It was a White Christmas after all...!
Monday, December 27, 2004
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Merry Chrimbo..!
I'd just like to take the time to wish all (i.e., both!)of my loyal readers a warm, wooly, and wonderfully ecstatic Christmas!
May your God(s) go with you.
As St.Noddy of Holder would say...
...IT'S CHRISSSTMASSSS!
May your God(s) go with you.
As St.Noddy of Holder would say...
...IT'S CHRISSSTMASSSS!
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
'Twas The Night After Christmas….
A Christmas Message…
This one goes back a couple of years. It involves alcohol, The Wife, the Police, the Fire Brigade and a smattering of woe. And some rude words…
It was Boxing Night, I'd just finished work at 6pm, and had settled down in the pub for a few pints. I knew that The Wife was working night shift in the Control Room of the local Police Station, and that she was going to her mum's for dinner. I'd have to cook my own when I got home. Ho-hum.
So, a night of excellent drinking japes, and much Bacchanalian buffoonery ensued. As time went on, however, I realised that it was getting late, and I'd not eaten yet. So I made my excuses and left at about 11pm. Well-oiled, as they say.
Back home and starving, I decide to cook up some sausages for my dinner. They were taking ages to cook, so in my (drunken) wisdom, I closed the grill door to keep the heat in. I mean, the sausages will cook quicker, won't they?
Next thing I know, the smoke alarm is peeping away, and there is smoke coming from the kitchen…..
No problem, open grill door, see that sausages are now charred remains, all they are doing is quickly converting themselves into smoke, which is pouring out. Open all the windows and waft a newspaper over the smoke alarm to get it to shut up. Under control.
Cut to The Wife -
She's at work, quietly directing coppers to check the local roads, as the snow has been falling hard. The 'phone rings, and it's the local Command Centre telling her that the Fire Brigade are attending a house fire in the very block of flats where she lives…!
"I hope it's not number 7…" she says, only to be told that it is indeed her house…
So how does she react? With the calmness and composure of a trained member of a stressful Control Room?
"THAT FUCKING, FUCKING BASTARD. I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL HIM!!!! THAT'S MY FUCKING HOUSE!"
As I'd been fanning the smoke alarm, there was a heavy knock at the door. I expected some of the neighbours were getting annoyed at the noise, and were just making sure that I was OK. I open the door, and a swarm of Firemen pour into the house, through to the kitchen to check on the "fire", and upon seeing that there was no danger, back out again…except The Firewoman.
The Firewoman is the wife of a good, good friend of mine, and she stayed behind to give me a few words of wisdom - "YOU STUPID FUCKING BASTARD!", amongst a few others.
(Departing words from the Firemen? "Everything's under control. Hey, have you got any drink?", and when I say "No" they all dive into the flat across from me, where there is some, apparently!)
I also remember a Policeman asking a few questions. Apparently, they have to attend this sort of incident.
What had happened was this-
Our upstairs neighbour had heard the smoke alarm going for a while, and had come downstairs to check. He'd knocked on my door and got no reply, and smoke coming out from under the door, so he went back upstairs and rang 999 to report a fire. It was this knocking that must have aroused me from my alcoholically-induced slumber.
So, when the Police officers get back to the Police Station, what do you think is the first thing The Wife asks them?
"Is my darling husband OK?"
or
"Is the flat badly damaged?"
Nope, not a bit of it - "Is my cat OK?"
In the morning when she got home, she was most annoyed that I hadn't written off the cooker, as she's hated it for years! Halfway up the stairs there was two slices of half-eaten stale bread, which I knew nothing of…I must have tried eating them, as I knew I needed food..!
And by Christ, what an almighty bollocking she gave me though, and I suppose I deserved it….
However, there is a moral to all this..….
The Wife was reminded of this story when she went into work last night, and opened her payslip. There, in big bold letters was the following message:-
"WARNING!! 8 RECENT ALCOHOL RELATED FIRE DEATHS. PLEASE DO NOT COOK WHEN DRINKING. YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT!!!."
So everyone, please do not cook whilst under the influence of alcohol - you may not be as lucky as me……..
This one goes back a couple of years. It involves alcohol, The Wife, the Police, the Fire Brigade and a smattering of woe. And some rude words…
It was Boxing Night, I'd just finished work at 6pm, and had settled down in the pub for a few pints. I knew that The Wife was working night shift in the Control Room of the local Police Station, and that she was going to her mum's for dinner. I'd have to cook my own when I got home. Ho-hum.
So, a night of excellent drinking japes, and much Bacchanalian buffoonery ensued. As time went on, however, I realised that it was getting late, and I'd not eaten yet. So I made my excuses and left at about 11pm. Well-oiled, as they say.
Back home and starving, I decide to cook up some sausages for my dinner. They were taking ages to cook, so in my (drunken) wisdom, I closed the grill door to keep the heat in. I mean, the sausages will cook quicker, won't they?
Next thing I know, the smoke alarm is peeping away, and there is smoke coming from the kitchen…..
No problem, open grill door, see that sausages are now charred remains, all they are doing is quickly converting themselves into smoke, which is pouring out. Open all the windows and waft a newspaper over the smoke alarm to get it to shut up. Under control.
Cut to The Wife -
She's at work, quietly directing coppers to check the local roads, as the snow has been falling hard. The 'phone rings, and it's the local Command Centre telling her that the Fire Brigade are attending a house fire in the very block of flats where she lives…!
"I hope it's not number 7…" she says, only to be told that it is indeed her house…
So how does she react? With the calmness and composure of a trained member of a stressful Control Room?
"THAT FUCKING, FUCKING BASTARD. I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL HIM!!!! THAT'S MY FUCKING HOUSE!"
As I'd been fanning the smoke alarm, there was a heavy knock at the door. I expected some of the neighbours were getting annoyed at the noise, and were just making sure that I was OK. I open the door, and a swarm of Firemen pour into the house, through to the kitchen to check on the "fire", and upon seeing that there was no danger, back out again…except The Firewoman.
The Firewoman is the wife of a good, good friend of mine, and she stayed behind to give me a few words of wisdom - "YOU STUPID FUCKING BASTARD!", amongst a few others.
(Departing words from the Firemen? "Everything's under control. Hey, have you got any drink?", and when I say "No" they all dive into the flat across from me, where there is some, apparently!)
I also remember a Policeman asking a few questions. Apparently, they have to attend this sort of incident.
What had happened was this-
Our upstairs neighbour had heard the smoke alarm going for a while, and had come downstairs to check. He'd knocked on my door and got no reply, and smoke coming out from under the door, so he went back upstairs and rang 999 to report a fire. It was this knocking that must have aroused me from my alcoholically-induced slumber.
So, when the Police officers get back to the Police Station, what do you think is the first thing The Wife asks them?
"Is my darling husband OK?"
or
"Is the flat badly damaged?"
Nope, not a bit of it - "Is my cat OK?"
In the morning when she got home, she was most annoyed that I hadn't written off the cooker, as she's hated it for years! Halfway up the stairs there was two slices of half-eaten stale bread, which I knew nothing of…I must have tried eating them, as I knew I needed food..!
And by Christ, what an almighty bollocking she gave me though, and I suppose I deserved it….
However, there is a moral to all this..….
The Wife was reminded of this story when she went into work last night, and opened her payslip. There, in big bold letters was the following message:-
"WARNING!! 8 RECENT ALCOHOL RELATED FIRE DEATHS. PLEASE DO NOT COOK WHEN DRINKING. YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT!!!."
So everyone, please do not cook whilst under the influence of alcohol - you may not be as lucky as me……..
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Human eye 'cannot spot offside'
An entirely credible report from the wonderful BBC News website, apart from one glaring error.
Under the column headline "Are You Blind, Referee?", they list the incident in the '86 World Cup where Maradona "allegedly" handles the ball over a sleeping Peter Shilton, and insinuate that Maradona may have been (WAS) offside as well.
Now, far be it from me to point out to the wonderful BBC, but,...
As the ball was played through to Maradona by an England defender, how could he possibly have been offside?
Answers on a postcard to:-
"BBC News Website,
4, We Still
Harbour Grudges Inn,
England"
Friday, December 17, 2004
Mad Friday.....
Today is the day known locally as "Mad Friday".
Traditionally, the whole town goes partying today, to celebrate the birth of Christ - by getting as pissed-up as humanly possible, spewing in the streets, abusing the bar-staff, flicking the "V's" at the cops, fighting each other, falling out with spouses, arguing with the Nurses while they insert the stitches and invariably shagging the wrong people. All before tea-time….
Originally started by the workers at the local Nuclear Power Station, "Mad Friday" was always the last Friday before Christmas, as this was the day the Power Station closed for two weeks. As next Friday is so close to Christmas, they are having it a week early this year, just to give themselves time to recover, I expect…
Each department has its own outing, usually to a hotel or restaurant where a Christmas Lunch is served, accompanied by much wine and beer. Then move on to another pub for more libations. And then on to the next pub. Then the next. Until the nightclub opens and the fun really starts..
When you put together about a thousand people, in groups of thirty to forty each, it can lead to problems you will agree. In fact, there are some startling sights to behold.
The day starts at about 11.30am, after leaving work early. Most parties have their meal booked for 12.30 or 1pm, so it's a good idea to get in to the pub early for a few starters. This is where you can suss out the people who could potentially become troublemakers later on. When you get parties like this, it's always the quiet, shy types, the ones who hardly ever go out to pubs, that end up making an arse of themselves. Well, nearly always..
Once the meal is over, it's back into the pub for more drinks, by this time the 'kitty' has started. Now, when you get 40 people, who all drink different things, you'd think that a simple drinks list would be ideal, for both party and bar-man alike. But when 'Sharon from the Canteen' decides that she doesn't really like Rum and Coke - "..it tasted differently when I had it last year…" - then the list has to change.
And it changes endlessly. The lads quickly find that going pint-against-short leaves them with extra pint-age, which they will have to abandon when the time comes to move on. So they switch to their preferred short. The girlies find that endless white wine spritzers just leaves them feeling bloated so they move on to vodka and coke, the standard ladies party drink, or Spiced Rum and coke for the more intrepid. So the list is nothing like it was when it started.
Then there are the 'Fly-guys'…
They are the type who get their drinks like the rest, but wander from table to table, socialising and surreptitiously leaving their drink behind pot plants, on window sills or just abandoned on a spare table. They are trying to stay sober, so as to have the best chances later on in the nightclub… routinely they fail nonetheless.
(The amount of drink I poured down the sink after each group had departed was astounding. Enough to make a jakey cry like a baby…)
Then there are the 'Doublers'…
These are the guys who are just interested in getting as pissed as possible, as quickly as possible. They get their drink from the kitty, down it ASAP, and then go back to the bar individually to buy more. But rather than queue again and again, they order doubles. While there, they invariable meet up with other like-minded souls.
"…And one for my mate Jock, as well. Make it a double…"
The most worrying thing though, is the inappropriate clothing worn by many of the young ladies. Just now we have a snow forecast for today or tomorrow, and the wind is blowing up a gale like normal. Yet we will undoubtedly see skimpy tops, short skirts and bare midriffs galore. And not a warm coat in sight.
Well, it is Christmas is it not…?
As this is the first time in ten years that I haven't worked "Mad Friday", I am quite looking forward to it. I'm making a point of keeping my usual Friday-5pm appointment with The Professor in one of the busiest pubs. I expect I will have to step over bodies just to reach the bar…
70's Ian says he will also be there, but he's out at his "Mad Friday" do, so he may not make it….
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
UEFA - Heavy Handed Punishment...?
Madrid Fined
"Real Madrid CF, meanwhile, have been fined €9,780 following the racist behaviour of some of their supporters during last month's UEFA Champions League game with Bayer 04 Leverkusen. UEFA had instigated disciplinary proceedings following an investigation into incidents at the Santiago Bernabéu on 23 November, which included racist chanting at the German club's black players. Some fans were also seen making Nazi salutes."
Copied and pasted from the official UEFA website:- uefa.com
For me, this is astonishing!
Real Madrid are one of the richest (if not the richest) clubs in the world today. They can boast of at least 6 of the world's greatest current players amongst their ranks, (Figo, Zidane, Ronaldo, Raul, Roberto Carlos and Casillas, in case anyone is mumbling away in the cheap seats..) who command payments from their club far in excess of anything we, as mere mortals, can ever begin to imagine.
So why the flipping fuck are UEFA fining a club whose wealth exceeds that of most African countries (and some lesser European ones too, I may humbly add..) such a paltry sum?
Jesus-effing-forest, what is ten thousand euros to a club like that?
Nothing. Nada. Nicht.
Yet Roma had to play 3 games behind closed doors for being unfortunate enough that a ref was actually hit by an object thrown during a game. If the thrown lighter had missed, absolutely nothing would have been done. Honestly, they are punished because the guy that threw it had a good aim...?
What.
The.
Fuck?
Yet a simple, unequivocal, undeniable affront to decent, dare I say it 'normal' football followers and fans alike, televised throughout the world (and elsewhere) is dealt with in such a derisory way by the rulers of our game in Europe....
What sort of message is UEFA sending out to the supporters of such reprehensible behaviour? The racists and bigots and neanderthal, knuckle-scraping, oxygen-thieving idiots who regularly think nothing of shouting racist and obnoxious abuse, safe in the knowledge that they are beyond reproach?
"Real Madrid CF, meanwhile, have been fined €9,780 following the racist behaviour of some of their supporters during last month's UEFA Champions League game with Bayer 04 Leverkusen. UEFA had instigated disciplinary proceedings following an investigation into incidents at the Santiago Bernabéu on 23 November, which included racist chanting at the German club's black players. Some fans were also seen making Nazi salutes."
Copied and pasted from the official UEFA website:- uefa.com
For me, this is astonishing!
Real Madrid are one of the richest (if not the richest) clubs in the world today. They can boast of at least 6 of the world's greatest current players amongst their ranks, (Figo, Zidane, Ronaldo, Raul, Roberto Carlos and Casillas, in case anyone is mumbling away in the cheap seats..) who command payments from their club far in excess of anything we, as mere mortals, can ever begin to imagine.
So why the flipping fuck are UEFA fining a club whose wealth exceeds that of most African countries (and some lesser European ones too, I may humbly add..) such a paltry sum?
Jesus-effing-forest, what is ten thousand euros to a club like that?
Nothing. Nada. Nicht.
Yet Roma had to play 3 games behind closed doors for being unfortunate enough that a ref was actually hit by an object thrown during a game. If the thrown lighter had missed, absolutely nothing would have been done. Honestly, they are punished because the guy that threw it had a good aim...?
What.
The.
Fuck?
Yet a simple, unequivocal, undeniable affront to decent, dare I say it 'normal' football followers and fans alike, televised throughout the world (and elsewhere) is dealt with in such a derisory way by the rulers of our game in Europe....
What sort of message is UEFA sending out to the supporters of such reprehensible behaviour? The racists and bigots and neanderthal, knuckle-scraping, oxygen-thieving idiots who regularly think nothing of shouting racist and obnoxious abuse, safe in the knowledge that they are beyond reproach?
Sunday, December 12, 2004
University Of The Bleeding Obvious...
It's gotta be said, The University of the Bleeding Obvious is a top site for humourous stories.
One can only take a step backwards and admire a mind that can come up with Oven Chimps!
The rest of the site is no' bad an' all!
After all the bad news recently, it's good to read some WorldWideWundaweb stuff that makes me laugh out loud....
One can only take a step backwards and admire a mind that can come up with Oven Chimps!
The rest of the site is no' bad an' all!
After all the bad news recently, it's good to read some WorldWideWundaweb stuff that makes me laugh out loud....
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
"Carpe Scrotum"
For those interested in a wee rant, have a look at THIS.
You can almost feel his frustration at a country that is literally going to the dogs....
You can almost feel his frustration at a country that is literally going to the dogs....
Monday, December 06, 2004
Dear Merriam-Webster....
Dear Merriam-Webster,
This blog condemns the incumbent electoral insurgent commonly known as George W. Bush, and the way he ignores the wishes of his people, treating them as nothing more than a hurricane-tossed cicada from his lofty position at the helm of his peloton of self-approved partisan sovereignty.
Defenestration would be fitting......
Kind regards,
The Man Behind The Bar....
This blog condemns the incumbent electoral insurgent commonly known as George W. Bush, and the way he ignores the wishes of his people, treating them as nothing more than a hurricane-tossed cicada from his lofty position at the helm of his peloton of self-approved partisan sovereignty.
Defenestration would be fitting......
Kind regards,
The Man Behind The Bar....
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Spelling Is Not Child's Play.......
Of course it is....?
As one who prides himself on his spelling skills, (it was one of the few things I was Top Of The Class at) it seems that I approached This with somewhat misplaced confidence...
Shite! Only 5 right?
That's right.
5.
FIVE.
Thank fuck it didn't cover grammar as well!
I'm going to get pelters from The Professor about this...
As one who prides himself on his spelling skills, (it was one of the few things I was Top Of The Class at) it seems that I approached This with somewhat misplaced confidence...
Shite! Only 5 right?
That's right.
5.
FIVE.
Thank fuck it didn't cover grammar as well!
I'm going to get pelters from The Professor about this...
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Canny Scots Create Muckle Archive...?
Today is St. Andrew's Day.
BBC News reports that an online archive has been created which aims to record the Scottish dialect in all it's glory.
Some of them have to be seen to be believed! I'm quite sure that, much like the language of Shakespeare and Pepys, most of these words are now defunct. And long may they remain so....
Honest to fuck, who uses the word 'sonsie' anymore? Just people reciting Burns, that's all!
These words are DEAD! Let them lie.
And none of the local Caithness dialect words are included (no "Scorrie" or "Deek" or "Boug" for instance)....but then, maybe we are not Scottish?
Have a deek at the site here.
BBC News reports that an online archive has been created which aims to record the Scottish dialect in all it's glory.
Some of them have to be seen to be believed! I'm quite sure that, much like the language of Shakespeare and Pepys, most of these words are now defunct. And long may they remain so....
Honest to fuck, who uses the word 'sonsie' anymore? Just people reciting Burns, that's all!
These words are DEAD! Let them lie.
And none of the local Caithness dialect words are included (no "Scorrie" or "Deek" or "Boug" for instance)....but then, maybe we are not Scottish?
Have a deek at the site here.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Interesting Music Site....?
Found THIS on the electrical interwebnet and thought it was interesting.
What you do is enter your favourite musical artist, and the site draws a sort of mind-map of other related, or similar artists.
I searched for "Freedom Call", and found out about "Rhapsody" and "Avantasia" who are both quite similar in style.
I've no idea how extensive it is (it doesn't recognise some of my more obscure tastes - no "Life After Death" or "Princess Pang" for instance!), but well, I thought it was interesting!
Go on, give it a go, you know you want to....
What you do is enter your favourite musical artist, and the site draws a sort of mind-map of other related, or similar artists.
I searched for "Freedom Call", and found out about "Rhapsody" and "Avantasia" who are both quite similar in style.
I've no idea how extensive it is (it doesn't recognise some of my more obscure tastes - no "Life After Death" or "Princess Pang" for instance!), but well, I thought it was interesting!
Go on, give it a go, you know you want to....
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Music Piracy? I Feel Another Rant Coming Along.....
I got an MP3 Player for my birthday recently, and have spent the last couple of weeks studiously filling it with MP3s ripped from my *extensive* CD collection...
I have also illegally downloaded quite a few albums worth of tracks via a P2P file sharing program, and have transferred them on to said player with no qualms concerning music copyright whatsoever.
The reason for this cavalier attitude is quite simple.
I am a music fan. I like music. I want to have music.
Why should I not have access to music? As a *pretend* musician myself, I understand the copyright laws as much as the next man. I realise that by downloading Judas Priest's "British Steel", I'm shirking my responsibilty to the music industry, and depriving a band I have always quite liked of the princely sum of (in this case) £7.99 (which they really must need to keep all their legal battles against each other going...).
But, as I already have paid for this particular album 20 odd years ago, why should I have to pay for it again? It's just the medium that has changed.
Is it against the law for me to play my old "British Steel" cassette into my PC, and rip the tracks onto my MP3 Player? I don't think so...I paid for that - it's fucking mine!
So, what's the big deal?
OK, so I have also downloaded a few albums that I haven't heard before - "Dance Of Death" by Iron Maiden for one, but in all honesty I really wouldn't have bought this without hearing it anyway. And after listening to it quite a bit, I don't think it is worthy of my cash...I never contemplated buying it before, and my original decision has been vindicated.
Similar with "Toxicity" by System Of A Down - now I have downloaded it, and actually quite like it so far, I most likely will go out and buy the CD, just because I can then have it properly on CD. So SOAD (and the whinging multi-national music company conglomerates, who earn multi-millions of dollars selling bollocks like Britney and Ashlee Simpson to impressionable kids) get a positive result through file sharing!
I remember well the campaign in the early 1980's - "Home Taping Is Killing Music!" with a skull and crossbones underneath, plastered on nearly every LP and cassette.
All I can say is" "Utter Tosh"...
If home taping was killing music, how come music has survived, in fact no, how come it has flourished? It can't have been the campaign, as everybody ignored it! Everybody borrowed albums off each other and copied them at will! Now with CD burners, it still goes on....
There's one thing that gets on my tits, though.
How come, if the music industry is losng so much money through file-sharing, they can still afford to produce the type of musical diarrhea that gets into our "Charts" every week? Who buys this crap?
If the music industry spent more money on A&R, signing proper musicians who can actually play and sing, and even write their own songs, and promoting their songs in musical collections, or "Albums" instead of fly-by-night one-hit-wonders, then perhaps they would see a return on their outlay....
Instead of mercilessly ripping off the poor 10 to 14 year olds who only now what to like through reading fashion comics and watching Saturday morning kids television....
I have also illegally downloaded quite a few albums worth of tracks via a P2P file sharing program, and have transferred them on to said player with no qualms concerning music copyright whatsoever.
The reason for this cavalier attitude is quite simple.
I am a music fan. I like music. I want to have music.
Why should I not have access to music? As a *pretend* musician myself, I understand the copyright laws as much as the next man. I realise that by downloading Judas Priest's "British Steel", I'm shirking my responsibilty to the music industry, and depriving a band I have always quite liked of the princely sum of (in this case) £7.99 (which they really must need to keep all their legal battles against each other going...).
But, as I already have paid for this particular album 20 odd years ago, why should I have to pay for it again? It's just the medium that has changed.
Is it against the law for me to play my old "British Steel" cassette into my PC, and rip the tracks onto my MP3 Player? I don't think so...I paid for that - it's fucking mine!
So, what's the big deal?
OK, so I have also downloaded a few albums that I haven't heard before - "Dance Of Death" by Iron Maiden for one, but in all honesty I really wouldn't have bought this without hearing it anyway. And after listening to it quite a bit, I don't think it is worthy of my cash...I never contemplated buying it before, and my original decision has been vindicated.
Similar with "Toxicity" by System Of A Down - now I have downloaded it, and actually quite like it so far, I most likely will go out and buy the CD, just because I can then have it properly on CD. So SOAD (and the whinging multi-national music company conglomerates, who earn multi-millions of dollars selling bollocks like Britney and Ashlee Simpson to impressionable kids) get a positive result through file sharing!
I remember well the campaign in the early 1980's - "Home Taping Is Killing Music!" with a skull and crossbones underneath, plastered on nearly every LP and cassette.
All I can say is" "Utter Tosh"...
If home taping was killing music, how come music has survived, in fact no, how come it has flourished? It can't have been the campaign, as everybody ignored it! Everybody borrowed albums off each other and copied them at will! Now with CD burners, it still goes on....
There's one thing that gets on my tits, though.
How come, if the music industry is losng so much money through file-sharing, they can still afford to produce the type of musical diarrhea that gets into our "Charts" every week? Who buys this crap?
If the music industry spent more money on A&R, signing proper musicians who can actually play and sing, and even write their own songs, and promoting their songs in musical collections, or "Albums" instead of fly-by-night one-hit-wonders, then perhaps they would see a return on their outlay....
Instead of mercilessly ripping off the poor 10 to 14 year olds who only now what to like through reading fashion comics and watching Saturday morning kids television....
Sunday, November 21, 2004
"The Only Thing I Know Is That I Know Nothing...."
Every now and then sport throws up an interesting, or amusing, or downright unbelievable story.
And THIS definitely qualifies under the latter category!
FFS, what's the reasoning behind Socrates agreeing to play for a non-league team in Yorkshire? Why on earth would he ever agree to do such a thing?
As I said, unbelievable!
*OK, come on then footie-fans, which ageing foreign (preferably Latin/South American) former superstar would you like to see signing for your local pub team? I like the idea of Gigi Riva and Teofilio Cubillas...imagine how good they'd be now...!
And THIS definitely qualifies under the latter category!
FFS, what's the reasoning behind Socrates agreeing to play for a non-league team in Yorkshire? Why on earth would he ever agree to do such a thing?
As I said, unbelievable!
*OK, come on then footie-fans, which ageing foreign (preferably Latin/South American) former superstar would you like to see signing for your local pub team? I like the idea of Gigi Riva and Teofilio Cubillas...imagine how good they'd be now...!
Friday, November 19, 2004
Band Aid 20 - A Follow Up....
A just found THIS on Twenty-Major's 'blog, and laughed myself a bit silly...
Very funny, and yet so true...!!
They should have written a new focking song.....
Very funny, and yet so true...!!
They should have written a new focking song.....
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Racism & Xenophobia.....
So, a wee bit of a dust-up over in Madrid last night?
Everyone seems to be jumping on the bandwagon here, criticising the racist monkey-chants from a small section of the Bernabeu crowd.
I'm not making excuses for it, but it's an issue which was stoked by the media into an unlit petrol-doused bonfire, just awaiting a spark.
Undoubtedly, there were ugly chants directed at Ashley Cole and Shaun Wright-Philips. I heard them.
But, why were these chants not aimed at Rio Ferdinand or Jermaine Jenus? And why did the chanting stop after Ashley Cole was subbed? Jermaine Defoe, Cole's replacement, was ignored by the thugs. Why?
And in the aftermath, why has the talentless, sterile performance by the England team been ignored also? Or Rooney's dishonourable behaviour in throwing his black armband (to commemorate an England legend) to the ground in disgust?
Here's the Spanish Press reaction (as provided by the good ol' Beeb!).
And as an aside, I noticed last night's commentator (I forget who?) mentioned the fact that Scotland were 4-1 down at home to Sweden, with the comment "And Sweden don't even have a full squad!"
Well for your information, nor did Scotland......
But then we expect that sort of reaction from these people.
In my opinion, it's time some people stopped whinging about racism in a foreign country, and instead looked at the inherent xenophobia that pervades their own country.....
Everyone seems to be jumping on the bandwagon here, criticising the racist monkey-chants from a small section of the Bernabeu crowd.
I'm not making excuses for it, but it's an issue which was stoked by the media into an unlit petrol-doused bonfire, just awaiting a spark.
Undoubtedly, there were ugly chants directed at Ashley Cole and Shaun Wright-Philips. I heard them.
But, why were these chants not aimed at Rio Ferdinand or Jermaine Jenus? And why did the chanting stop after Ashley Cole was subbed? Jermaine Defoe, Cole's replacement, was ignored by the thugs. Why?
And in the aftermath, why has the talentless, sterile performance by the England team been ignored also? Or Rooney's dishonourable behaviour in throwing his black armband (to commemorate an England legend) to the ground in disgust?
Here's the Spanish Press reaction (as provided by the good ol' Beeb!).
And as an aside, I noticed last night's commentator (I forget who?) mentioned the fact that Scotland were 4-1 down at home to Sweden, with the comment "And Sweden don't even have a full squad!"
Well for your information, nor did Scotland......
But then we expect that sort of reaction from these people.
In my opinion, it's time some people stopped whinging about racism in a foreign country, and instead looked at the inherent xenophobia that pervades their own country.....
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Band Aid - Bollocks, it is....
Band Aid 2004, it's bollocks so it is.
I heard it on radio today, and the rumours are true.
They can't sing it. They all sound out of tune. They all are out of tune!
No surprise there, then. Modern 'Pop' music is shit (v. 281).
We'd all be better off donating to a worthwhile charity instead.
At least then we won't have this god-awful cd cluttering up our beloved music collections (which we have spent decades building up, and which contains NO crap cds or records*).
I urge you all to make a small, meaningful donation to a charity of your choice instead of inflicting misery on your nephews and nieces this Chrimblemas. I'm sure they will understand......
*Except for the ones the Wife has bought - most of them are kept hidden from prying eyes. And no point in telling me that G'n'R-Appetite For Destruction is yours, so you must have musical taste my dear - I can throw back Elton John, Bryan Adams and Bon Bloody Jovi at you , just to prove my point....
I heard it on radio today, and the rumours are true.
They can't sing it. They all sound out of tune. They all are out of tune!
No surprise there, then. Modern 'Pop' music is shit (v. 281).
We'd all be better off donating to a worthwhile charity instead.
At least then we won't have this god-awful cd cluttering up our beloved music collections (which we have spent decades building up, and which contains NO crap cds or records*).
I urge you all to make a small, meaningful donation to a charity of your choice instead of inflicting misery on your nephews and nieces this Chrimblemas. I'm sure they will understand......
*Except for the ones the Wife has bought - most of them are kept hidden from prying eyes. And no point in telling me that G'n'R-Appetite For Destruction is yours, so you must have musical taste my dear - I can throw back Elton John, Bryan Adams and Bon Bloody Jovi at you , just to prove my point....
Thursday, November 11, 2004
What Kind Of Metal?
Thanks to Mosh for this!
You are traditional/thrash metal. Iron Maiden and
Metallica are representive of you. Air raid
siren vocals, distorted melodies, brisk paced
songs, lots of technical solos and of course,
terrible taste in clothing and hair styles.
What sub-genre of metal (music) are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
You are traditional/thrash metal. Iron Maiden and
Metallica are representive of you. Air raid
siren vocals, distorted melodies, brisk paced
songs, lots of technical solos and of course,
terrible taste in clothing and hair styles.
What sub-genre of metal (music) are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
I Woke Up This Morning....
...at 0600hrs, laughing my sleepy head off!
I'd rolled over in bed, and accidently nudged the wife with my knee. She thought she must have been hogging all the bed and rolled over towards the side to give me more space.
Unfortunately, she promptly rolled out of bed with a "thud-ud-ud-ud....." before sheepishly jumping back in.
It took me half an hour to stop laughing!
I'd rolled over in bed, and accidently nudged the wife with my knee. She thought she must have been hogging all the bed and rolled over towards the side to give me more space.
Unfortunately, she promptly rolled out of bed with a "thud-ud-ud-ud....." before sheepishly jumping back in.
It took me half an hour to stop laughing!
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Cat Experiment (Part 2) - The Hobbes Effect
Here are the latest results from the Great Catnip Experiments.
What a ruse, I thought. Apply liquid catnip to the tail of a cat! Would said puss react favourably towards its own tail? I originally conducted this experiment on my own cat, to general indifference.
I then wondered (scientifically, of course!) whether the application of catnip to one cat would elicit a response from another cat?
Having passed the liquid catnip to 70's Ian, he proceeded to liberally douse one of his five cats with said fluid, and retired a safe distance to record the expected stramash....
Apparently, almost the same thing happened with his cats as happened with mine!
Nothing! Just some curious sniffs at the area affected, and then a general ignorance, from both the cat affected and the others who were unaffected.
My scientific findings can reveal that my previous theoretical formula (a + b = √c)* holds true. This is henceforth to be known as 'The Hobbes Effect', after my original guinea-cat.
With this scientific corroboration, can I now apply for Government funding to further investigate this new-found scientific phenomenon? These findings open up a whole new world of further unanswered questions.
For instance, what would happen if catnip was applied to another living creature, say, a dog? Would the intoxicating cat-nippiness be similarly subdued?
Further revelations as and when they are, er, revealed!
*(Where a = cat, b = catnip and c = fuck all.)
What a ruse, I thought. Apply liquid catnip to the tail of a cat! Would said puss react favourably towards its own tail? I originally conducted this experiment on my own cat, to general indifference.
I then wondered (scientifically, of course!) whether the application of catnip to one cat would elicit a response from another cat?
Having passed the liquid catnip to 70's Ian, he proceeded to liberally douse one of his five cats with said fluid, and retired a safe distance to record the expected stramash....
Apparently, almost the same thing happened with his cats as happened with mine!
Nothing! Just some curious sniffs at the area affected, and then a general ignorance, from both the cat affected and the others who were unaffected.
My scientific findings can reveal that my previous theoretical formula (a + b = √c)* holds true. This is henceforth to be known as 'The Hobbes Effect', after my original guinea-cat.
With this scientific corroboration, can I now apply for Government funding to further investigate this new-found scientific phenomenon? These findings open up a whole new world of further unanswered questions.
For instance, what would happen if catnip was applied to another living creature, say, a dog? Would the intoxicating cat-nippiness be similarly subdued?
Further revelations as and when they are, er, revealed!
*(Where a = cat, b = catnip and c = fuck all.)
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Och, Berti, My Berti....
So the tabloid morons finally get their wish, and Berti resigns....
Worst of the criticism has arguably come from Charlie Nicholas and Gordon McQueen, both respected former Scotland internationals.
I remember both when they played for Scotland, and although Gordon helped provide some happy memories (especially a win or two against the Auld Enemy), Charlie's Scotland career was strangely subdued - perhaps because he was such an under-achieving waster, a Scottish George Best if you will. He undoubtedly had the talent, but never quite managed bring it with him every match day. More famous for his mullet and 'Champagne Charlie' lifestyle than his goals.
And now, repackaged as a Sky Sports anal-yst, he brings mediocrity to new levels...
(Quite how a man of such limited intelligence can make a handsome living at a job which requires a modicum of linguistic ability leaves me speechless. Much like I'd prefer Charlie, in fact...)
So now that MacBerti has chucked it, do we now see Charlie & Co. sending CV's to Hampden, applying for the vacant job?
Do we fuck.
Why?
Because these people know nothing about the game, or how to manage a team (never mind the National Team).
And anyway, they know more than most that waiting in the wings there is always some talentless tosser waiting to hammer them for every unpopular decision, every mistranslated quote, and every unfortunate defeat.
These lap-dogs have made quite enough money out of this 'schadenfreude', and I for one am not happy about it...
Anyway, good luck Berti, and I hope you can finally get to meet up with Charlie Nicholas and the rest to discuss your Scotland career.....hopefully down a dark alley, with a baseball bat in your hand.
Worst of the criticism has arguably come from Charlie Nicholas and Gordon McQueen, both respected former Scotland internationals.
I remember both when they played for Scotland, and although Gordon helped provide some happy memories (especially a win or two against the Auld Enemy), Charlie's Scotland career was strangely subdued - perhaps because he was such an under-achieving waster, a Scottish George Best if you will. He undoubtedly had the talent, but never quite managed bring it with him every match day. More famous for his mullet and 'Champagne Charlie' lifestyle than his goals.
And now, repackaged as a Sky Sports anal-yst, he brings mediocrity to new levels...
(Quite how a man of such limited intelligence can make a handsome living at a job which requires a modicum of linguistic ability leaves me speechless. Much like I'd prefer Charlie, in fact...)
So now that MacBerti has chucked it, do we now see Charlie & Co. sending CV's to Hampden, applying for the vacant job?
Do we fuck.
Why?
Because these people know nothing about the game, or how to manage a team (never mind the National Team).
And anyway, they know more than most that waiting in the wings there is always some talentless tosser waiting to hammer them for every unpopular decision, every mistranslated quote, and every unfortunate defeat.
These lap-dogs have made quite enough money out of this 'schadenfreude', and I for one am not happy about it...
Anyway, good luck Berti, and I hope you can finally get to meet up with Charlie Nicholas and the rest to discuss your Scotland career.....hopefully down a dark alley, with a baseball bat in your hand.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Popular Music is Shit...Official...Again...
Oh, poor old Ashlee Simpson!
Just goes to show, again, that today's popular music is shit.
Instead of promoting young upcoming musicians and singers, who have worked hard to improve their craft, playing local gigs to a paltry amount of fans until an interest is built up, the record companies *spit* plough all their available A&R funds into packaging any old pretty face/sister of someone famous/failed soap star as 'the latest thing', and use them to urge the kids to part with their pocket money yet again.
I'm delighted that Ms Simpson has been exposed for what she is. Talentless. And the sooner the kids realise, the better.
And all this on the day that John Peel leaves us as well.....
Synchronicity?
Just goes to show, again, that today's popular music is shit.
Instead of promoting young upcoming musicians and singers, who have worked hard to improve their craft, playing local gigs to a paltry amount of fans until an interest is built up, the record companies *spit* plough all their available A&R funds into packaging any old pretty face/sister of someone famous/failed soap star as 'the latest thing', and use them to urge the kids to part with their pocket money yet again.
I'm delighted that Ms Simpson has been exposed for what she is. Talentless. And the sooner the kids realise, the better.
And all this on the day that John Peel leaves us as well.....
Synchronicity?
Comedy Genius....
Clicky Here! for the comedy genius that is Calvin and Hobbes!
Updated daily as well, so bookmark it if you know what's good for you!
*Edit:-fixed the link - sorry!
Updated daily as well, so bookmark it if you know what's good for you!
*Edit:-fixed the link - sorry!
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Sunday Prayers....
Ok, it's early on a Sunday morning and I'm feeling a wee bit religious!
Let us pray...
God grant me the strength to change what I can,
The inability to accept what I can't,
And the incapacity to tell the difference...
A-fucking-men....
Let us pray...
God grant me the strength to change what I can,
The inability to accept what I can't,
And the incapacity to tell the difference...
A-fucking-men....
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Primary School Football
Sorry for this, but I stole it from a message board 'cos I think it's funny! Why Oh why do they have to change the rules when you get older? I blame Sepp Blatter, and why not?
Primary School Football
The Rules Of The Game
General
Matches shall be played over three unequal periods: two playtimes and lunchtime.
Each of these periods shall begin shortly after the ringing of a bell, and although a bell is also rung towards the end of these periods, play may continue for up to ten minutes afterwards, depending on the nihilism or "bottle" of the participants with regard to corporal punishment meted out to latecomers back to the classroom. In practice there is a sliding scale of nihilism, from those who hasten to stand in line as soon as the bell rings, known as "poofs", through those who will hang on until the time they estimate it takes the teachers to down the last of their G&T's and journey from the staff room, known as "chancers", and finally to those who will hang on until a teacher actually has to physically retrieve them, known as "nutters".
This sliding scale is intended to radically alter the logistics of a match in progress, often having dramatic effects on the scoreline as the number of remaining participants drops. It is important, therefore, in picking the sides, to achieve a fair balance of poofs, chancers and nutters in order that the scoreline achieved over a sustained period of play - lunchtime, for instance - is not totally nullified by a five-minute post-bell onslaught of five nutters against one.
The scoreline to be carried over from the previous period of the match is in the trust of the last nutters to leave the field of play, and may be the matter of some debate. This must be resolved in one of the approved manners (see adjudication).
Parameters
The object is to force the ball between two large, unkempt piles of jackets, in lieu of goalposts. These piles may grow or shrink throughout the match, depending on the number of participants and the prevailing weather. as the number of players increases, so shall the piles.
Each jacket added to the pile by a new addition to a side should be placed on the inside, nearest the goalkeeper, thus reducing the target area. It is also important that the sleeve of one of the jackets should jut out across the goalmouth, as it will often be claimed that the ball went "over the post" and it can henceforth be asserted that the outstretched sleeve denotes the innermost part of the pile and thus the inside of the post.
The on-going reduction of the size of the goal is the responsibility of any respectable defence and should be undertaken conscientiously with resourcefulness and imagination.
In the absence of a crossbar, the upper limit of the target area is observed as being slightly above head height, although when the height at which a ball passed between the jackets is in dispute, judgement shall lie with an arbitrary adjudicator from one of the sides. He is known as the "best fighter"; his decision is final and may be enforced with physical violence if anyone wants to stretch a point.
In games on large open spaces, the length of the pitch is obviously denoted by the jacket piles, but the width is a variable. In the absence of roads, water hazards etc, the width is determined by how far out the attacking winger has to meander before the pursuing defender gets fed up and lets him head back towards where the rest of the players are waiting, often as far as quarter of a mile away. It is often observed that the playing area is "not a full-size pitch". This can be invoked verbally to justify placing a wall of players eighteen inches from the ball at direct free kicks. It is the formal response to "yards", which the kick-taker will incant meaninglessly as he places the ball.
Tactics
Playground football tactics are best explained in terms of team formation. Whereas senior sides tend to choose - according to circumstance - from among a number of standard options (eg 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 5-3-2), the playground side is usually more rigid in sticking to the all-purpose 1-1-17 formation. This formation is a sturdy basis for the unique style of play, ball-flow and territorial give-and-take that makes the playground game such a renowned and strategically engrossing spectacle.
Just as the 5-3-2 formation is sometimes referred to in practice as "Catenaccio", the 1-1-17 formation gives rise to a style of play that is best described as "Nomadic". all but perhaps four of the participants (see also Offside) migrate en masse from one area of the pitch to another, following the ball, and it is tactically vital that every last one of them remains within a ten-yard radius of it at all times.
Stoppages
Much stoppage time in the senior game is down to injured players requiring treatment on the field of play. The playground game flows freer having adopted the refereeing philosophy of "no post-mortem, no free-kick", and play will continue around and even on top of a participant who has fallen in the course of his endeavours. However, the playground game is nonetheless subject to other interruptions, and some examples are listed below.
1. Ball on school roof or over school wall. The retrieval time itself is negligible in these cases. The stoppage is most prolonged by the argument to decide which player must risk life, limb or four of the belt to scale the drainpipe or negotiate the barbed wire in order to return the ball to play. Disputes usually arise between the player who actually struck the ball and any others he claims it may have struck before disappearing into forbidden territory. In the case of the Best Fighter having been adjudged responsible for such an incident, a volunteer is often required to go in his stead or the game may be abandoned, as the Best Fighter is entitled to observe that (a) "you can't make me"; or (b) "It's not my ball anyway".
2. Bigger boys steal ball. A highly irritating interruption, the length of which is determined by the players' experience in dealing with this sort of thing. The intruders will seldom actually steal the ball, but will improvise their own kickabout amongst themselves, occasionally inviting the younger players to attempt to tackle them. Standing around looking bored and unimpressed usually results in a quick restart. Shows of frustration and engaging in attempts to win back the ball can prolong the stoppage indefinitely. Informing the intruders that one of the players' older brother is "Mad Paul Murphy" or some other noted local pugilist can also ensure minimum delay.
3. Menopausal old bag confiscates ball. More of a threat in the street or local green kickabout than within the school walls. Sad, blue-rinsed, ill-tempered, Tory-voting cat-owner transfers her anger about the array of failures that has been her life to nine-year-olds who have committed the heinous crime of letting their ball cross her privet Line of Death. Interruption (loss of ball) is predicted to last "until you learn how to play with it properly", but instruction on how to achieve this without actually having the bloody thing is not usually forwarded. Tact is required in these circumstances, even when the return of the ball seems highly unlikely, as further irritation of woman may result in the more serious stoppage: Menopausal old bag calls police.
Celebration
Goal-scorers are entitled to a maximum run of thirty yards with their hands in the air, making crowd noises and saluting imaginary packed terraces.
Congratulation by team-mates is in the measure appropriate to the importance of the goal in view of the current scoreline (for instance, making it 34-12 does not entitle the player to drop to his knees and make the sign of the cross), and the extent of the scorer's contribution.
A fabulous solo dismantling of the defence or 25-yard (actually eight yards, but calculated as relative distance because "it's not a full-size pitch") rocket shot will elicit applause and back-pats from the entire team and the more magnanimous of the opponents.
However, a tap-in in the midst of a chaotic scramble will be heralded with the epithet "poaching bas*ard" from the opposing defence amidst mild acknowledgment from team-mates.
Applying an unnecessary final touch when a ball is already rolling into the goal will elicit a burst nose from the original striker.
Kneeling down to head the ball over the line when defence and keeper are already beaten will elicit a thoroughly deserved kicking. As a footnote, however, it should be stressed that any goal scored by the Best Fighter will be met with universal acclaim, even if it falls into any of the latter three categories.
Penalties
At senior level, each side often has one appointed penalty-taker, who will defer to a team-mate in special circumstances, such as his requiring one more for a hat trick. The playground side has two appointed penalty-takers: the Best Player and the Best Fighter.
The arrangement is simple: the Best Player takes the penalties when his side is a retrievable margin behind, and the Best Fighter at all other times.
If the side is comfortably in front, the ball-owner may be invited to take a penalty. Goalkeepers are often the subject of temporary substitutions at penalties, forced to give up their position to the Best Player or Best Fighter, who recognise the kudos attached to the heroic act of saving one of these kicks, and are buggered if "little Bobby" is going to steal any of it.
Close Season
This is known also as the Summer Holidays, which the players usually spend dabbling briefly in other sports: tennis for a fortnight while Wimbledon is on the telly; pitch-and-putt for four days during the Open; and cricket for about an hour and a half until they discover that it really is as boring to play as it is to watch.
Primary School Football
The Rules Of The Game
General
Matches shall be played over three unequal periods: two playtimes and lunchtime.
Each of these periods shall begin shortly after the ringing of a bell, and although a bell is also rung towards the end of these periods, play may continue for up to ten minutes afterwards, depending on the nihilism or "bottle" of the participants with regard to corporal punishment meted out to latecomers back to the classroom. In practice there is a sliding scale of nihilism, from those who hasten to stand in line as soon as the bell rings, known as "poofs", through those who will hang on until the time they estimate it takes the teachers to down the last of their G&T's and journey from the staff room, known as "chancers", and finally to those who will hang on until a teacher actually has to physically retrieve them, known as "nutters".
This sliding scale is intended to radically alter the logistics of a match in progress, often having dramatic effects on the scoreline as the number of remaining participants drops. It is important, therefore, in picking the sides, to achieve a fair balance of poofs, chancers and nutters in order that the scoreline achieved over a sustained period of play - lunchtime, for instance - is not totally nullified by a five-minute post-bell onslaught of five nutters against one.
The scoreline to be carried over from the previous period of the match is in the trust of the last nutters to leave the field of play, and may be the matter of some debate. This must be resolved in one of the approved manners (see adjudication).
Parameters
The object is to force the ball between two large, unkempt piles of jackets, in lieu of goalposts. These piles may grow or shrink throughout the match, depending on the number of participants and the prevailing weather. as the number of players increases, so shall the piles.
Each jacket added to the pile by a new addition to a side should be placed on the inside, nearest the goalkeeper, thus reducing the target area. It is also important that the sleeve of one of the jackets should jut out across the goalmouth, as it will often be claimed that the ball went "over the post" and it can henceforth be asserted that the outstretched sleeve denotes the innermost part of the pile and thus the inside of the post.
The on-going reduction of the size of the goal is the responsibility of any respectable defence and should be undertaken conscientiously with resourcefulness and imagination.
In the absence of a crossbar, the upper limit of the target area is observed as being slightly above head height, although when the height at which a ball passed between the jackets is in dispute, judgement shall lie with an arbitrary adjudicator from one of the sides. He is known as the "best fighter"; his decision is final and may be enforced with physical violence if anyone wants to stretch a point.
In games on large open spaces, the length of the pitch is obviously denoted by the jacket piles, but the width is a variable. In the absence of roads, water hazards etc, the width is determined by how far out the attacking winger has to meander before the pursuing defender gets fed up and lets him head back towards where the rest of the players are waiting, often as far as quarter of a mile away. It is often observed that the playing area is "not a full-size pitch". This can be invoked verbally to justify placing a wall of players eighteen inches from the ball at direct free kicks. It is the formal response to "yards", which the kick-taker will incant meaninglessly as he places the ball.
Tactics
Playground football tactics are best explained in terms of team formation. Whereas senior sides tend to choose - according to circumstance - from among a number of standard options (eg 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 5-3-2), the playground side is usually more rigid in sticking to the all-purpose 1-1-17 formation. This formation is a sturdy basis for the unique style of play, ball-flow and territorial give-and-take that makes the playground game such a renowned and strategically engrossing spectacle.
Just as the 5-3-2 formation is sometimes referred to in practice as "Catenaccio", the 1-1-17 formation gives rise to a style of play that is best described as "Nomadic". all but perhaps four of the participants (see also Offside) migrate en masse from one area of the pitch to another, following the ball, and it is tactically vital that every last one of them remains within a ten-yard radius of it at all times.
Stoppages
Much stoppage time in the senior game is down to injured players requiring treatment on the field of play. The playground game flows freer having adopted the refereeing philosophy of "no post-mortem, no free-kick", and play will continue around and even on top of a participant who has fallen in the course of his endeavours. However, the playground game is nonetheless subject to other interruptions, and some examples are listed below.
1. Ball on school roof or over school wall. The retrieval time itself is negligible in these cases. The stoppage is most prolonged by the argument to decide which player must risk life, limb or four of the belt to scale the drainpipe or negotiate the barbed wire in order to return the ball to play. Disputes usually arise between the player who actually struck the ball and any others he claims it may have struck before disappearing into forbidden territory. In the case of the Best Fighter having been adjudged responsible for such an incident, a volunteer is often required to go in his stead or the game may be abandoned, as the Best Fighter is entitled to observe that (a) "you can't make me"; or (b) "It's not my ball anyway".
2. Bigger boys steal ball. A highly irritating interruption, the length of which is determined by the players' experience in dealing with this sort of thing. The intruders will seldom actually steal the ball, but will improvise their own kickabout amongst themselves, occasionally inviting the younger players to attempt to tackle them. Standing around looking bored and unimpressed usually results in a quick restart. Shows of frustration and engaging in attempts to win back the ball can prolong the stoppage indefinitely. Informing the intruders that one of the players' older brother is "Mad Paul Murphy" or some other noted local pugilist can also ensure minimum delay.
3. Menopausal old bag confiscates ball. More of a threat in the street or local green kickabout than within the school walls. Sad, blue-rinsed, ill-tempered, Tory-voting cat-owner transfers her anger about the array of failures that has been her life to nine-year-olds who have committed the heinous crime of letting their ball cross her privet Line of Death. Interruption (loss of ball) is predicted to last "until you learn how to play with it properly", but instruction on how to achieve this without actually having the bloody thing is not usually forwarded. Tact is required in these circumstances, even when the return of the ball seems highly unlikely, as further irritation of woman may result in the more serious stoppage: Menopausal old bag calls police.
Celebration
Goal-scorers are entitled to a maximum run of thirty yards with their hands in the air, making crowd noises and saluting imaginary packed terraces.
Congratulation by team-mates is in the measure appropriate to the importance of the goal in view of the current scoreline (for instance, making it 34-12 does not entitle the player to drop to his knees and make the sign of the cross), and the extent of the scorer's contribution.
A fabulous solo dismantling of the defence or 25-yard (actually eight yards, but calculated as relative distance because "it's not a full-size pitch") rocket shot will elicit applause and back-pats from the entire team and the more magnanimous of the opponents.
However, a tap-in in the midst of a chaotic scramble will be heralded with the epithet "poaching bas*ard" from the opposing defence amidst mild acknowledgment from team-mates.
Applying an unnecessary final touch when a ball is already rolling into the goal will elicit a burst nose from the original striker.
Kneeling down to head the ball over the line when defence and keeper are already beaten will elicit a thoroughly deserved kicking. As a footnote, however, it should be stressed that any goal scored by the Best Fighter will be met with universal acclaim, even if it falls into any of the latter three categories.
Penalties
At senior level, each side often has one appointed penalty-taker, who will defer to a team-mate in special circumstances, such as his requiring one more for a hat trick. The playground side has two appointed penalty-takers: the Best Player and the Best Fighter.
The arrangement is simple: the Best Player takes the penalties when his side is a retrievable margin behind, and the Best Fighter at all other times.
If the side is comfortably in front, the ball-owner may be invited to take a penalty. Goalkeepers are often the subject of temporary substitutions at penalties, forced to give up their position to the Best Player or Best Fighter, who recognise the kudos attached to the heroic act of saving one of these kicks, and are buggered if "little Bobby" is going to steal any of it.
Close Season
This is known also as the Summer Holidays, which the players usually spend dabbling briefly in other sports: tennis for a fortnight while Wimbledon is on the telly; pitch-and-putt for four days during the Open; and cricket for about an hour and a half until they discover that it really is as boring to play as it is to watch.
Ever Met Anyone Famous...?
I haven't.
The closest I got was when 80's Pomp-Rock 'giants' Magnum played in Wick about 12 years ago.
We all went through early in the day so we could get a bit pissed up before the gig, and we met Lead Singer (and professional dwarf-imitator) Bob Catley and his huge bodyguard walking down Wick High Street.
"Alright, Bob?' we nodded from across the street, as if we were casual aquaintances.
"A..Al..Alright lads?" he stammered back at us. I think he was wondering "Who the fuck are they?"
I know that The Professor once met Kenny Dalglish outside Parkhead when he played for Celtic (that's Kenny who played for Celtic, not The Prof....).
And what were Kenny's words of infinite wisdom, which The Professor has held close to his heart ever since?
"Get the fuck oot 'o ma way..."!
Who have you met, then?
The closest I got was when 80's Pomp-Rock 'giants' Magnum played in Wick about 12 years ago.
We all went through early in the day so we could get a bit pissed up before the gig, and we met Lead Singer (and professional dwarf-imitator) Bob Catley and his huge bodyguard walking down Wick High Street.
"Alright, Bob?' we nodded from across the street, as if we were casual aquaintances.
"A..Al..Alright lads?" he stammered back at us. I think he was wondering "Who the fuck are they?"
I know that The Professor once met Kenny Dalglish outside Parkhead when he played for Celtic (that's Kenny who played for Celtic, not The Prof....).
And what were Kenny's words of infinite wisdom, which The Professor has held close to his heart ever since?
"Get the fuck oot 'o ma way..."!
Who have you met, then?
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Hans-Hubert's Last Stand...
Trust me, it's not Berti's fault.
How is it that the Moldovan players could control (first touch as well) and pass the ball to each other with no problems at all, yet we couldn't? Our movement off the ball was frankly shocking, our use of the ball was amateur, yet 'we can't fault the boys for effort'.
Big deal. We expect effort. They are playing for Scotland after all.
Whatever happened to skill? Has it been usurped by the desire for effort and stamina?
I'm angry tonight, yet if these are the best players on offer, what can any replacement manager do? Gordon Strachan certainly wouldn't be able to suddenly turn Gary Holt or Stevie Thompson (for example) into silky, skilled footballers.
The answer lies with teaching young adult footballers that skill is the most powerful weapon a footballer can have. Not strength, stamina or power. Christ, a defender heads the ball from his own box into the opponents half, and the scottish crowd gives a big cheer.
'Yay! Good header..!'.
But the ball goes straight to the opposition. Well fucking done......
The ability of our players to receive the ball properly, and to pass it on so it is able to be received properly is non-existant! Where have the basic skills of the game gone?
Time to wise up, play with intelligence and skill (and confidence in that skill). Yet we haven't got players who can do that, because they were dumped aged 15 or 16 because they weren't strong enough, or were too small, or couldn't run flat out all game.
It's madness, I say. Yet poor old Bertie will get his jotters (or resign - it matters not. The shoogly peg on which his jaicket is placed is buckling under the weight...) simply because our players can't play football.
As I said, it's not Bertie's fault....
How is it that the Moldovan players could control (first touch as well) and pass the ball to each other with no problems at all, yet we couldn't? Our movement off the ball was frankly shocking, our use of the ball was amateur, yet 'we can't fault the boys for effort'.
Big deal. We expect effort. They are playing for Scotland after all.
Whatever happened to skill? Has it been usurped by the desire for effort and stamina?
I'm angry tonight, yet if these are the best players on offer, what can any replacement manager do? Gordon Strachan certainly wouldn't be able to suddenly turn Gary Holt or Stevie Thompson (for example) into silky, skilled footballers.
The answer lies with teaching young adult footballers that skill is the most powerful weapon a footballer can have. Not strength, stamina or power. Christ, a defender heads the ball from his own box into the opponents half, and the scottish crowd gives a big cheer.
'Yay! Good header..!'.
But the ball goes straight to the opposition. Well fucking done......
The ability of our players to receive the ball properly, and to pass it on so it is able to be received properly is non-existant! Where have the basic skills of the game gone?
Time to wise up, play with intelligence and skill (and confidence in that skill). Yet we haven't got players who can do that, because they were dumped aged 15 or 16 because they weren't strong enough, or were too small, or couldn't run flat out all game.
It's madness, I say. Yet poor old Bertie will get his jotters (or resign - it matters not. The shoogly peg on which his jaicket is placed is buckling under the weight...) simply because our players can't play football.
As I said, it's not Bertie's fault....
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Clever Boy....?
So, David Beckham thinks he's showing his intelligence by getting booked against Wales at the weekend, thus getting his suspension out the way while he's injured.
Pity his intelligence doesn't stretch to keeping his gob shut about it!
Pity his intelligence doesn't stretch to keeping his gob shut about it!
Monday, October 11, 2004
Best Ever Name Generator
The Name Generator. Easy bloggage!
Click Here to find out what your 'Ramones' name is.....
(This is for you, 70's Ian!)
Click Here to find out what your 'Ramones' name is.....
(This is for you, 70's Ian!)
Not Quite Schroedinger's Cat?
Well, it is done.
The first stage of The Great Cat-Nip Experiment has just been concluded, and I am pleased to publish my findings.
After some deliberation, and waiting for an opportune moment (i.e., when he'd calmed down and was unlikely to claw my eyes out..!) I took the botle of catnip spray, and, firmly holding his tail, sprayed it liberally over the end of his tail.
I then retired to a safe distance to record the results...
He immediately registered an interest in something around the area of his tail, but sniffed the area of blanket that his tail had been on...not once even considering that his tail was the area affected....
After two or three minutes he'd forgotten about it completely, even though his tail was still damp.
Bah.
In conclusion, I can concur that catnip, applied to living feline results in a neutral scent. Almost as if a + b = the square root of c.*
*Where a = cat and b = catnip and c = fuck all....
So, not quite Schroedinger's Cat then....
The first stage of The Great Cat-Nip Experiment has just been concluded, and I am pleased to publish my findings.
After some deliberation, and waiting for an opportune moment (i.e., when he'd calmed down and was unlikely to claw my eyes out..!) I took the botle of catnip spray, and, firmly holding his tail, sprayed it liberally over the end of his tail.
I then retired to a safe distance to record the results...
He immediately registered an interest in something around the area of his tail, but sniffed the area of blanket that his tail had been on...not once even considering that his tail was the area affected....
After two or three minutes he'd forgotten about it completely, even though his tail was still damp.
Bah.
In conclusion, I can concur that catnip, applied to living feline results in a neutral scent. Almost as if a + b = the square root of c.*
*Where a = cat and b = catnip and c = fuck all....
So, not quite Schroedinger's Cat then....
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Experiments and Idle Hands...
Right, I've been thinking....(...Cue The Wife saying "Oh Christ, he's been 'thinking' again..!)
When she was last down in Inverness (shopping) she came back with some treats for the cat. Y'know the sort of things - things tied to elastic on a stick, a dangly thing to try and catch and - the piece-de-resistance - "Kookamunga Super Concentrate Catnip Spray"...
This is exactly what it says on the bottle - liquid catnip.
Now my puss is just a common or garden fat ginger tom, and as such is just a wee bit vulnerable to the mind-altering multi-orgasmic effects of said catnip. Whatever we spray this stuff on gets slevered on, rolled on and rubbed to bits for about an hour at a time.
He likes.
So as I said, I've had an idea.
What if I was to spray some of this stuff on him ? Or on his tail? (Don't worry kitty-lovers, there are no warnings on the bottle to discourage the use of said product on said feline.)
Would he chase his tail around in circles, slobbering and purring uncontrollably? Or would it drive him NUTS!??
And as a further extension to this experiment, what would happen if I gave the bottle to 70's Ian to perform a 'Group Study'? He's got 5 cats. Imagine them all ganging up on the one cat that's been sprayed! Would it be one big love-in, or would the inevitable fight ensue?
Once this experiment is concluded I will publish a full report.
Here. Later.
When she was last down in Inverness (shopping) she came back with some treats for the cat. Y'know the sort of things - things tied to elastic on a stick, a dangly thing to try and catch and - the piece-de-resistance - "Kookamunga Super Concentrate Catnip Spray"...
This is exactly what it says on the bottle - liquid catnip.
Now my puss is just a common or garden fat ginger tom, and as such is just a wee bit vulnerable to the mind-altering multi-orgasmic effects of said catnip. Whatever we spray this stuff on gets slevered on, rolled on and rubbed to bits for about an hour at a time.
He likes.
So as I said, I've had an idea.
What if I was to spray some of this stuff on him ? Or on his tail? (Don't worry kitty-lovers, there are no warnings on the bottle to discourage the use of said product on said feline.)
Would he chase his tail around in circles, slobbering and purring uncontrollably? Or would it drive him NUTS!??
And as a further extension to this experiment, what would happen if I gave the bottle to 70's Ian to perform a 'Group Study'? He's got 5 cats. Imagine them all ganging up on the one cat that's been sprayed! Would it be one big love-in, or would the inevitable fight ensue?
Once this experiment is concluded I will publish a full report.
Here. Later.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Nothing Doing....
Well, this 'Unemployment' lark is not all it's cracked up to be...
I've spent the last few days doing nothing but get pissed and sleep! What's the fun in that, then?
I had arranged to meet 70's Ian and The Professor in a local hostelry on Friday to drink lager and catch up on things. So I get home at about 10pm, absolutely snottered with the drink. I knew I had to get up early on Saturday as we had an all-day 7-a-side Cup Competition to play, starting at 10am. Which led to more drink (we went for the carry-out at 11.30am, and it was half done by time we played our second game at 1.25! Needless to say, we lost both games 4-1! Thank soddery I am the manager and don't play anymore!).
I remember being home in time to watch the Premiership highlights on BBC1 at night....
And today was spent sleeping, with a brief trip to the all-weather pitch (in fact more appropriately, the SOME-WEATHER-pitch) to take the weekly training session which was aborted due to there being only 4 players in attendance! Bloody softies...
So that's it for now. I have my first signing-on date on Wednesday where I will be expected to justify my Jobseekers Allowance by providing evidence of my attempts to find work.
That should be fun...
I've spent the last few days doing nothing but get pissed and sleep! What's the fun in that, then?
I had arranged to meet 70's Ian and The Professor in a local hostelry on Friday to drink lager and catch up on things. So I get home at about 10pm, absolutely snottered with the drink. I knew I had to get up early on Saturday as we had an all-day 7-a-side Cup Competition to play, starting at 10am. Which led to more drink (we went for the carry-out at 11.30am, and it was half done by time we played our second game at 1.25! Needless to say, we lost both games 4-1! Thank soddery I am the manager and don't play anymore!).
I remember being home in time to watch the Premiership highlights on BBC1 at night....
And today was spent sleeping, with a brief trip to the all-weather pitch (in fact more appropriately, the SOME-WEATHER-pitch) to take the weekly training session which was aborted due to there being only 4 players in attendance! Bloody softies...
So that's it for now. I have my first signing-on date on Wednesday where I will be expected to justify my Jobseekers Allowance by providing evidence of my attempts to find work.
That should be fun...
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Nice...Very Nice...!
Just found THIS ,(It's more suited to Broadband - 1.4Mb) and laughed myself silly!
Good to see stupid people trying to look clever and then falling on their arse....!
...Or head...!
Good to see stupid people trying to look clever and then falling on their arse....!
...Or head...!
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Bloody Hell...!
OK, so time for an update...
On Saturday I was made redundant. It was not a surprise, as I knew The Boss wanted to cut down on the Bar side of the operation and the serving of lunches. Which was kinda what my job was all about! It couldn't have been an easy decision for The Boss to make, and he was as emotional as I was...
But the decision was made, and I'm actually quite happy with it. Just going down-town now to check the local Job Centre and do all those interminable 'Signing-On' duties!
As Yosser would say..."Go on, Gissa Job!"
*If you have any ideas about what I can call the 'Blog from now on, please leave comments!*
On Saturday I was made redundant. It was not a surprise, as I knew The Boss wanted to cut down on the Bar side of the operation and the serving of lunches. Which was kinda what my job was all about! It couldn't have been an easy decision for The Boss to make, and he was as emotional as I was...
But the decision was made, and I'm actually quite happy with it. Just going down-town now to check the local Job Centre and do all those interminable 'Signing-On' duties!
As Yosser would say..."Go on, Gissa Job!"
*If you have any ideas about what I can call the 'Blog from now on, please leave comments!*
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Goodbye 'Norm'...
And so it’s farewell, adieu, and good luck to one of the good guys amongst the ever-dwindling population of ‘Regulars’ who attend The Bar – although there are precious few stories involving him (and now he’s going I could easily make some stories up…!), he is one of the guys who I see and have a drink with nearly every day.
He’s only going away for a while; his job is changing so he gets to spend more time with his ‘real’ family – 1 week up here, 1 week down there – so we’ll still have his company quite often. So it’s not really adieu at all!
Good luck Norm!, hope things work out for you!
(Ha Ha! I’m just thinking of some of the stories I could recall about Norm, like the epic ‘Rats…’ story, or the ‘US Sports are better than British Sports’ arguments we have, or the things he told us about when he was in the US Forces! Some scary stuff there….)
He’s only going away for a while; his job is changing so he gets to spend more time with his ‘real’ family – 1 week up here, 1 week down there – so we’ll still have his company quite often. So it’s not really adieu at all!
Good luck Norm!, hope things work out for you!
(Ha Ha! I’m just thinking of some of the stories I could recall about Norm, like the epic ‘Rats…’ story, or the ‘US Sports are better than British Sports’ arguments we have, or the things he told us about when he was in the US Forces! Some scary stuff there….)
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Sky Dish Rant...
So last week our Sky dish went on the fritz. Nothing unusual there, it happens once or twice a year for us. We are used to dealing with it….
So The Wife ‘phones Sky – “I’m sorry, but as you live in a Council block of flats, and you have a communal dish you will have to contact your local Council..”
Local Council – “I’m sorry, but as the dish was installed by ‘SkyDishFuckups Ltd’, you’ll have to contact them…”
SkyDishFuckups Ltd – “I’m sorry, but we don’t deal with Sky dishes anymore, we’re now called ‘SurlyBastard & Son, Electrical Goods Ltd’. You’ll have to contact the Council and get the new contractor to deal with it ..”
Local Council (again) – “But, could you not just make do with watching terrestrial telly like the rest of us..?” – WTF? WE PAY FOR SKY, WE CAN’T GET IT BECAUSE YOUR EQUIPMENT IS FUCKED…SORT IT…! “Oh! I’m sorry, but you’ll have to contact ‘Sky Installer & Repairs Ltd’, he deals with the installation and maintenance of communal dishes now…”
Sky Installer & Repairs Ltd– “I’m sorry, but the maintenance guy is on holiday, and won’t be back until the end of next week. Our other guy could take a look at it, but he’s got a bad back…”
We went out on Sunday evening for The Wife’s Father’s birthday – a thoroughly average Chinese meal. Got home at about 11.30pm, just in time to start watching The Ryder Cup highlights on BBC1, cursing that I was unable to watch it ‘live’..
I switch on the TV, and absent-mindedly switch on Sky at the same time, and - Lo! And Behold! – Sky is now working!
We guess that this must be a temporary happening, as no-one in their right mind would come out on a Sunday to fix it. But it continued to work all the next day, until about 1.30am the next morning, when it just suddenly stopped again.
So, nearly two weeks of watching the 4 (incredibly crappy) terrestrial channels that we get. Arse.
There’s been some good stuff on the wireless lately…..
So The Wife ‘phones Sky – “I’m sorry, but as you live in a Council block of flats, and you have a communal dish you will have to contact your local Council..”
Local Council – “I’m sorry, but as the dish was installed by ‘SkyDishFuckups Ltd’, you’ll have to contact them…”
SkyDishFuckups Ltd – “I’m sorry, but we don’t deal with Sky dishes anymore, we’re now called ‘SurlyBastard & Son, Electrical Goods Ltd’. You’ll have to contact the Council and get the new contractor to deal with it ..”
Local Council (again) – “But, could you not just make do with watching terrestrial telly like the rest of us..?” – WTF? WE PAY FOR SKY, WE CAN’T GET IT BECAUSE YOUR EQUIPMENT IS FUCKED…SORT IT…! “Oh! I’m sorry, but you’ll have to contact ‘Sky Installer & Repairs Ltd’, he deals with the installation and maintenance of communal dishes now…”
Sky Installer & Repairs Ltd– “I’m sorry, but the maintenance guy is on holiday, and won’t be back until the end of next week. Our other guy could take a look at it, but he’s got a bad back…”
We went out on Sunday evening for The Wife’s Father’s birthday – a thoroughly average Chinese meal. Got home at about 11.30pm, just in time to start watching The Ryder Cup highlights on BBC1, cursing that I was unable to watch it ‘live’..
I switch on the TV, and absent-mindedly switch on Sky at the same time, and - Lo! And Behold! – Sky is now working!
We guess that this must be a temporary happening, as no-one in their right mind would come out on a Sunday to fix it. But it continued to work all the next day, until about 1.30am the next morning, when it just suddenly stopped again.
So, nearly two weeks of watching the 4 (incredibly crappy) terrestrial channels that we get. Arse.
There’s been some good stuff on the wireless lately…..
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Mr Bent
This story goes back to the fantastic trip to Englandshire that we all went on during the summer of ’93.
Myself, Marty, Jambo, Chris, Fiona and Mark all set off on a wee jaunt to see Metallica (supported by Diamond Head, The Almighty and Megadeth) play at the Milton Keynes Bowl, then on up to Sheffield to see Def Leppard (supported by Terrorvision, Ugly Kid Joe and Thunder) play at The Don Valley Stadium.
Marty was left to arrange the accommodation for us all, and as we’d decided to go down a couple of days early to take in Vic and the Rattleheads in Nottingham Rock City last minute arrangements were made to stay 2 nights in Nottingham. Marty proudly announced - “I’ve got us a good deal in a B&B - £8 a head!” – which should have raised the alarm…
So off we toddle on the long drive to Nottingham.
I remember arriving at the B&B (which resembled a basic Council House) and being greeted with the sight of 4 Philipino boys sleeping under a tent in the living room! We were startled to say the least..
So we are allocated our rooms – Jambo, Chris and myself are upstairs in the Triple Room, while Marty is given ‘The Conservatory’ downstairs. Fiona had booked a charming wee B&B around the corner. Sensible lass.
We all go out for a pint or two, and then back to the B&B for some much needed rest. After some bacchanalian buffoonery upstairs, and two warnings from the owner, we settled down to get some kip.
We wake up bright and early, quick breakfast and into town for shopping. Marty then informs us that his ‘Conservatory’ is exactly that. An extension to the kitchen, with sheets tacked up to provide make-shift curtains. He also cryptically tells us “There’s something strange about that place…”, which we understandably laugh off.
Off to Rock City, watch a thoroughly average Megadeth warm-up gig and then back to the B&B again. This time the Conservatory has been allocated to me, on account of my alleged snoring the night before!??! I didn’t mind too much. Marty did offer me some advice though –“Don’t look in the bedside cabinet drawer..”
My first impressions as I entered the dreaded Conservatory was ”Fuck me, it IS a conservatory” with sheets for curtains, a camp-bed and strangely, a foot mirror on the floor at right angles to the bed. It was one of those small square mirrors you get in shoe shops, on a central hinge so they can be angle up at your face so you can see what your shoes look like.
There was indeed a bedside cabinet and tempted by Marty’s warning, I took a peek inside….
German Porn Mags. Tons of them.
I wake up in the morning to the sound of crashes and tinkerings in the kitchen as our host, Mr Gent, cooks up breakfast.
I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is the foot-mirror, and clear as day there is Mr Gent’s face looking STRAIGHT back at me….I froze, and spent the next few seconds piecing things together.
Porn Mags + Foot Mirror. Into which I can see him, but more importantly, HE CAN SEE ME…!
Was the positioning of the mirror crucial to this perv’s intention to catch one of us chucking one off the wrist?
Thankfully we never stayed around to find out. Breakfast was refused, and off we toddled to Milton Keynes for the next leg of our long weekend….
We never asked Marty to organise accommodation after that…..
Myself, Marty, Jambo, Chris, Fiona and Mark all set off on a wee jaunt to see Metallica (supported by Diamond Head, The Almighty and Megadeth) play at the Milton Keynes Bowl, then on up to Sheffield to see Def Leppard (supported by Terrorvision, Ugly Kid Joe and Thunder) play at The Don Valley Stadium.
Marty was left to arrange the accommodation for us all, and as we’d decided to go down a couple of days early to take in Vic and the Rattleheads in Nottingham Rock City last minute arrangements were made to stay 2 nights in Nottingham. Marty proudly announced - “I’ve got us a good deal in a B&B - £8 a head!” – which should have raised the alarm…
So off we toddle on the long drive to Nottingham.
I remember arriving at the B&B (which resembled a basic Council House) and being greeted with the sight of 4 Philipino boys sleeping under a tent in the living room! We were startled to say the least..
So we are allocated our rooms – Jambo, Chris and myself are upstairs in the Triple Room, while Marty is given ‘The Conservatory’ downstairs. Fiona had booked a charming wee B&B around the corner. Sensible lass.
We all go out for a pint or two, and then back to the B&B for some much needed rest. After some bacchanalian buffoonery upstairs, and two warnings from the owner, we settled down to get some kip.
We wake up bright and early, quick breakfast and into town for shopping. Marty then informs us that his ‘Conservatory’ is exactly that. An extension to the kitchen, with sheets tacked up to provide make-shift curtains. He also cryptically tells us “There’s something strange about that place…”, which we understandably laugh off.
Off to Rock City, watch a thoroughly average Megadeth warm-up gig and then back to the B&B again. This time the Conservatory has been allocated to me, on account of my alleged snoring the night before!??! I didn’t mind too much. Marty did offer me some advice though –“Don’t look in the bedside cabinet drawer..”
My first impressions as I entered the dreaded Conservatory was ”Fuck me, it IS a conservatory” with sheets for curtains, a camp-bed and strangely, a foot mirror on the floor at right angles to the bed. It was one of those small square mirrors you get in shoe shops, on a central hinge so they can be angle up at your face so you can see what your shoes look like.
There was indeed a bedside cabinet and tempted by Marty’s warning, I took a peek inside….
German Porn Mags. Tons of them.
I wake up in the morning to the sound of crashes and tinkerings in the kitchen as our host, Mr Gent, cooks up breakfast.
I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is the foot-mirror, and clear as day there is Mr Gent’s face looking STRAIGHT back at me….I froze, and spent the next few seconds piecing things together.
Porn Mags + Foot Mirror. Into which I can see him, but more importantly, HE CAN SEE ME…!
Was the positioning of the mirror crucial to this perv’s intention to catch one of us chucking one off the wrist?
Thankfully we never stayed around to find out. Breakfast was refused, and off we toddled to Milton Keynes for the next leg of our long weekend….
We never asked Marty to organise accommodation after that…..
Monday, September 13, 2004
Monday Rant - Bloody Newspapers
5 days a week I get both The Sun (Scottish version!) and The Daily Record - both of them are as childishly rubbish as each other...
Day after day after endless day we are subjected to lurid tabloid headlines which actually bear no relation to the story behind, unscrupulous tabloid photographer's snaps of b-list female celebs getting out of cars (why are we interested? Because we might see a bit of leg, or a flash of knicker-elastic..that's why?) or pictures of Britney or Christina falling about pissed, or leaving Tesco's with the weekly shopping.
"Charlotte Church In Smoking Shock!" - Who cares? So she smokes? FFS, there must be more interesting thigs to print?
Are we becoming more Americanised (apologies to Americans, I realise you're not all like this!), whereby a 10-second sound-bite is all we are interested in? A quick scan of the headlines is all we want? Anything more and our attention wanders?
No wonder, when the publishers constantly dish up such worthless fare, that we are becoming more and more tolerant of the pap culture that passes for the 4th Estate these days.
And don't get me started on reality TV.....
But the Great Unanswerable Question still remains - Why do so many of us buy this crap?
Day after day after endless day we are subjected to lurid tabloid headlines which actually bear no relation to the story behind, unscrupulous tabloid photographer's snaps of b-list female celebs getting out of cars (why are we interested? Because we might see a bit of leg, or a flash of knicker-elastic..that's why?) or pictures of Britney or Christina falling about pissed, or leaving Tesco's with the weekly shopping.
"Charlotte Church In Smoking Shock!" - Who cares? So she smokes? FFS, there must be more interesting thigs to print?
Are we becoming more Americanised (apologies to Americans, I realise you're not all like this!), whereby a 10-second sound-bite is all we are interested in? A quick scan of the headlines is all we want? Anything more and our attention wanders?
No wonder, when the publishers constantly dish up such worthless fare, that we are becoming more and more tolerant of the pap culture that passes for the 4th Estate these days.
And don't get me started on reality TV.....
But the Great Unanswerable Question still remains - Why do so many of us buy this crap?
Monday, September 06, 2004
...Coming Back From Marty's Wedding...
I have to admit, I am not a good traveller. I have suffered from motion-sickness since I was a child. Even the shortest journeys can leave me nauseous to the point of 'poly-baggage'. Especially when a hangover is added to the recipe.
So going to (Lorna and) Marty's wedding was never likely to end any other way, I'm afraid….
DaveMo volunteered to drive us (me and The Wife) there and back (a good 300 miles each way), so I should really have offered a warning.
To be honest, the journey down to Falkirk wasn't that bad, just a few instances of queasiness on the A9 north of Inverness, but that was about it. Everything was going excellently.
We arrive at the hotel, change and get tore in about the Bar. An evening's drinking follows, meeting up with all the guys whom I hadn't seen for some months. You know, general Wedding Dance-y type stuff. Oh, and more drinkies….
An enjoyable evening was literally put to bed at around 3.30am.
I wake up bright and early, with a bit of a sore head. And off to breakfast, where I manage some dry toast and some 'fresh' orange juice. Then back up for a wee kip while we waited for DaveMo to drive us back up the road. Sore head getting worse by now. Beginning to tremble.
About 11am we went back down to the hotel foyer where everyone was beginning to gather, Marty's Mum and Dad, Lorna's family, all the lads, it seemed as if everyone was there…..
By now I am particularly green about the gills, sweating a wee bit, so I try to quietly slip away to the bogs for the inevitable. Now you know those hotel bogs, all tiled floors and echoey walls?
So the gathered ensemble in the foyer is treated to the sound of the violent retching and spewing of a man in obvious distress. I come back out when finished to see the whole company staring at me…..
The wife is obviously concerned at my ashen-faced appearance, and knowing me as she does she is filled with dread for the journey home. She knows what happens next. Luckily she has come prepared, and has a plentiful supply of plastic bags.
The journey home is one which I can tell you little about, as I spent it lapsing in and out of consciousness, in between throwing up every 15 minutes into a succession of carrier bags. By this time, there was nothing left in my stomach, and all I could throw up was a black acidic phlegm type substance. And nothing else. (I've often wondered exactly what this stuff was. Stomach lining? I thought it could be the diet-coke-concentrate-stuff that they insisted on putting in my vodka. More likely it was just black acidic phlegm! It didn't want to stay where it was, that's for sure!)
I remember we stopped at Aviemore, where DaveMo and the wife were glad of some respite, and I was offered some food. It stayed down for less than 5 minutes….
The rest of the journey passed quickly for me, but agonisingly slowly for my long-suffering companions. DaveMo pushed his car to the limits in an effort to get us home (and out of his car!) as quickly as possible.
We got home at about 7pm, gratefully dropped off at the door, where immediately I am beginning to feel better. I'm sure our driver was feeling much better about things too. It must have been pretty hellish listening to me peffing into a carrier bag for nearly 6 hours straight….
But the day was not yet done with our hapless chauffeur…
On the short 5 mile trip through the countryside to his pleasant cottage, DaveMo's car finally gives up the ghost, and promptly dies on the spot. In his rush to get us home, he'd ignored the fact that cars need water to cool the engine, and the radiator had gone.
Needless to say, I've never been in a car with DaveMo since….
(Belated apologies to DaveMo for killing his car, and for contributing so much to an utterly horrendous journey.
Sorry mate.)
So going to (Lorna and) Marty's wedding was never likely to end any other way, I'm afraid….
DaveMo volunteered to drive us (me and The Wife) there and back (a good 300 miles each way), so I should really have offered a warning.
To be honest, the journey down to Falkirk wasn't that bad, just a few instances of queasiness on the A9 north of Inverness, but that was about it. Everything was going excellently.
We arrive at the hotel, change and get tore in about the Bar. An evening's drinking follows, meeting up with all the guys whom I hadn't seen for some months. You know, general Wedding Dance-y type stuff. Oh, and more drinkies….
An enjoyable evening was literally put to bed at around 3.30am.
I wake up bright and early, with a bit of a sore head. And off to breakfast, where I manage some dry toast and some 'fresh' orange juice. Then back up for a wee kip while we waited for DaveMo to drive us back up the road. Sore head getting worse by now. Beginning to tremble.
About 11am we went back down to the hotel foyer where everyone was beginning to gather, Marty's Mum and Dad, Lorna's family, all the lads, it seemed as if everyone was there…..
By now I am particularly green about the gills, sweating a wee bit, so I try to quietly slip away to the bogs for the inevitable. Now you know those hotel bogs, all tiled floors and echoey walls?
So the gathered ensemble in the foyer is treated to the sound of the violent retching and spewing of a man in obvious distress. I come back out when finished to see the whole company staring at me…..
The wife is obviously concerned at my ashen-faced appearance, and knowing me as she does she is filled with dread for the journey home. She knows what happens next. Luckily she has come prepared, and has a plentiful supply of plastic bags.
The journey home is one which I can tell you little about, as I spent it lapsing in and out of consciousness, in between throwing up every 15 minutes into a succession of carrier bags. By this time, there was nothing left in my stomach, and all I could throw up was a black acidic phlegm type substance. And nothing else. (I've often wondered exactly what this stuff was. Stomach lining? I thought it could be the diet-coke-concentrate-stuff that they insisted on putting in my vodka. More likely it was just black acidic phlegm! It didn't want to stay where it was, that's for sure!)
I remember we stopped at Aviemore, where DaveMo and the wife were glad of some respite, and I was offered some food. It stayed down for less than 5 minutes….
The rest of the journey passed quickly for me, but agonisingly slowly for my long-suffering companions. DaveMo pushed his car to the limits in an effort to get us home (and out of his car!) as quickly as possible.
We got home at about 7pm, gratefully dropped off at the door, where immediately I am beginning to feel better. I'm sure our driver was feeling much better about things too. It must have been pretty hellish listening to me peffing into a carrier bag for nearly 6 hours straight….
But the day was not yet done with our hapless chauffeur…
On the short 5 mile trip through the countryside to his pleasant cottage, DaveMo's car finally gives up the ghost, and promptly dies on the spot. In his rush to get us home, he'd ignored the fact that cars need water to cool the engine, and the radiator had gone.
Needless to say, I've never been in a car with DaveMo since….
(Belated apologies to DaveMo for killing his car, and for contributing so much to an utterly horrendous journey.
Sorry mate.)
Thursday, September 02, 2004
"Land of mountains, Land on the river....."
I have marvelled for a long time now at the memory of the wunderbar Austrian team that played in the France '98 World Cup.
Not for their silky football, nor for their stereotypically dogged national spirit, but purely for the size of their numbers....
Go on, have another deek....
They're bloody HUGE! This is what we want from International competition...a battle of number-size! Christ, that number is nearly as big as his shirt!
It doesn't get any better than this, I can tell you......
(By the way, I have no idea how the Chil-e-an guy ends up in that position?)
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
The 'Real' Derby.....
This is a story about one of the fleeting characters in the life of the Bar....
Willie (or was it Johnny or Davie?) was a mid-30's labourer working away from home, and he'd got himself involved with one of the 'local' lasses.
In fact she wasn't local at all, but a fat lass from Newcastle, and when he was here he stayed in her Mum and Dad's house, quietly trying to not rock the boat (or the bedsprings apparently....).
Anyway, he used to come into the bar on Saturdays and Sundays and get as pissed as he could (in his situation I would have done exactly the same!), and as a keen Glaswegian he was obviously a Manchester United supporter. But a football fan nonetheless...
So this one Saturday 'Willie' says, after scanning the TV-Quick mag, "OK 'Man Behind The Bar...', are you going to be watching the Spanish Football this weekend?".
To which I reply - "Absolutely..".
"Excellent" he says, "You know, it's the 'Real' Derby this Saturday"....
To which I respond - "...??..."
"Aye, it's Real Madrid versus Real Zaragoza....."
Cue astonishment......
Willie (or was it Johnny or Davie?) was a mid-30's labourer working away from home, and he'd got himself involved with one of the 'local' lasses.
In fact she wasn't local at all, but a fat lass from Newcastle, and when he was here he stayed in her Mum and Dad's house, quietly trying to not rock the boat (or the bedsprings apparently....).
Anyway, he used to come into the bar on Saturdays and Sundays and get as pissed as he could (in his situation I would have done exactly the same!), and as a keen Glaswegian he was obviously a Manchester United supporter. But a football fan nonetheless...
So this one Saturday 'Willie' says, after scanning the TV-Quick mag, "OK 'Man Behind The Bar...', are you going to be watching the Spanish Football this weekend?".
To which I reply - "Absolutely..".
"Excellent" he says, "You know, it's the 'Real' Derby this Saturday"....
To which I respond - "...??..."
"Aye, it's Real Madrid versus Real Zaragoza....."
Cue astonishment......
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
More eBay Madness....
More proof that people will buy any old bits of crap on eBay....
There must be some sad-sacks ou there! Click Here to see the latest.
I wonder what I could come up with to sell.....?
*Edit: - So eBay in all their wisdom decide that this particular 'item' is unsuitable, and pulls it from the database. Nuts.
There must be some sad-sacks ou there! Click Here to see the latest.
I wonder what I could come up with to sell.....?
*Edit: - So eBay in all their wisdom decide that this particular 'item' is unsuitable, and pulls it from the database. Nuts.
Saturday, August 28, 2004
The 'Beast' of Burnside.....
Reading the local rag today, learning of the court apperances of all the social miscreants from the 'sunny' town of Wick, my attention was drawn to a report of a local couple who seem to have come across a 'Big Cat' type creature on their travels....
And I quote:-
" A MYSTERIOUS big cat has been spotted roaming Thurso.
Worried walkers watched the puma like creature on a popular footpath in the Lower Burnside area of the town on Tuesday afternoon around 2.30pm.
The animal appeared behind a row of houses before jumping onto a shed roof and disappearing into overgrown wasteland.
Husband and wife **** and ********* *******, of George Crescent, Thurso, were enjoying a quiet stroll along Victoria Walk - which runs along the clifftops from Thurso to Scrabster - when they were stopped in their tracks by the sight of the big cat.
The strange creature was the size of a Labrador dog with a long, straight tail and was brown in colour.
Speaking to the John O'Groat Journal, Mr ******* said: "I couldn't believe what I was looking at. When we came to the end of the path at Lower Burnside we saw what we now take to be a large cat of the cougar species.
"We were looking at an old ruin known as the Bishop's Palace which looks like an old bomb shelter when we noticed it. It was sitting on a fencepost and then jumped onto a garden outbuilding, slinked along the edge and jumped into trees in the garden.
"It wasn't there for long and I don't think it.........."
WHOA! wait a minute, let's rewind there a bit.....
......"It was sitting on a fencepost"?
Can you imagine a 'Beast' the size of a Labrador, or even a Cougar type creature sitting on a fencepost? There wouldn't be enough room for one paw!
"Roll up! Roll up! Come and see the Amazing Balancing Puma....!"
Did it 'Maiow' threateningly? Or was it's purring keeping the local children awake at night?
And I quote:-
" A MYSTERIOUS big cat has been spotted roaming Thurso.
Worried walkers watched the puma like creature on a popular footpath in the Lower Burnside area of the town on Tuesday afternoon around 2.30pm.
The animal appeared behind a row of houses before jumping onto a shed roof and disappearing into overgrown wasteland.
Husband and wife **** and ********* *******, of George Crescent, Thurso, were enjoying a quiet stroll along Victoria Walk - which runs along the clifftops from Thurso to Scrabster - when they were stopped in their tracks by the sight of the big cat.
The strange creature was the size of a Labrador dog with a long, straight tail and was brown in colour.
Speaking to the John O'Groat Journal, Mr ******* said: "I couldn't believe what I was looking at. When we came to the end of the path at Lower Burnside we saw what we now take to be a large cat of the cougar species.
"We were looking at an old ruin known as the Bishop's Palace which looks like an old bomb shelter when we noticed it. It was sitting on a fencepost and then jumped onto a garden outbuilding, slinked along the edge and jumped into trees in the garden.
"It wasn't there for long and I don't think it.........."
WHOA! wait a minute, let's rewind there a bit.....
......"It was sitting on a fencepost"?
Can you imagine a 'Beast' the size of a Labrador, or even a Cougar type creature sitting on a fencepost? There wouldn't be enough room for one paw!
"Roll up! Roll up! Come and see the Amazing Balancing Puma....!"
Did it 'Maiow' threateningly? Or was it's purring keeping the local children awake at night?
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Steeplechase......
Watching the Olympics tonight with The Professor, we wondered about the origin of The Steeplechase....
OK, we thought, it must have come from the horserace, when it was run between olde English villages. You can just imagine the race from one village steeple to the next, horses bounding over dry-stone dykes and thundering across farm fields.
Even the distance (3000 metres) is almost consistant with the distance between these villages. Probably.
So it makes sense (almost) to modern athletes that a Steeplechase would be a middle-distance race, including jumps over solid barriers.
Our question is this, though.....
What do French call 'The Steeplechase'?
Is it translated literally ('La Chass de Steeple'? Crikey, Babelfish translates it as 'La Course d'obstacles'! To me that says 'Obstacle Race'! Do you think they also do a 'Course du Sac'? Or even 'La Course D'Oeufs Et De Cuillère'?).
Or do they have another name for it, like the French equivalent of 'The 3000 Metres with lots of jumps, except for one big one that's a bit wet'......
And what's it called in other languages....?
Trust me, our evening conversations are often like this.........
OK, we thought, it must have come from the horserace, when it was run between olde English villages. You can just imagine the race from one village steeple to the next, horses bounding over dry-stone dykes and thundering across farm fields.
Even the distance (3000 metres) is almost consistant with the distance between these villages. Probably.
So it makes sense (almost) to modern athletes that a Steeplechase would be a middle-distance race, including jumps over solid barriers.
Our question is this, though.....
What do French call 'The Steeplechase'?
Is it translated literally ('La Chass de Steeple'? Crikey, Babelfish translates it as 'La Course d'obstacles'! To me that says 'Obstacle Race'! Do you think they also do a 'Course du Sac'? Or even 'La Course D'Oeufs Et De Cuillère'?).
Or do they have another name for it, like the French equivalent of 'The 3000 Metres with lots of jumps, except for one big one that's a bit wet'......
And what's it called in other languages....?
Trust me, our evening conversations are often like this.........
Monday, August 23, 2004
Video of Tron Guy....
OK, this is getting out of hand.....
Here's a link to a forum that has a link to a video-file of the unbelievably unbelievable Jay Maynard, known throughout the World Wide WundaWeb simply as 'Tron-Guy'
(It's a 25 meg .avi file so best for Broadband users, and the link is to a forum page so it's better to right-click the link in the forum and select 'Save Target As' to save it to your hard-drive...)
What do you make of it?
I thought he displays a lot of dignity, while being bombarded with a typical US TV Host's inane questions.....and he showed that he's a good sport by doing the OB where the piss gets pulled by the general (drunk) public.
Good on you, 'Tron-Guy'!
Can't wait for his next masquerade......!
Here's a link to a forum that has a link to a video-file of the unbelievably unbelievable Jay Maynard, known throughout the World Wide WundaWeb simply as 'Tron-Guy'
(It's a 25 meg .avi file so best for Broadband users, and the link is to a forum page so it's better to right-click the link in the forum and select 'Save Target As' to save it to your hard-drive...)
What do you make of it?
I thought he displays a lot of dignity, while being bombarded with a typical US TV Host's inane questions.....and he showed that he's a good sport by doing the OB where the piss gets pulled by the general (drunk) public.
Good on you, 'Tron-Guy'!
Can't wait for his next masquerade......!
Friday, August 20, 2004
All Hail Haile.....
Well, tonight I have watched the last Olympic appearance by the utterly wonderful long-distance runner Haile Gebrselassie.
In a career that has spanned nearly 15 years he managed to break 17 world records.
That's not a typo.....
17.
Tonight he was outclassed by two of the young breed of Ethiopians, who both hero-worship the amazing Haile. Known in his homeland as 'Jegnaw' - 'The Fearless Hero' and to his fans around the world as 'Emperor Gabe' , he will now focus on marathon running (alongside a reported interest in politics).
The world of long-distance running, and indeed Athletics itself owes Haile Gebreselassie a huge debt. A better ambassador for the sport could not be found.
Hail Haile.....
In a career that has spanned nearly 15 years he managed to break 17 world records.
That's not a typo.....
17.
Tonight he was outclassed by two of the young breed of Ethiopians, who both hero-worship the amazing Haile. Known in his homeland as 'Jegnaw' - 'The Fearless Hero' and to his fans around the world as 'Emperor Gabe' , he will now focus on marathon running (alongside a reported interest in politics).
The world of long-distance running, and indeed Athletics itself owes Haile Gebreselassie a huge debt. A better ambassador for the sport could not be found.
Hail Haile.....
Dottled
We hear many stories about old people going senile and forgetting stuff. In the cold light of day it's not nice and not really very funny.
However, it's hard not to laugh when you hear some of the tales. '70s Ian was in recently and told me the story of his dear old Grandmother….
Apparently, his Grandmother started to go a bit dottled when her husband died, and would often search for him, muttering things like 'Where's he got to now?' under her breath. It was often Ian's job to go out and search the streets for his long deceased Grand-dad and to bring him back 'home'.
Now, put yourself in Ian's shoes here. Are you going to waste time and effort tramping the streets looking for someone who you clearly had no chance of finding?
Or are you going to do what Ian did, and sneak round the back of the house and smoke a cigarette or two before going back to dear old Granny with the proclamation that you 'couldn't find him'?
Anyway, this one time Ian is sent to the pub to fetch his Grand-dad back for his tea. Off Ian goes as usual, a few puffs and back to Granny with the customary bad news…..'Grand-dad isn't in the pub. I couldn't find him anywhere….'.
To which Granny says, with a sympathetic hand on an incredulous Ian's arm:-
"Och, Ian my poor loon, didn't you know your Grand-dad's been dead now for two years…?"
However, it's hard not to laugh when you hear some of the tales. '70s Ian was in recently and told me the story of his dear old Grandmother….
Apparently, his Grandmother started to go a bit dottled when her husband died, and would often search for him, muttering things like 'Where's he got to now?' under her breath. It was often Ian's job to go out and search the streets for his long deceased Grand-dad and to bring him back 'home'.
Now, put yourself in Ian's shoes here. Are you going to waste time and effort tramping the streets looking for someone who you clearly had no chance of finding?
Or are you going to do what Ian did, and sneak round the back of the house and smoke a cigarette or two before going back to dear old Granny with the proclamation that you 'couldn't find him'?
Anyway, this one time Ian is sent to the pub to fetch his Grand-dad back for his tea. Off Ian goes as usual, a few puffs and back to Granny with the customary bad news…..'Grand-dad isn't in the pub. I couldn't find him anywhere….'.
To which Granny says, with a sympathetic hand on an incredulous Ian's arm:-
"Och, Ian my poor loon, didn't you know your Grand-dad's been dead now for two years…?"
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Real Life - Rated 18
With me spending more and more time online playing games, I am intrigued by THIS ONE!
Looks like it could be quite entertaining, I might just give it a go one of these days..........
Looks like it could be quite entertaining, I might just give it a go one of these days..........
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Scotsport - The Best Of Scottish Football....NOT! - Addendum
Just watched tonights coverage of Scotsport-SPL.
Must admit, I am quietly surprised....
At least we had team line-ups before each game, and perhaps a few minutes more coverage per game.
We still have the stupid 'Keepie-Uppy-Keeper' slot, and a non-sensical Mascot Race, added to that a stupid wumman presenter wittering on about a sport she obviously knows nothing about. It seems that she is there because she is blonde, female and not really very fat at all (except heid-wise...), but at least the actual coverage of the games has improved.
I'm glad to see that my venomous email diatribes directed to STV are (possibly) being heeded.
Must admit, I am quietly surprised....
At least we had team line-ups before each game, and perhaps a few minutes more coverage per game.
We still have the stupid 'Keepie-Uppy-Keeper' slot, and a non-sensical Mascot Race, added to that a stupid wumman presenter wittering on about a sport she obviously knows nothing about. It seems that she is there because she is blonde, female and not really very fat at all (except heid-wise...), but at least the actual coverage of the games has improved.
I'm glad to see that my venomous email diatribes directed to STV are (possibly) being heeded.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Reservoir Dogs (…….with added 'Peff'!)
Location: - The Odeon Cinema, central Glasgow, early '90's.
We were down for yet another gig (Tyketto, I think) and as it was a Saturday (the day before the gig), we decided on the good old 'all-day-session'. It wasn't an easy decision, but eventually we agreed that it was the right way to go.
Many pubs were visited, and much drink imbibed (it's the law, apparently).
It got to about 9pm, and after a few jars in 'The Red Lion' right behind the Odeon Cinema (which just so happens to be the first pub that The Professor got served in, aged 14 and dressed as a catholic schoolboy!) where much piss was ripped, we decided to catch the late showing of 'Reservoir Dogs' at the pictures.
Midnight start, so we had plenty time……
Anyway, myself, Marty, Chris and Chris' sister Fiona make our way in, as pissed as you can imagine. The film starts, and the Bacchanalian buffoonery is not far behind…
With every line spoken by the cast, there would be a gallus comment from one of us. I particularly remember someone dressed in white shooting a guy in a chair, and the chair-guy says 'Why did you do that…?', accompanied by my good self saying, out loud - '…Because it's in the script…!'
Oh how I laughed.
As the film went on though, we were mercilessly unaware of Marty's dilemma…..
We did notice Marty getting up from his seat and going to the loo, and when he came back in he made a point of visiting each of us to say his farewells as he was intending to head off home. His parting words should have meant more to us at the time - "..and be careful when you go to the bogs at the end of the film….." - but no-one really paid attention.
So off Marty goes, and with the stinging words of an irate Glaswegian ringing in my ears ('Are ye gonnae no shut the FUCK up…?') we settled down and watched the rest of the film. Very quietly.
As usual, at the end of the flick some of us (bellies still full of beer) are desperate for the lavvy, and go to make our way down the stairs only to be held up by scores of people literally physically retching and cursing, struggling for breath at the acrid stench in the air.
I ventured down the steps towards the Gents, where people were slipping on the stairs, the back of the door was covered in 'Technicolour Varnish' and even the door handle was pebbledashed with the stuff.
All around were people holding hands over mouths.
As you can probably work out, Marty had peffed all over the stairs and up the door, after having been caught short on his mad dash for gastro-enterital sanctuary……….
At least he gave us a wee bit of warning, even though it really wasn't enough…..
We were down for yet another gig (Tyketto, I think) and as it was a Saturday (the day before the gig), we decided on the good old 'all-day-session'. It wasn't an easy decision, but eventually we agreed that it was the right way to go.
Many pubs were visited, and much drink imbibed (it's the law, apparently).
It got to about 9pm, and after a few jars in 'The Red Lion' right behind the Odeon Cinema (which just so happens to be the first pub that The Professor got served in, aged 14 and dressed as a catholic schoolboy!) where much piss was ripped, we decided to catch the late showing of 'Reservoir Dogs' at the pictures.
Midnight start, so we had plenty time……
Anyway, myself, Marty, Chris and Chris' sister Fiona make our way in, as pissed as you can imagine. The film starts, and the Bacchanalian buffoonery is not far behind…
With every line spoken by the cast, there would be a gallus comment from one of us. I particularly remember someone dressed in white shooting a guy in a chair, and the chair-guy says 'Why did you do that…?', accompanied by my good self saying, out loud - '…Because it's in the script…!'
Oh how I laughed.
As the film went on though, we were mercilessly unaware of Marty's dilemma…..
We did notice Marty getting up from his seat and going to the loo, and when he came back in he made a point of visiting each of us to say his farewells as he was intending to head off home. His parting words should have meant more to us at the time - "..and be careful when you go to the bogs at the end of the film….." - but no-one really paid attention.
So off Marty goes, and with the stinging words of an irate Glaswegian ringing in my ears ('Are ye gonnae no shut the FUCK up…?') we settled down and watched the rest of the film. Very quietly.
As usual, at the end of the flick some of us (bellies still full of beer) are desperate for the lavvy, and go to make our way down the stairs only to be held up by scores of people literally physically retching and cursing, struggling for breath at the acrid stench in the air.
I ventured down the steps towards the Gents, where people were slipping on the stairs, the back of the door was covered in 'Technicolour Varnish' and even the door handle was pebbledashed with the stuff.
All around were people holding hands over mouths.
As you can probably work out, Marty had peffed all over the stairs and up the door, after having been caught short on his mad dash for gastro-enterital sanctuary……….
At least he gave us a wee bit of warning, even though it really wasn't enough…..
Friday, August 13, 2004
Writer's Block?
As just a recent subscriber to weblog-dom, I find myself suddenly in a strange place.
I am suffering from 'writer's block'. I don't know what to 'blog about! I can't even seem to make stories up like I used to!
Do I tell you both all about my surprisingly dull day at work, or my attendance of the local Seven-A-Side League AGM earlier tonight (where the league fees are noted at £200 per team!) or do I just trot out the 'blogger's standard'…?
Lists.
Nah, I umny gonnae dae it. Everyone else does it. People who know me know what I like, everyone who doesn't know me will have to guess.
Hold on though, let's see….
This week I are mostly been doing…
1. Drinking Beer.
2. Watching Football.
3. Playing Runescape.
4. Going To Bed Late.
5. Waking Up Early.
6. Bloody Working.
7. Eating Sausages For Lunch.
8. Wondering what to write about here……
….And not necessarily in that particular order.
And as soon as I can work out how to say what I want to say, and tell the stories that I want to tell, there will be more! There doesn't even seem to be any really funny links to post for your delectation....
Bahh!
I am suffering from 'writer's block'. I don't know what to 'blog about! I can't even seem to make stories up like I used to!
Do I tell you both all about my surprisingly dull day at work, or my attendance of the local Seven-A-Side League AGM earlier tonight (where the league fees are noted at £200 per team!) or do I just trot out the 'blogger's standard'…?
Lists.
Nah, I umny gonnae dae it. Everyone else does it. People who know me know what I like, everyone who doesn't know me will have to guess.
Hold on though, let's see….
This week I are mostly been doing…
1. Drinking Beer.
2. Watching Football.
3. Playing Runescape.
4. Going To Bed Late.
5. Waking Up Early.
6. Bloody Working.
7. Eating Sausages For Lunch.
8. Wondering what to write about here……
….And not necessarily in that particular order.
And as soon as I can work out how to say what I want to say, and tell the stories that I want to tell, there will be more! There doesn't even seem to be any really funny links to post for your delectation....
Bahh!
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Scotsport - The Best Of Scottish Football....NOT!
Rant No. 2
Right, just finished watching the All-Singing All-Dancing All-New Scotsport with its exclusive highlights package of the new SPL season.......
And Yea Verily I denounce it as utter shite.....
Why for all the presenters? What do they need 3 of them for? All I want to see is the football, not 40 minutes of presenters and analists (spelling correct) talking about the games, interviews with ex-Celtic players, pre-scripted opinions of 'fans' in the studio (with them reading the script off of idiot-boards) or stupid 'testing of referees whistles' or 'keepie-uppy-keepers' items.
They spent less than 20 minutes on the highlights of 6 games!
Whatever happened to the old fashioned format where they showed extensive highlights of the 'Game of the week' followed by brief clip-packages of the rest of the games?
Ha ha, they even read out an email from a member of the public, who wondered if Scotsport would be solely concentrating on Celtic and Rangers. Jim Delacunt (spelling correct) replied emphatically in the negative. Cut to next item - a competition to win Henrik Larsson's new Barca shirt!
If it wasn't so bad it'd be good....
Tell me, who decides the format of these programmes? And more importantly, how come they never asked me?
Right, just finished watching the All-Singing All-Dancing All-New Scotsport with its exclusive highlights package of the new SPL season.......
And Yea Verily I denounce it as utter shite.....
Why for all the presenters? What do they need 3 of them for? All I want to see is the football, not 40 minutes of presenters and analists (spelling correct) talking about the games, interviews with ex-Celtic players, pre-scripted opinions of 'fans' in the studio (with them reading the script off of idiot-boards) or stupid 'testing of referees whistles' or 'keepie-uppy-keepers' items.
They spent less than 20 minutes on the highlights of 6 games!
Whatever happened to the old fashioned format where they showed extensive highlights of the 'Game of the week' followed by brief clip-packages of the rest of the games?
Ha ha, they even read out an email from a member of the public, who wondered if Scotsport would be solely concentrating on Celtic and Rangers. Jim Delacunt (spelling correct) replied emphatically in the negative. Cut to next item - a competition to win Henrik Larsson's new Barca shirt!
If it wasn't so bad it'd be good....
Tell me, who decides the format of these programmes? And more importantly, how come they never asked me?
Friday, August 06, 2004
The Amazing Fat Person Spider!
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Stupid People......
OK, You all know when you're watching Who Wants To Be Millionaire' and someone buggers up badly, getting the 500 quid question stupidly wrong?
Funny, yes?
Not as funny as THIS though........!
('Big Up' to 70's Ian for the link! (Hey, I'm getting down wit da kidz, fother-mucker....er, or perhaps not.....?))
Funny, yes?
Not as funny as THIS though........!
('Big Up' to 70's Ian for the link! (Hey, I'm getting down wit da kidz, fother-mucker....er, or perhaps not.....?))
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Wednesday Rant - Doddery Old Gits....
I’m going to post a weekly (or so) rant on here, just about the little niggly things that get right on my tits.
Like Old Wifies.
This morning walking to work they were everywhere.
Two old wifies standing in the paper-shop doorway, gossiping ignorantly, unaware that as it’s the only door to the shop people might actually want to go in or out. Bottleneck situation just waiting to happen….
Worse than that, old wifies who queue up to buy said newspapers, then add on cigarettes, stationery, a wee toy for little Jimmy, a box of Jaffa Cakes and then she asks ‘Do you have any nice wrapping paper?’, dragging the by now embarrassed assistant all over the shop.
When they finally get everything rung up on the till then and only then does the old dear think about actually paying for her goods! Raking in her bag for her purse, and then raking in her purse for the exact change, counting it out penny by penny, only to realise at the last moment that she hasn’t enough small change and ‘could she change a twenty?’
When the transaction is over, she then proceeds to carefully replace everything into her purse, and handbag.
Slowly.
Just as I’m about to shout (at the top of my voice) ‘GET OUT OF MY WAY, YOU DODDERY OLD BASTA…’ she then politely asks for all her goods to be placed in a carrier bag, as ‘it might rain later on…….’
Jesus H., I only want to pay for my soft-porn-orientated tabloids!
Like Old Wifies.
This morning walking to work they were everywhere.
Two old wifies standing in the paper-shop doorway, gossiping ignorantly, unaware that as it’s the only door to the shop people might actually want to go in or out. Bottleneck situation just waiting to happen….
Worse than that, old wifies who queue up to buy said newspapers, then add on cigarettes, stationery, a wee toy for little Jimmy, a box of Jaffa Cakes and then she asks ‘Do you have any nice wrapping paper?’, dragging the by now embarrassed assistant all over the shop.
When they finally get everything rung up on the till then and only then does the old dear think about actually paying for her goods! Raking in her bag for her purse, and then raking in her purse for the exact change, counting it out penny by penny, only to realise at the last moment that she hasn’t enough small change and ‘could she change a twenty?’
When the transaction is over, she then proceeds to carefully replace everything into her purse, and handbag.
Slowly.
Just as I’m about to shout (at the top of my voice) ‘GET OUT OF MY WAY, YOU DODDERY OLD BASTA…’ she then politely asks for all her goods to be placed in a carrier bag, as ‘it might rain later on…….’
Jesus H., I only want to pay for my soft-porn-orientated tabloids!
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Terry Wogan, and his part in my downfall........
Radio 2 - Still better than all the rest......
Terry Wogan played a big part in my upbringing. Every morning my mother would play Terry Wogan on the radio (or 'wireless' if you want to be pedantic!) while ate my breakfast and got ready for school.
And it was brilliant!
On the rare occasion I wasn't going to school, just listening to the banter between TW and Jimmy Young doing the hand-over at 9.30 would be the funniest thing I'd hear that week. It was legendary!
If it wasn't for Terry Wogan playing 'Waiting For an Alibi' by Thin Lizzy regularly during my formative years, I can honestly say that I would never have become a Rock Fan, and would have happily succumbed to the pop pap of The Buggles, Boney M and Lionel Ritchie. I would never then have grown my long hair, spent my hard-earned wages travelling to far-off Rock/Metal concerts (putting life, bank balance and school studies at risk), hence would never have ended up consigned to the shitty job I have now.
I would probably be working in a bank, earning 20 grands a week, and be the proud owner of a BMW and a three-bedroomed house. Instead of becoming the skint, work-shy bastard that I am.....
So I'd like to thank Terry Wogan for his undoubted part in my downfall.
Aye, Top 'o The Mornin' t'ya.
Ta very fucking much........
Terry Wogan played a big part in my upbringing. Every morning my mother would play Terry Wogan on the radio (or 'wireless' if you want to be pedantic!) while ate my breakfast and got ready for school.
And it was brilliant!
On the rare occasion I wasn't going to school, just listening to the banter between TW and Jimmy Young doing the hand-over at 9.30 would be the funniest thing I'd hear that week. It was legendary!
If it wasn't for Terry Wogan playing 'Waiting For an Alibi' by Thin Lizzy regularly during my formative years, I can honestly say that I would never have become a Rock Fan, and would have happily succumbed to the pop pap of The Buggles, Boney M and Lionel Ritchie. I would never then have grown my long hair, spent my hard-earned wages travelling to far-off Rock/Metal concerts (putting life, bank balance and school studies at risk), hence would never have ended up consigned to the shitty job I have now.
I would probably be working in a bank, earning 20 grands a week, and be the proud owner of a BMW and a three-bedroomed house. Instead of becoming the skint, work-shy bastard that I am.....
So I'd like to thank Terry Wogan for his undoubted part in my downfall.
Aye, Top 'o The Mornin' t'ya.
Ta very fucking much........
Monday, July 26, 2004
The Company
The Company
I've started to compile the list of people who I will be writing about. Some I have already written about, and some are yet to be included.
Don't forget, it's easy to leave comments!
I've started to compile the list of people who I will be writing about. Some I have already written about, and some are yet to be included.
Don't forget, it's easy to leave comments!
Referee's Revenge.....
With all the complaining and personal attacks on referees recently (Mr Urs Meier, for one), is this a warning of things to come?
Can you see Hugh Dallas doing something similar?
Although I think he might have taken it too far.....
Can you see Hugh Dallas doing something similar?
Although I think he might have taken it too far.....
Thursday, July 22, 2004
The Wee Red Book
OK, so I just got this season’s Wee Red Book, the unofficial Bible to us football fans. It has all the stats you want, and more, on the teams who will be battling it out for the League title this season, along with comprehensive lists of previous winners, International games and competitions. Where else can you find out that Christian Dailly has played 54 times for Scotland? (Jesus H. Christ! 54! How could this have been allowed?)
I even caught The Professor reading it yesterday, devouring every page avidly while passing comment on some of the adverts in said tome…..including ads for laminate flooring, a bed clearance centre, internet-ready PCs for £99, double-glazing repairs (!), lap-dancing clubs, driving instructor training and refurbished cookers!
But these two caught his eye...
Award-winning Caledonia Sun Tattoos – with Body Piercing by ‘Big John’
(Now I would imagine if I ever contemplated having my flabby skin pierced, (for whatever reason) I’m damn sure I wouldn’t be getting it done by a guy called ‘Big John’!)
Or how about this…..?
B. Main, Sculptors – Monuments for a Loved One
All monuments come with:-
An 8 Year Guarantee!
(Guaranteed to do exactly what? And why for exactly 8 years? How would you take it back, and if you did would you get a refund??)
I even caught The Professor reading it yesterday, devouring every page avidly while passing comment on some of the adverts in said tome…..including ads for laminate flooring, a bed clearance centre, internet-ready PCs for £99, double-glazing repairs (!), lap-dancing clubs, driving instructor training and refurbished cookers!
But these two caught his eye...
Award-winning Caledonia Sun Tattoos – with Body Piercing by ‘Big John’
(Now I would imagine if I ever contemplated having my flabby skin pierced, (for whatever reason) I’m damn sure I wouldn’t be getting it done by a guy called ‘Big John’!)
Or how about this…..?
B. Main, Sculptors – Monuments for a Loved One
All monuments come with:-
An 8 Year Guarantee!
(Guaranteed to do exactly what? And why for exactly 8 years? How would you take it back, and if you did would you get a refund??)
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Introducing....My Better Half....?
My Wife - What a Treasure!
Not too long after we started 'courting' (how sweet!), and before she had really become accepted by all my best friends, the woman who became my Wife and I decided to travel to Glasgow to see one of our favourite bands play at 'The Cathouse'. We were to stay in a grotty little Guesthouse in Renfrew Street (anyone who's been to a Glasgow Gig with us knows exactly which Guesthouse this is!) and meet up with our good mates Sneaky Les and Marty & Lorna before the gig for a meal (and drinks!).
Now, Marty at the time was a bit on the large side and was very fond of his Pizzas (maybe these two facts were linked? At least he's seen the light and now eats nothing but lettuce, sawdust and cardboard!), so the decision was taken out of our hands as to where we were going for grub.
So off we went to Pizza Hut for some vein-clogging, cholesterol-laden crappy pizza.
And lo, it was crap. But, when we were there something amazing happened…..
You know when you're in company, and you try your best not to swear, fart or burp for fear of upsetting your new girlfriend/boyfriend and their pals? Y' know, trying to create an impression? Come on, now. We've all been there at one point or another.
Well, my good lady surpassed herself on this occasion…….
The restaurant was packed, every table was full and there was light (i.e. crap…) music playing in the background. We all consumed quite a few bottles of crappy American beer, and micro waved Pizza was scoffed aplenty.
In the 2 or 3-second lull between songs, my darling beloved decided the time was right to empty her full stomach of it's built up gas reserves.
Without even blinking an eye, she let rip.
BBBBBAAAAAAaaaaarrrrpppp!!!
Full, throaty, and not the slightest bit moist, the sound reverberated throughout the restaurant, catching everybody's full attention. Talk about 'filling the auditorium'! In fact it seemed to echo on for a good 10 seconds afterwards. I can still hear it now, actually.......An awesome hush quickly descended upon the collected masticators…..
The total silence thus ripped asunder, accusing fingers were rapidly pointed in her direction. And not just from us.....
There were people pointing and staring in awe at what they had just witnessed! Small children, scared for their lives started crying for their mothers! Two old biddies were struggling to climb under their table, fearing the ceiling would collapse! 3 people sitting at our table were pissing themselves with laughter, and wonderment/admiration!
And in the middle of all this, with just the tiniest hint of embarrassment - a wee touch of pink on her cheeks - all she could say was -
'…. Oops!', with her tiny hand covering her mouth..
A round of applause and the award of a 9 out of 10 for her efforts were duly given.
After all, credit where credit is due, yes?
Not too long after we started 'courting' (how sweet!), and before she had really become accepted by all my best friends, the woman who became my Wife and I decided to travel to Glasgow to see one of our favourite bands play at 'The Cathouse'. We were to stay in a grotty little Guesthouse in Renfrew Street (anyone who's been to a Glasgow Gig with us knows exactly which Guesthouse this is!) and meet up with our good mates Sneaky Les and Marty & Lorna before the gig for a meal (and drinks!).
Now, Marty at the time was a bit on the large side and was very fond of his Pizzas (maybe these two facts were linked? At least he's seen the light and now eats nothing but lettuce, sawdust and cardboard!), so the decision was taken out of our hands as to where we were going for grub.
So off we went to Pizza Hut for some vein-clogging, cholesterol-laden crappy pizza.
And lo, it was crap. But, when we were there something amazing happened…..
You know when you're in company, and you try your best not to swear, fart or burp for fear of upsetting your new girlfriend/boyfriend and their pals? Y' know, trying to create an impression? Come on, now. We've all been there at one point or another.
Well, my good lady surpassed herself on this occasion…….
The restaurant was packed, every table was full and there was light (i.e. crap…) music playing in the background. We all consumed quite a few bottles of crappy American beer, and micro waved Pizza was scoffed aplenty.
In the 2 or 3-second lull between songs, my darling beloved decided the time was right to empty her full stomach of it's built up gas reserves.
Without even blinking an eye, she let rip.
BBBBBAAAAAAaaaaarrrrpppp!!!
Full, throaty, and not the slightest bit moist, the sound reverberated throughout the restaurant, catching everybody's full attention. Talk about 'filling the auditorium'! In fact it seemed to echo on for a good 10 seconds afterwards. I can still hear it now, actually.......An awesome hush quickly descended upon the collected masticators…..
The total silence thus ripped asunder, accusing fingers were rapidly pointed in her direction. And not just from us.....
There were people pointing and staring in awe at what they had just witnessed! Small children, scared for their lives started crying for their mothers! Two old biddies were struggling to climb under their table, fearing the ceiling would collapse! 3 people sitting at our table were pissing themselves with laughter, and wonderment/admiration!
And in the middle of all this, with just the tiniest hint of embarrassment - a wee touch of pink on her cheeks - all she could say was -
'…. Oops!', with her tiny hand covering her mouth..
A round of applause and the award of a 9 out of 10 for her efforts were duly given.
After all, credit where credit is due, yes?
Sunday, July 18, 2004
Welcome to Utopia, Scotland. Pop. 4
Had a visit from my old mate Sinky, which led to an interesting afternoon's discussion.
He works in Aberdeen as a Social Worker, looking after 150 'troubled' kids, 24 hours at a time. He was enjoying his visit to his home town, and marvelled at the -as he put it - 'utopian lifestyle' we have here.
No muggings, no drug crime, no inner city degradation, no gangs of youths who would slit your throat for their next fix, no child prostitution, no extreme poverty or squalor.
The stories Sinky told us about these under-priveleged kids, and the lengths they sometimes have to go to just to survive, really drove home to us the quality of life we have here, and it does indeed make me thankful for my little lot.
Why then do all the local kids, as soon as they are able, sod off to University in Aberdeen, Edinburgh and Glasgow while citing my utopian hometown as a 'shithole'?
At the very least, it's a safe shithole........
He works in Aberdeen as a Social Worker, looking after 150 'troubled' kids, 24 hours at a time. He was enjoying his visit to his home town, and marvelled at the -as he put it - 'utopian lifestyle' we have here.
No muggings, no drug crime, no inner city degradation, no gangs of youths who would slit your throat for their next fix, no child prostitution, no extreme poverty or squalor.
The stories Sinky told us about these under-priveleged kids, and the lengths they sometimes have to go to just to survive, really drove home to us the quality of life we have here, and it does indeed make me thankful for my little lot.
Why then do all the local kids, as soon as they are able, sod off to University in Aberdeen, Edinburgh and Glasgow while citing my utopian hometown as a 'shithole'?
At the very least, it's a safe shithole........
Thursday, July 15, 2004
More Internet Myths De-Bunked....
Well, now we can consign to the history-bin (!) another of those internet myths....this time the one about the Rainbow 'Innuendo' Episode.....
Rainbow 'Innuendo' Episode
(Remember to click on the yellow push-button!)
Now if only they can get a hold of the Playschool clip where Hambel is caught shagging Little Ted...........!
Rainbow 'Innuendo' Episode
(Remember to click on the yellow push-button!)
Now if only they can get a hold of the Playschool clip where Hambel is caught shagging Little Ted...........!
The Return of 'Marblemooth' John.....
I got a visit at work today from ‘Marblemooth’ John, first time in ages that I’ve seen him.
(I had wondered if he had finally managed to throw off the shackles of alcoholism and cleaned up his act, but alas no. Pissed as ever in fact. )
Had a memorable conversation with him that, due to his shall we say ‘Highland’ accent, was largely incomprehensible.
Subjects that were definitely covered include - a wedding, sheep shearing, a car exhaust, hats, whisky and Inverness……all interspersed with comic sound effects and gestures.
If anyone remembers ‘The Fast Show’ on BBC2, this guy is ‘Marblemooth’ John to a tee. In fact he even looks a wee bit like him, too!
(I had wondered if he had finally managed to throw off the shackles of alcoholism and cleaned up his act, but alas no. Pissed as ever in fact. )
Had a memorable conversation with him that, due to his shall we say ‘Highland’ accent, was largely incomprehensible.
Subjects that were definitely covered include - a wedding, sheep shearing, a car exhaust, hats, whisky and Inverness……all interspersed with comic sound effects and gestures.
If anyone remembers ‘The Fast Show’ on BBC2, this guy is ‘Marblemooth’ John to a tee. In fact he even looks a wee bit like him, too!
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
She's a Battler, I'll give you that....
We've got the workmen in today, putting in a new flue for the Central Heating. And damn noisy they are too.
Was rudely whisked from 'Blanket Bay' this morning by the sound of my diminutive darling wife bossing around said workmen with -'..and how can you call that a workable kitchen with all this mess lying around....'- amongst other things.
Trust me lads, I'd get the job done ASAP if I were you.
Was rudely whisked from 'Blanket Bay' this morning by the sound of my diminutive darling wife bossing around said workmen with -'..and how can you call that a workable kitchen with all this mess lying around....'- amongst other things.
Trust me lads, I'd get the job done ASAP if I were you.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
The Things People Do….
On the short 10 minute walk to my place of employment my route takes me past the local Duck Pond and across the river. On a good day it’s a lovely wee walk, but on a bad day it's like traversing a wind tunnel.
The duck pond usually has some kids and mothers feeding the ducks (and those damnable scavenging scorries (known by TC as 'Shite-Hawks'!). In the middle of the pond there is a wee island where the ducks rest at night, safe from most predators. It's a nice little environment for them, I suppose.
The regular high winds had taken their toll on the withered old trees on this little island to the extent that one or two of them were in danger of falling over, so the Council drained the pond and set about cutting these trees down.
When they were done, and to save them from disposing of all these dead branches, they piled them all up on the side and hastily scrawled - 'Please Take Free Firewood' - on an old square bit of hardboard as a sign.
I noticed this on the way to work one morning.
On the way back home at night, I wasn't surprised to see that the wood-pile hadn't been touched but - *Shockeroonie* - someone had taken the hardboard sign!
*I am currently writing up an extensive résumé of some of the characters I am liable to write about, just to help you see the picture, so to speak! This may take a while, but won't interfere with normal postings.
The duck pond usually has some kids and mothers feeding the ducks (and those damnable scavenging scorries (known by TC as 'Shite-Hawks'!). In the middle of the pond there is a wee island where the ducks rest at night, safe from most predators. It's a nice little environment for them, I suppose.
The regular high winds had taken their toll on the withered old trees on this little island to the extent that one or two of them were in danger of falling over, so the Council drained the pond and set about cutting these trees down.
When they were done, and to save them from disposing of all these dead branches, they piled them all up on the side and hastily scrawled - 'Please Take Free Firewood' - on an old square bit of hardboard as a sign.
I noticed this on the way to work one morning.
On the way back home at night, I wasn't surprised to see that the wood-pile hadn't been touched but - *Shockeroonie* - someone had taken the hardboard sign!
*I am currently writing up an extensive résumé of some of the characters I am liable to write about, just to help you see the picture, so to speak! This may take a while, but won't interfere with normal postings.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
High Winds? Eh?
I can't believe the chaos that is being caused by these horrid high winds down in Englandshire. I mean, 40mph? That's outrageous!
(Force 7 on the Beaufort scale. Nowhere near 'Hurricane' level, but there you go.)
For blinking f*ck's sake, in the North of Scotland we often get high winds. Most days in fact.
(The trees up here don't grow very tall, and if they do then they grow sideways! That's if they survive long enough!)
At least twice a year we put up with winds of up to 100mph, and you don't hear us whinging on about fallen trees, power lines and tumbling walls.
Honestly, a lot of fuss about a few tiny gusts of wind?
No wonder some people call them 'soft southerners'.
(Force 7 on the Beaufort scale. Nowhere near 'Hurricane' level, but there you go.)
For blinking f*ck's sake, in the North of Scotland we often get high winds. Most days in fact.
(The trees up here don't grow very tall, and if they do then they grow sideways! That's if they survive long enough!)
At least twice a year we put up with winds of up to 100mph, and you don't hear us whinging on about fallen trees, power lines and tumbling walls.
Honestly, a lot of fuss about a few tiny gusts of wind?
No wonder some people call them 'soft southerners'.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Monday, July 05, 2004
Donington '91
I've always been a Rock and Heavy Metal fan, ever since hearing and seeing Status Quo and Judas Priest on Top of the Pops when I was about 10 years old. I still can't stand 'Pop' music and the way things have been going in the last 10 years, I never will.
When I was younger, we (that's me and some of my mates - Jambo, Chris, Marty Dave C, Mo, and others) used to travel every year to the Monsters of Rock Festival at Donington, near Derby in England.
The first year we all went, we had managed to get ourselves booked into the Four Poster Guest House in Castle Donington village itself, just about a mile's walk away from the gig. A cracking wee Guest House run by a wee woman who would have done anything for us. It was fantastic.
Anyway, on the eve of the gig we could hear music coming from the gig site, and being curious we got ourselves a carry-out and headed off into the darkness to see what we could see. I had a few tins of beer, as had everyone else except for Jambo, who had a 1 gallon container filled with Lager, Cider, Blackcurrant juice, vodka, and whisky - in fact there was nearly everything in it! If we had it, some went into Jambo's "Demon Brew"!
On the way to the site we were careful not to finish the carry-out, except for Jambo, who took it into his head to polish off his "Demon Brew" while calling us all "soft, Northern poofs" for not wanting to help him finish it. It tasted foul, so there was no chance.
Apparently they were doing a wee sound-check before the gig, and testing out the PA and speakers and the lights. We went along , had a good look and then headed back. Nothing interesting was going on (no sign of AC/DC or Metallica!) but on the way back to the village, Jambo sets off in front and is soon lost to our view. We weren't worried as Jambo was always doing this sort of thing. He can be very impatient at times, but we knew we'd see him back at the guest-house.
It was pitch dark and we were walking along a single track road with a verge and hedging along one side, just drinking our carry-outs and having a laugh. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something lying in a ditch under a hedge beside the road - looked like someone's T-shirt - so I went over to have a closer look…..
And there, fast asleep, was Jambo. His empty bottle of "Demon Brew" beside him and his clothes covered in mud.
"Here lads, come and have a look at this" I shouted, only to see Jambo rising from the dirt like a pissed Phoenix rising from, well, some dirt, with a big grin on his face shouting "Ha! Got you all! Surprise…..!" and staggering up onto the road.
To this day he still insists that he was waiting in the ditch to surprise us, and that we all fell into his cunning little ploy.
When I was younger, we (that's me and some of my mates - Jambo, Chris, Marty Dave C, Mo, and others) used to travel every year to the Monsters of Rock Festival at Donington, near Derby in England.
The first year we all went, we had managed to get ourselves booked into the Four Poster Guest House in Castle Donington village itself, just about a mile's walk away from the gig. A cracking wee Guest House run by a wee woman who would have done anything for us. It was fantastic.
Anyway, on the eve of the gig we could hear music coming from the gig site, and being curious we got ourselves a carry-out and headed off into the darkness to see what we could see. I had a few tins of beer, as had everyone else except for Jambo, who had a 1 gallon container filled with Lager, Cider, Blackcurrant juice, vodka, and whisky - in fact there was nearly everything in it! If we had it, some went into Jambo's "Demon Brew"!
On the way to the site we were careful not to finish the carry-out, except for Jambo, who took it into his head to polish off his "Demon Brew" while calling us all "soft, Northern poofs" for not wanting to help him finish it. It tasted foul, so there was no chance.
Apparently they were doing a wee sound-check before the gig, and testing out the PA and speakers and the lights. We went along , had a good look and then headed back. Nothing interesting was going on (no sign of AC/DC or Metallica!) but on the way back to the village, Jambo sets off in front and is soon lost to our view. We weren't worried as Jambo was always doing this sort of thing. He can be very impatient at times, but we knew we'd see him back at the guest-house.
It was pitch dark and we were walking along a single track road with a verge and hedging along one side, just drinking our carry-outs and having a laugh. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something lying in a ditch under a hedge beside the road - looked like someone's T-shirt - so I went over to have a closer look…..
And there, fast asleep, was Jambo. His empty bottle of "Demon Brew" beside him and his clothes covered in mud.
"Here lads, come and have a look at this" I shouted, only to see Jambo rising from the dirt like a pissed Phoenix rising from, well, some dirt, with a big grin on his face shouting "Ha! Got you all! Surprise…..!" and staggering up onto the road.
To this day he still insists that he was waiting in the ditch to surprise us, and that we all fell into his cunning little ploy.
Saturday, July 03, 2004
Battle Chess!
One of the guys who used to come into the pub was a guy called Willie Work. No, really, that was his name. He was what you would affably call ‘a drunken eejit’. A really friendly chap who would speak to anybody (and everybody!) and wouldn’t say a bad word about anybody. He moved away from the area (in fact about as far away as you can on mainland Britain) 2 or 3 years ago now, and I haven’t heard from him since. But, there you go…
Willie used to come into the pub in the afternoons when it was quiet, and he was daft for playing draughts (or checkers as it’s known in the US). He was really quite good at it, and his boasts often filled the room. After yet another trouncing by him, I declared that “draughts is a kid’s game” and that we should play something more high-brow – Chess!
I was working so we set the board up across the bar-top, and away we went. The game started closely, until I made a rash move to spring a surprise on Willie and he countered with a fine fork on my King and Queen with his Knight. Blast! I had to forfeit my Queen and was now staring defeat in the face. What could I do? I decided to just wait my time, and capitalise on Willie's inevitable mistake……
….And it never arrived. He had the game sewn up and I seriously considered conceding.
By now, the bar was quite busy and a keen interest in the outcome of the game had kindled.
Seizing my chance to serve some thirsty customers, while still thinking about my predicament, I pour a pint for The Professor and go to hand it to him and, not looking properly, proceed to hit the side of the chess-board with the pint glass, knocking the (now rapidly emptying) glass out of my hand and all over the chess board, pieces flying everywhere, and foaming lager dripping all over the place. Cue uproar.
The look on Willie's face as he saw victory cruelly snatched from his grasp was hilarious, for most of us anyway! He just stared, open-mouthed for a few seconds, then erupted....
“What have you done? You’ve ruined it! I was on the point of winning that game! You cheating bar-steward!”.
“I’m sorry Willie; it was just one of those things! I didn’t mean to do it!” I weakly offered.
Of course, we could never remember exactly how the pieces were positioned so we couldn’t reassemble the board and carry on. Thankfully. Willie managed to calm down after I offered to buy him a pint, and soon after he managed to see the funny side of it all.
It only took Willie a few days further to gain revenge. I’d like to say that I let him win out of sympathy, but I can’t as it would be a lie. Fair and square, as they say.
After that, every time Willie got into a good position during a game he was kindly reminded to memorise the position ‘just in case anything should happen’!
Willie used to come into the pub in the afternoons when it was quiet, and he was daft for playing draughts (or checkers as it’s known in the US). He was really quite good at it, and his boasts often filled the room. After yet another trouncing by him, I declared that “draughts is a kid’s game” and that we should play something more high-brow – Chess!
I was working so we set the board up across the bar-top, and away we went. The game started closely, until I made a rash move to spring a surprise on Willie and he countered with a fine fork on my King and Queen with his Knight. Blast! I had to forfeit my Queen and was now staring defeat in the face. What could I do? I decided to just wait my time, and capitalise on Willie's inevitable mistake……
….And it never arrived. He had the game sewn up and I seriously considered conceding.
By now, the bar was quite busy and a keen interest in the outcome of the game had kindled.
Seizing my chance to serve some thirsty customers, while still thinking about my predicament, I pour a pint for The Professor and go to hand it to him and, not looking properly, proceed to hit the side of the chess-board with the pint glass, knocking the (now rapidly emptying) glass out of my hand and all over the chess board, pieces flying everywhere, and foaming lager dripping all over the place. Cue uproar.
The look on Willie's face as he saw victory cruelly snatched from his grasp was hilarious, for most of us anyway! He just stared, open-mouthed for a few seconds, then erupted....
“What have you done? You’ve ruined it! I was on the point of winning that game! You cheating bar-steward!”.
“I’m sorry Willie; it was just one of those things! I didn’t mean to do it!” I weakly offered.
Of course, we could never remember exactly how the pieces were positioned so we couldn’t reassemble the board and carry on. Thankfully. Willie managed to calm down after I offered to buy him a pint, and soon after he managed to see the funny side of it all.
It only took Willie a few days further to gain revenge. I’d like to say that I let him win out of sympathy, but I can’t as it would be a lie. Fair and square, as they say.
After that, every time Willie got into a good position during a game he was kindly reminded to memorise the position ‘just in case anything should happen’!
Monday, June 28, 2004
Big Shug, and the 'Poachers'
Big Shug
In the old days, the bar was an old-fashioned spit-and-sawdust type place. You know, dirty ashtrays, worn carpet-tiles on the floor, strange smell from the ‘toilets’ (in fact, strange smells from the customers!) and the like. Huge mirrors on the walls, with old out-of-production brewer’s names emblazoned on them. Since all the new refurbishments however, the old regulars have largely stopped coming in. (All I have left now are the memories…!)
It had a great atmosphere though, and the chances for wind-ups and practical jokes were huge. Chief protagonist in these japes was ‘Big Shug’.
Now Big Shug is so named as that’s what he is – BIG – and his name is Shug. So there you go. He was, and still is, 6’2” tall, 18 stone and built like the proverbial barn door (I love mixed metaphors!). Quite intimidating at times, but always good to have on your side rather than against you. A keen Fisherman, Hunter and an excellent Butcher to trade, Big Shug would always have 'something' to do, or a 'bit of business' to attend to. We all know the type, yes?
So, we had a new Barman start in the hotel. His name was Ronnie and he was a young whipper-snapper, his first job serving the public and he was a bit gullible to say the least. Wet-behind-the-ears, as you might say.
Anyway, Ronnie ended up with the Sunday Afternoon shift, which usually meant that Big Shug would be in at some point. And so it was. The conversation went something like this:-
"Good day, Sir! What can I get you?" says Ronnie.
"I'll have a pint of Lager, please. You're new here aren't you?" replies Shug.
"Aye, the name's Ronnie."
"So, what do you think of your first day so far?"
Well actually, I'm feeling a wee bit nervous. I was told there are some 'bad types' on the go today." says Ronnie, with a worried look on his face.
"Really, what's going on?"
"The Pub is being watched by the Police. They're looking for poachers!"
"Uh-huh! Poachers, you say! Do you know who these Poachers are?"
Leaning over, looking furtively left and right, Ronnie whispered "Well, the name I was given was 'Big Shug'……"
Now at this point, Big Shug played a blinder. Rather than get all upset and start to cause any bother, Shug calmly shrugged “Nope, I’ve never heard of him……”.
As the afternoon went on, everyone who came into the Bar greeted Big Shug with the customary ‘Alright Shug?’, ‘How’s it going Shug?’ and ‘Fancy a drink, Shug?’.
Now, imagine what was going through young Ronnie’s mind as the afternoon went on, and the penny ultimately dropped. The mental anguish he must have gone through!
Ronnie understandably took himself off into the Office, and would scarcely come out in embarrassment. And when he did come out, Big Shug made sure that Ronnie’s attention was caught. It couldn't go on much longer. Eventually, things had to come to a head…….
It must have taken all the courage in his scrawny little body to summon up the strength to apologise, face to face with Big Shug. But apologise he did, and then stood back trembling, ready to receive his expected rebuke……
Big Shug, to his eternal credit, just laughed.
And laughed.
Big, whole-hearted, resounding roars of laughter, which only made poor Ronnie more anxious.
“Never mind, my boy. The look on your face as the day went on is punishment enough! But if you don’t mind, can you tell us who put the idea of Poachers into your head….?”
Ronnie had no hesitation in shamelessly grassing up Rosy Old Jim, the Bar Manager (at the time), for he was at the foot of this particular jape.
Whether Jim thought it was funny by the time Big Shug caught up with him is a different story!
Coincidentally, Ronnie didn't last much more than a week………
In the old days, the bar was an old-fashioned spit-and-sawdust type place. You know, dirty ashtrays, worn carpet-tiles on the floor, strange smell from the ‘toilets’ (in fact, strange smells from the customers!) and the like. Huge mirrors on the walls, with old out-of-production brewer’s names emblazoned on them. Since all the new refurbishments however, the old regulars have largely stopped coming in. (All I have left now are the memories…!)
It had a great atmosphere though, and the chances for wind-ups and practical jokes were huge. Chief protagonist in these japes was ‘Big Shug’.
Now Big Shug is so named as that’s what he is – BIG – and his name is Shug. So there you go. He was, and still is, 6’2” tall, 18 stone and built like the proverbial barn door (I love mixed metaphors!). Quite intimidating at times, but always good to have on your side rather than against you. A keen Fisherman, Hunter and an excellent Butcher to trade, Big Shug would always have 'something' to do, or a 'bit of business' to attend to. We all know the type, yes?
So, we had a new Barman start in the hotel. His name was Ronnie and he was a young whipper-snapper, his first job serving the public and he was a bit gullible to say the least. Wet-behind-the-ears, as you might say.
Anyway, Ronnie ended up with the Sunday Afternoon shift, which usually meant that Big Shug would be in at some point. And so it was. The conversation went something like this:-
"Good day, Sir! What can I get you?" says Ronnie.
"I'll have a pint of Lager, please. You're new here aren't you?" replies Shug.
"Aye, the name's Ronnie."
"So, what do you think of your first day so far?"
Well actually, I'm feeling a wee bit nervous. I was told there are some 'bad types' on the go today." says Ronnie, with a worried look on his face.
"Really, what's going on?"
"The Pub is being watched by the Police. They're looking for poachers!"
"Uh-huh! Poachers, you say! Do you know who these Poachers are?"
Leaning over, looking furtively left and right, Ronnie whispered "Well, the name I was given was 'Big Shug'……"
Now at this point, Big Shug played a blinder. Rather than get all upset and start to cause any bother, Shug calmly shrugged “Nope, I’ve never heard of him……”.
As the afternoon went on, everyone who came into the Bar greeted Big Shug with the customary ‘Alright Shug?’, ‘How’s it going Shug?’ and ‘Fancy a drink, Shug?’.
Now, imagine what was going through young Ronnie’s mind as the afternoon went on, and the penny ultimately dropped. The mental anguish he must have gone through!
Ronnie understandably took himself off into the Office, and would scarcely come out in embarrassment. And when he did come out, Big Shug made sure that Ronnie’s attention was caught. It couldn't go on much longer. Eventually, things had to come to a head…….
It must have taken all the courage in his scrawny little body to summon up the strength to apologise, face to face with Big Shug. But apologise he did, and then stood back trembling, ready to receive his expected rebuke……
Big Shug, to his eternal credit, just laughed.
And laughed.
Big, whole-hearted, resounding roars of laughter, which only made poor Ronnie more anxious.
“Never mind, my boy. The look on your face as the day went on is punishment enough! But if you don’t mind, can you tell us who put the idea of Poachers into your head….?”
Ronnie had no hesitation in shamelessly grassing up Rosy Old Jim, the Bar Manager (at the time), for he was at the foot of this particular jape.
Whether Jim thought it was funny by the time Big Shug caught up with him is a different story!
Coincidentally, Ronnie didn't last much more than a week………
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