She was a cracking bird and I wish her well, on the whole.

Ogden's Nut Gone Flake

We males do have some good points, chief amongst which is our aerodynamic form. This obviously does not apply to beer swilling salad dodgers; but for those of us with torsos like Michaelangelo's David the effects of friction are minimal. Women have to many sticky outy and pointy bits to compete with us in the walking briskly towards the pub stakes.

As for interests, everyone knows that all women have an unhealthy obsession with handbags and shoes. The alligator population know this to their cost: it's no wonder the warty reptiles live in a state of permanent disgruntlement. We men have healthy interests, principally: Swiss watches, pornography, and sheds.

Of these, sheds is obviously the most important. There's actually a bit of a cross over between sheds and porn. Back in the days before the full cornucopia of grunting, heaving, and atrocious dialogue was available with just a few clicks, the shed performed a vital function as a repository for the secret stash of jazz mags. All small boys knew this, and would happily while away many an hour sitting on a tea chest leafing through forbidden delights while Uncle Dave was playing golf. Ah, the innocence.

Thankfully the love of the shed is alive and well. The work of some of the finest exponents of shedness may be viewed here. All power to the Shedii. The force is strong with them.

I'm off down to my shed at the bottom of the garden to smoke a pipeful of Ogden's Nut Gone Flake. I'm sure there's some 12 year old malt left in that weedkiller bottle concealed behind the jam jars full of washers and grommets.

Happy days.

The Uses of Literacy

I think I've finally cracked it: not the meaning of life as such, but definitely the simplest most surefire method of harvesting some squids with the minimum of effort.

I suppose I've contracted a dose of the Rowlings. Not that I'm a huge fan of her books, or children come to that. I concur with the late Dorothy Parker, who loved children but couldn't eat a whole one. All munchkins should be banned from supermarkets, and all excessive breeders forced to pay penal rates of income tax to compensate for the general misery that their fruitful loins cause to sprogless adults who do not regard the extrusion of mini mes as a crowning achievement in life.

They can't be ignored as a market demographic though; their deluded parents happy to indulge their every whim with pecuniary largesse. I wouldn't mind a bit of bourgeois lucre bulging in my pockets, so I've decided to become an author of childrens literature. I did briefly consider erotic literature, but decided that I'd just end up getting nominated for the Bad Sex Awards.

I've decided on the title of my first meisterwork and my pseudonym:


'TWATWEASEL AND THE MARZIPAN DILDO'

by

DWEEZIL FLANAGAN


All I have to do now is write the book and wait for the royalties to flood in.

Tax exile in the Bahamas beckons.

Couldntgiveafuckingmonkeystossness

I've always hated the phrase 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger'. No it doesn't; what it does is leave you half dead, with either hideous physical injuries or a permanently damaged psyche. If I was a paraplegic wheelchair chair user left without the use of my legs as a result of a horrific car crash, I would have no hesitation in using a caliper to eviscerate anybody who tried to fob be off with such a stupid platitude.

I don't much care for physical pain, and I'm not overly fond of mental trauma either. Having said that, I must have higher natural levels of serotonin than the average Joe because I react with a higher level of couldntgiveafuckingmonkeystossness to most of the vicissitudes and dog turds that life flings at me with alarming frequency.

I don't really do depression. The closest I've ever come to popping my clogs was in my second year at University. I arrived a week late to discover that everybody else had sorted out their accommodation. I ended up sleeping on a sofa for two weeks before having to settle for a grotty bedsit in Cockroach Towers. I saw a friend off at the railway station one Thursday evening and felt my heart sink into the tarmac at the prospect of another night listening to the dickhead heavy metal loving engineering student next door shagging his uberugly tattooed love interest with gusto.

I went to a nightclub and got hog whimperingly drunk to dull the pain. I woke at lunchtime the next day to the battering on my door from the little weasel landlord. The greasy tosser demanded that I pay my rent money in his vile west country thicko accent. When he'd gone I sat on the bed and seriously contemplated suicide.

Thankfully the despair soon dissipated. Sweet and sour chicken with fried rice, prawn crackers, and a bottle of Lucozade saw to that.

I'm in the Mood for Dancing

My hayfever kicked off rather badly this year so I asked my GP for some anti-histamines. They were very effective, especially when combined with vodka and coke. They also had the strange side effect of giving me vivid dreams.

Vivid dreams usually involve unlikely sexual gymnastics, or morbid premonitions of impending death. I suppose its got summat to do with the sex and death nexus. Mine were no exception, and I woke with a serious case of the night sweats on a number of occasions.

I had one recurring dream (nightmare) involving group sex with the Nolan sisters and a troupe of depraved performing dwarves. God knows what suppressed traumas lurk in my past to explain such bizarre dreams. It's not as though I've ever taken LSD, or fought off kiddie fiddlers during my tender years.

I think I'll consult my mate Caitlin. She has a degree in geography and psychology, so she's a past master at finding her way around her own head.

I just hope she can help with mine.

All Things Bright and Beautiful

All hangovers are vile, but those which also entail a nasty dose of the squits are particularly revolting.

After a heavy night on the tequila sunrises in Cyprus last year, I was unfortunate enough to experience the full blown pig behind the eyes/erupting intestines experience. This would have been bad enough in Blighty, but given the Greek Cypriot genius for drain construction it was hellish.

It mystifies me why these people experienced 80 odd years of good belt and braces British governance, and still can't sort out their sewerage arrangements. Their drains are so useless that they won't accept a single sheet of toilet paper without blocking and disgorging their contents all over your en suite bathroom. Consequently, you are expected to dispose of your wipings in a metal bin thoughtfully provided next to the big white telephone.

This is a distasteful practice at the best of times, but it is most emphatically not on when one is suffering a nasty attack of the squits.

This was my predicament. In my befuddled state I decided to go into a nearby hotel and avail myself of their facilities. Better some effluent on their floor than mine thought I. As I reversed my posterior onto the khazi, I happened to glance down only to see three cockroaches emerging from the toilet brim with their feelers a go- go.

These weren't any old cockroaches, these were Giant American Cockroaches and the bastards had WINGS. I was out of there quicker than an Olympic sprinter with a wasp up his arse.

They have Giant Hissing Cockroaches in Madagascar. Apparently there are sickos out there who like to keep them as pets. I think I'll give Madagascar a miss.

Of Pimps and Popes

I'm sure that everyone will be delighted to learn that the Right Hon Anthony 'pretty straight kinda guy' Blair will continue to bestride the globe like a toothy colossus when he ceases to be PM. Apparently he plans to sort out the Middle East, African poverty, female circumcision, and lots of other stuff. Phew. It'll be great when that lot's sorted.

TONY BLEUUURGH

Rumour has it that he is also to anounce his conversion to Catholicism. I'm sure that his holiness is rubbing his palms at the prospect. Good 'ole Tones well known commitment to civil partnerships, stem cell research, pre marital sex, and contraception make him the perfect advocate for the modern Church.

CHERIE BLEUUURGH

If I was his Popeness I would think twice before accepting Tony's genuflections. If he starts entertaining Catholic youth groups with his stratocaster and Jaggeresque hip gyrations in an attempt to, like, get with the kids, the consequences will be unthinkable. The prospect of a prancing tit like Blair singing 'Kumbaya My Lord' will lead to a mass exodus to join the Seventh day Adventists, or one of the rattlesnake worshipping cults that thrive in Boise, Idaho.



I'm convinced that the whole business is a set up job by the Rev Ian (sodomy emerges from the pit of hell) Paisley to discredit the one true Church.



Something will have to be done.

Must have GSOH

It is an undeniable fact that I am, sadly, less of a hit with the lovely laydeez than I used to be. This is a most unfortunate state of affairs. I don't understand it really: I dont have a beer gut, halitosis, a hare lip, or an embarassing bowel complaint. I actually look reasonably presentable; at a distance, in dim light.

Perhaps living in the boondocks means that I have just run through the available totty, or perhaps the available totty is just through with me. I wouldn't blame them.

I've been perusing the personal columns recently. The problem with these is that you have to work out the coded meanings. A mature bubbly brunette who likes long walks in the countryside translates as an elderly bloater who dresses in dungarees and wellingtons, and laughs at her own jokes. The male entries are easier to translate. A fifty something, solvent, businessman seeking uncomplicated fun with a potential soulmate is actually a married bloke looking for afternoon shags with no strings attached.

Then there are the acronyms: WLTM, GSOH, NS. In my case the definition of 'good' sense of humour would have to include the words warped and perverse. As for the no smoking, I am a committed roll up artiste and have no intention of changing my ways to satisfy the whim of a mere girly.

I think my only hope may lie in producing a pithy, to the point entry that the goddess of my dreams will find utterly irresistable.

I've decided to use the late great Jeffrey Bernard's 'blind, alcoholic amputee seeks sympathy fuck'.

Apparently it never fails.

BIFF BANG POW!

ANIMAL

IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a rock star in possession of a £10 million fortune must be in want of an enema.

All rock stars are arseholes, it's just that some are more rectally challenged than others. It's probably unfair to pick on an individual, but Bono definitely deserves a mention. It's not so much that he's a sanctimonious self righteous git, it's more that he insists on wearing leather trousers. No male with stumpy legs should do this under any circumstances. The only men who wear leather trousers these days (apart from the unfunny tosser Russell Brand) are bikers, and they're all homosexualists who like to stand outside pubs drinking pints of orange juice.

Bono's diminutive pins encased in cowhide are the principal reason why I would rather place my head in the toilet and flush repeatedly than listen to U2.

When I say rock star, I'm really referring to vocalists and lead guitarists. Bass players are usually OK, they just stand there contentedly plucking their four strings. They aren't what you'd call heroic, but they aren't actively offensive either.

All drummers are acceptable. They're either borderline certifiable (Keith Moon, John Bonham), or all round top geezers (Ringo Star, Roger Taylor, Danny Goffey)

The best of the lot is Dave Grohl (OK, he's a multi-instrumentalist). Whenever he tours with the Foo Fighters he always takes his mother with him.

Now that's what I call rock 'n' roll.

The Unrelenting Cheerful

I'm sure that everyone has encountered the unrelenting cheerful, there's a lot of them about. Frankly they scare me to death. I'm concerned that one of these days they will suffer an existential crisis, realise the true hideousness and futility of existence, and run amok with a chainsaw.

You have to admit it's a worry.

This is why I don't go outside very often.

A Pain in the Arras

It's annoying when people try to make you like things. It usually has the effect of making you despise them even more.

My Uncle Raymond is convinced that BMW's are the acme of automotive cool. I have always regarded them as prickmobiles, and his ill advised advocacy has only served to confirm the rightness of my view.

I used to feel the same way about Shakespeare and Charles friggin' Dickens. Teachers trying to shove those two down my craw produced what I fully expected to be a life long antipathy.

"Falstaff is one of the finest comic creations in literature."

Discuss.

"Falstaff is a fat, unfunny, drunken bloater."

'Hamlet' was the worst. People hiding behind curtains so they could jump out and stab people didn't strike me as very frightening. The play within a play was shite. Ophelia was a whinging cow. Rozencrantz and Guildernstern had stupid names and, being dead, weren't even in the play.

I still remember the groans and muffled "oh for fuck's sake" elicited by the announcement that an amateur dramatic troupe would be visiting to treat us to a performance of 'the Tempest'.
It wasn't so bad actually, as the longueurs were mitigated by Miranda's tit popping out half way through the second act. Rather a fine tit it was to, as I recall.

I appreciate Shakespeare these days and, to be honest, I prefer Charles Dickens to a lot of the post modern garbage that masquerades as the modern literary novel.

Funny how things change.

Let's Invade Canada

Professor James Lovelock, author of the Gaia theory, has claimed that within fifty years global warming will have rendered most of the northern hemisphere uninhabitable. The only areas suitable for human habitation will be the British Isles, Canada, and Siberia.

We'll be all right. We can arm our hoards of disability benefit scroungers with catapults and deploy them at strategic points around the coast to beat off the beastly foreigners.

The Russians will cope as well. They have had plenty of experience labouring in Soviet penal camps in the frozen tundra.

It's the Canadians I feel sorry for. Everyone knows that the Yankees have been itching to invade for the last three hundred years. I don't know how the gorgeous April will cope when the 101st Airborne Division land on her front lawn and demand pancakes with maple syrup.

Name 'em and Shame 'em

Ginger (apparently)

Much to my chagrin I have yet again not been included in the Time magazine list of 'The 100 Most Influential People in The World'. This is annoying to say the least, and it's not the first time its happened. I write letters of remonstration to the editorial board every year and not once have they deigned to reply.

I wouldn't mind so much, but that little thicko from Croydon, Kate Moss, is included every year.

Tsk.

I couldn't help noticing that a good two thirds of the great and the good hale from the US. This is also annoying as all right thinking people know that we were much better at running the world than they are.

I've been ruminating on the reasons for American success. I suppose a vibrant immigrant culture, technological innovation, and a 'can do' attitude have all played their part. More than this, however, I suspect it may have something do with their propensity to call each other stupid names.

Newt Gingrich anyone? Gore Vidal? The latter conjures up a mental image of a hairdresser being charged by a randy bull.

Having sod all to do today, I've been trying to think up some suitable names for the Americans. So far I've come up with Henderson Baines III, Taylor D Franklin, and Demetrious K Breedlove Jr. Somewhere in that great nation I am sure there must be individuals who glory in such monikers.

We Britons have sensible names like John Smith, John Thomas (har har), and James Proudfoot. There may even be someone out there who glories in the appellation Ginger Minge.

I'm so excited by the prospect that I'm off to check the UK telephone directory.

Happy Days Toytown

My peripatetic urges having been somewhat assuaged, I decided to venture a bit closer to home last week.

Perth (Scotland, not Australia), is a strange sort of place. It's one of those odd prosperous British towns that has a population composed of 50% skinny latte ladies who lunch and 50% working class oiks clad in track suits.

Being away from home for a protracted length of time has the advantage of allowing you to appreciate the strangeness of your native environment with fresh eyes. I've reached the conclusion that I live in the oddest country on the face of the planet. Not only does everyone talk funny, they are also fundamentally mad.

Still, it's good to be back amongst me ain folk. The menfolk are still suited and booted, play instruments in Salvation Army brass bands, drink far more than is good for them, and beat up their womenfolk. The womenfolk are thankfully still displaying far too much naked flesh and wobbling around with mobile phones glued to their ears.

Where could possibly be nicer?

I remember her well in the Chelsea hotel

Jane.

It's a simple name, a monosyllable. Sometimes it's combined with the words calamity and plain.

The Jane that I knew and loved was a calamity but she was most emphatically not plain.

She was a Welsh girl from Newport, Gwent. A slim pert breasted brunette with a French bob whose fingers entwined, melded, and melted into mine the first time we held hands.

When she told me was leaving me she still stayed the night. She really, really shouldn't have done that. When she left the next morning I inhaled her scent from my towels and cried hard bitter tears.

I hated her for years.

I don't hate her now. Being older (although certainly none the wiser) I now recognise that she was a profoundly damaged personality before we met.

I think everyone finds a great love in their life. When you find that it's not the longevity of the relationship that's important, it's the intensity. That girl gave me more in the space of eighteen months than any daft male has a right to expect in a lifetime.

We shared baths full of bubbles and threw rubber ducks at each other. I shaved her legs once and nicked her shin with the razor. A small shimmering globule of blood appeared. She looked down and I looked down. We looked up into each others eyes and laughed.

If someone gives you the sensuality, tactileness, and profound love that girl bestowed on me you should be profoundly grateful.

My dear, dear lost girl. My true peer and contemporary whose dreams and memories I curate.

I try not to think of her that often.

The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion

There's no getting away from the fact that I'm Scots-Irish. Despite this I've always been slightly discombobulated by my education amongst the sons and daughters of the impoverished Anglo-Irish aristocracy. This has left me with a West Briton cricket, rugby, and Trinity College Dublin aspect to my character that is about much practical use as a chocolate teapot.

The Scots-Irish really are the ultimate white tribe. They left Scotland because they were Presbyterian conventers who were prevented from excercising their rights of free assembly by the Anglican establishment. They moved to Ulster only to find that the damn Anglos were there as well. Naturally, they upped sticks and moved to Kentucky, Virginia, and the Ohio river valley. They made up a quarter of the population of the nascent United States in 1776. George Washington rightly commented that if it hadn't been for their proficiency with long rifles he would have been up shit creek without a paddle.

If anyone wants to understand the contemporary American mentality they can forget about the Pilgrim fathers, Boston Brahmins, and frat boys parking their cars in the Harvard Yard. They are the Scots-Irish. They like going to church, drinkin' 'n' fightin', and oiling their guns. Bill Clinton, Miss Dolly Parton, Jerry Lee Lewis, Billy Graham. Take your pick, it's obvious where their mentalities originate.

You have to give them their dues. They are without doubt the most generous and hospitable people ever to have looked up at the moon and said 'eh?'. Having said that, I wouldn't cross them if I were you. They are potentially lethal.

A Martian Writes a Postcard Home

I've reluctantly come to the conclusion that I will never understand women. As age and decrepitude exerts it ineluctable grip I am increasingly of the opinion that it is better to sit in a corner humming to oneself than attempt to have a conversation with one of these strangely alluring creatures.

I've pondered the question of what motivates them for years. I think it's something in their gait. It's not so much that they wobble but that they walk with the unerring accuracy and intent of an exocet missile.

Here we males are quietly minding or going about our own business when we find ourselves zapped. Admittedly we end up in bed with them, which is a reasonably favourable outcome. Unfortunately, within a period of between twelve and eighteen months they walk off in the opposite direction even when we haven't said or done anything.

I spend my life in a haze of dust and small pebbles.

Eleanor Rigby

'Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where her wedding has been, lives in a dream'.

When I was twelve a student teacher handed out a page of text to my class and instructed us to open our ears. She then pressed play on a cassette recorder. The world changed.

We don't listen to the Beatles much these days. We dont need to. They're us.

Apologies for the blogging hiatus. Life happened when I was making other plans.

Carry on.

Toothtastic

I had an unfortunate altercation with my dentist last year. My decrepit cemetery of eroded enamel had been excellently treated by an Edinburgh qualified dentist who actually knew what he was doing, even if he wasn’t prepared to offer NHS (pig iron) fillings.

I turned up at my next appointment only to find myself foisted off with a mad Ukrainian bint who may have cut the mustard with Nikita Khrushchev but frankly scared me to death. I don’t know whether it was the length of her nose, her halitosis, or the insouciance with which she wielded her drill, but I wasn’t having it.

I complained to the receptionist who, with the delusions of grandeur common to all semi educated idiots who are allowed to wear white coats and twirl pens, informed me that the practice was under a lot of pressure and that Ms Bignoseoffski was highly qualified. I was slightly miffed and expressed my concerns in a very reasonable and moderate fashion.

I was struck off.

Not only is NHS dental treatment not available in most of Scotland; you can’t even get private treatment without queuing (I don’t queue). Ten years ago the geniuses who govern us decided that two dental hospitals was one too many. Now we’re all walking around grinning like the Artful Dodger circa 1860.

That’s why I’m off to Budapest in a couple of months. A two week holiday with some serious remedial dental work thrown in costs the same as travelling two hours each way by car twice a week to get the same work done here.

Bollocks to my carbon footprint.

I won’t be getting pummelled by any big boned Hungarian mommas in a Turkish bath though. Humongous pastries are more my style.

Ooh La La

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CS8nHMyN-w

The first year I can really remember (well, bits of it anyway) is 1972. I remember April because it was my birthday and I went to the Odeon with my best mate Rajiv and watched ‘the Jungle book’. We had enough change left to visit Mr Penney’s sweet shop afterwards and stock up on essential supplies.

In other respects 1972 wasn’t so good. The windows used to rattle every time the IRA rabble exploded another bomb and the pavements were covered in dog turds that for some inexplicable reason turned white after a couple of days. Odd that.

I’d like to claim that I was a huge Faces fan at the time, but in truth I was more likely to be groovin’ on down to Pinky and Perky singing ‘White Christmas’.

I’ll never forgive Rod Stewart for breaking up the Faces. He was lead vocalist with this wonderful, wonderful band and he chose to trade them in for some frilly blouses, a pair of leopard skin trousers and a Lamborghini Miura. Rarely has a man with such an immaculate talent prostituted himself so completely..

At its best this music is about generosity of spirit. The Faces took what their audience gave them and threw it back to them with bells on. Other bands have done something similar but, with the possible exception of the Clash, nobody has done it better.
.

Irish People in New York

Why do Irish people, north and south, develop stupid transatlantic accents ten seconds after stepping off the plane?

Exhibit 1: “ Aym from a l’ll ole town called Dungaynon in Eyerland. Wanna another?
Fuck off and enunciate.

Exhibit 2: Van Morrison.

The English, Scots, and Welsh, don’t suddenly start talking like brain dead buffoons just because they’ve crossed the Atlantic.

I’m thinking of emigrating. I can start a school for elocution. No Irish mongs who imagine that the patois from “Goodfellas’ is something to aspire to need apply.

Revolution in the Head

From “Autumn Journal” (Part IX)
By Louis MacNeice

October comes with rain whipping around the ankles
In waves of white at night
And filling the raw clay trenches (the parks of London
Are a nasty sight).
In a week I return to work, lecturing, coaching,
As impresario of the Ancient Greeks
Who wore the chiton and lived on fish and olives
And talked philosophy or smut in cliques;
Who believed in youth and did not gloze the unpleasant
Consequences of age;
What is life, one said, or what is pleasant
Once you have turned the page
Of love? The days grow worse, the dice are loaded
Against the living man who pays in tears for breath;
Never to be born was the best, call no man happy
This side death.
Conscious — long before Engels — of necessity
And therein free
They plotted out their life with truism and humour
Between the jealous heaven and the callous sea.
And Pindar sang the garland of wild olive
And Alcibiades lived from hand to mouth
Double-crossing Athens, Persia, Sparta,
And many died in the city of plague, and many of drouth
In Sicilian quarries, and many by the spear and arrow
And many more who told their lies too late
Caught in the eternal factions and reactions
Of the city-state.
And free speech shivered on the pikes of Macedonia
And later on the swords of Rome
And Athens became a mere university city
And the goddess born of the foam
Became the kept hetæra, heroine of Menander,
And the philosopher narrowed his focus, confined
His efforts to putting his own soul in order
And keeping a quiet mind.
And for a thousand years they went on talking,
Making such apt remarks,
A race no longer of heroes but of professors
And crooked business men and secretaries and clerks,
Who turned out dapper little elegiac verses
On the ironies of fate, the transience of all
Affections, carefully shunning an over-statement
But working the dying fall.
The Glory that was Greece: put it in a syllabus, grade it
Page by page
To train the mind or even to point a moral
For the present age:
Models of logic and lucidity, dignity, sanity,
The golden mean between opposing ills
Though there were exceptions of course but
only exceptions
The bloody Bacchanals on the Thracian hills.
So the humanist in his room with Jacobean panels
Chewing his pipe and looking on a lazy quad
Chops the Ancient World to turn a sermon
To the greater glory of God.
But I can do nothing so useful or so simple;
These dead are dead
And when I should remember the paragons of Hellas
I think instead
Of the crooks, the adventurers, the opportunists,
The careless athletes and the fancy boys,
The hair-splitters, the pedants, the hard-boiled sceptics
And the Agora and the noise
Of the demagogues and the quacks; and the women pouring
Libations over graves
And the trimmers at Delphi and the dummies at Sparta
and lastly
I think of the slaves.
And how one can imagine oneself among them
I do not know;
It was all so unimaginably different
And all so long ago.

Something happened in Greece over a very short period of time. Art, theatre, literature, philosophy,and science were created in that crucible. We're still living with the consequences.

September has come, It is hers whose vitality leaps in the autumn,

Whose nature prefers
Trees without leaves and a fire in the fire-place;
So I give her this month and the next
Though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered already
So many of its days intolerable or perplexed
But so many more so happy;
Who has left a scent on my life and left my walls
Dancing over and over with her shadow,
Whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls
And all of London lilttered with remembered kisses.

- Louis MacNeice, "Autumn Journal"

Piggy in the Middle

Iraq is one of the most unhappy outcomes of British imperialism. Carved from the coprse of the Ottoman Emire after the first world war it is a country that should never have been. Cobbling together Kurds, Shiites, and Sunnis and flying in a Hashemite monarch from Jordan to govern the place was hardly conducive to long term stability.

Britain is withdrawing troops because nothing more can be done. The endless dripfeed of news reports on soldiers killed by roadside bombs has sickened everyone. Are these men as expendable as a brass cartridge? Enough is enough.

Let the arab ingrates have their civil war.

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.