Homosapien is Revolting

Including you! Especially you!

But Happy New Year anyway.

Seattle

Twitter
I’ve had no intanet access in these United States of America. Apparently it’s very rare over here. And you wouldn’t believe how much I’ve wanted, nay needed!, to twitter. But I’ve had no twittering mechanism and so many twitterworthy events have occurred. So I’ve just had to keep them all in. Or twitter to real people. That latter didn’t work out so well.

Cookies
We’re staying at a friend's house. They’re lovely people but they’re even lovelier by dint of not being here. They’re in Hawaii and we’re using their house. It’s a great house. A neighbour just came over with some C’mas cookies for us. He handed them over to my wife and then quickly realized that she wasn’t “The Hamilton’s”. So he took the cookies back again. I believe there was a slight tug-of-war but he won out.

If he didn’t give the cookies directly to “The Hamilton’s” he wouldn’t get any cookie credit you see.

Snow
Today my long held belief that I can control Celtic games by having access to them was shaken to it’s very core. I now suspect that it’s a load of old bullshit. I had absolutely no access to Saturday’s game. I wasn’t there, I didn’t see it on tv or hear it on the radio. As mentioned, I had no intanet access.

I only found out that we’d won when my mate Brian texted me as I was walking in the snow for coffee. It was still dark and I’d already been up for 2 hours. I was very tired but, not for the first time, my unusually shaped friend had made me very happy indeed. So I threw a snowball at my wife.

Weight
Still tired today despite the fact that, by ignoring the kids in the night, I got much more sleep than my poor, fatigued wife. It’s a shame for her but, as I pointed out to her, there’s more of me. About 2 stones more and therefore I need more sleep.

2 stones more of sleep.

Pope
In the coffee shop this morning – Fuel! – I read that Our Pope – Benedict, I believe – has been saying that humanity needs to be saved from gays. He said, “saving humanity from homosexual and transsexual behaviour is just as important as saving the rain forests from destruction”.
Perhaps so, but not quite as important as saving the planet from deluded old fascists, I mused before dipping my biscotti into my double tall skinny.

35/31
In the way of jeans, I’m either a 34 or a 36 waist. And the length tends to be either 30 or 32. But, really, I'm none of the above. 34 waist can be too tight and 36 not tight enough. And 30 length can be too short and 32 not short enough. It's a real pain.

So I'm a 35/31, I think, but, sadly, there's no such size.

Or so I thought...

You can imagine my elation then whilst browsing the GAP sale rack to find that very size which heretofore did not exist. I grabbed them quickly and with shaking hands took them to the fitting room. 35/31, I though no such beast existed but I'd found them 'pon yonder rack I tried them on.

They didn’t fit.

SAM
We went to SAM which is the Seattle Art Museum, or SAM.

We parked in space 137 and my bag check number was 737. I thought this was pretty neat. Precisely 600 of a difference. I mentioned this to the coat check girl. Her stare was as empty as a desert.

After staring at some Singer Sergeants and some Hoppers for a while we went to the café. It was called SAM TASTE. As the guy made our lattes I asked him if he could maybe mention to his boss about an idea I’d just had.
Sure, he replied.
I told him that it was my firm belief that the café name should be changed from SAM TASTE to SAM TEAT.

SAM TEAT, I repeated. Geddit? SAM TEAT!!!

$16.95 he replied, already looking past me to the person behind me.

Praying
I read a book about how to pray. It said stop moaning to God. It said that He hates moaners and that You should stop asking Him for stuff all the time and simply feel His love.
I think that’s right. Can You feel it?

Dinner

A tremendous Christ'mas dinner, a right boozy do.

The crumbling beauty of Havana perfectly evoked.

Then retire to the sit oot-erie for port and Mamma Mia.

Mamma Mia, the difference between men and woman. WRIT LARGE.

Up very early for flight to Seattle. My wife said:
What do you want to do in Seattle?

Jump on a flight to Austin, I replied.

I was only jokin'. We get few a few scrapes.

Shopping

I went shopping yesterday with Derek Riordan.

Deek wanted to get some new clobber and he picked me up in his jeep. There was absolutely no parking available so we just parked on a double yellow right on St Andrews Square.

"There's nae fucking spaces, wu'll jist park up here", said the bold Deek.

We went into Harvey Nicks and Deek got a barry Armani belt and some magic matching shoes. I got a pair of class Paul Smith jeans on sale for only £250. Bargain!

When we got back to the car a nasty faced wee hatchet scumbag of a traffic warden was sticking a ticket on Deek's jeep. I was seriously considering nutting him but Deek just coolly grabbed the ticket and climbed into the motor. Radge didnae even clock the jobsworth.

• Armani belt (white), £ 130
• Armani shoes (white), £ 450
• Paul Smith jeans, £250
• Parking ticket, £60
  
• Total cost. £890.

Then I thought about the real cost. And manly tears fell brackishly from both mine eyes.

Hallelujah

To X-Factor winner, Alexandra Burke, I would like to say this:

You don't really care for music do ya.

Holiday

It struck me, quite forcefully, this morning, like a snowball thrown by an American soldier, that holidays were a lot like work.

Except the hours are much longer and you have limited intanet access.

Talk

Going out tonight with a few close personal friends. Who I know from the intanet.

We'll sit round and have a few pints and an old chat. We'll take turns speaking and nobody knows what we'll talk about until we talk about it. We make it up as we go along you see.

None of this stuff will be scripted. It's quite nerve wracking.

Mizuno

With Maloney injured and Mcgeady on the naughty step our latest Japanese maestro Koki Mizuno was given his first start.

When he scored the second goal his smile was as wide as the broad, majestic Shannon.

Any lingering residual sadness (i.e. guilt) I may have been experiencing was quickly forgotten.

Smiles

There's virtually nothing in this life that pleases me more than the smile on a child's face. Especially at this time of year.

Yesterday we went to see Santa and then to a magical Winter Wonderland. The children were so happy and were enchanted by the occasion. It was therefore with great sadness that I informed then that, very unfortunately, I had to quit that magical place to go to the pub. To see the Celtic game. It almost broke my heart but what could I do?

As I walked to the pub, my persona very much non grata, I met my cousin Audrey who is a very sensible woman. She hugged me and expressed surprise that at eight minutes past two of the clock I was walking loose on Princes Street rather than being in the pub, watching Celtic, where I belonged. I shook my head and told her how hard it had been to pull myself away from the children and their unbridled yuletide joy. She looked at me sympathetically and gave me another quick hug before sending me on my way to the pub. To see the Celtic.

OldHookey

I visited the Hook Norton brewery a couple of years ago. It's a beautiful old Victorian building and the beer is great. But, in England, due to laziness, they don't have sparklers on the beer pump cos they prefer flat beer.

Last night I had 6 pints of lovely Old Hookey that had a proper head on it.

Old Hookey, 5.6 abv * 6 = 33.753.

After that we took off our shoes and threw them at the American military. Calling them dirty dogs.

Disadvantage of throwing one's shoes at the military and calling them dirty dogs:
They run off with your shoes.

The dirty dogs!

Lockerbie

The 20th anniversary of the Lockerbie disaster is on Sunday.

It must have been a strange time indeed for that small border village.

For five days straight, you see a man who has fallen from the sky. And you think:
I feel like I know that man.

Everyone on Christmas holidays but given a new job instead:
Guardians of the Dead.

DAB

Listening to the radio in the car I heard the most annoying advert ever. It was for DAB Radio.

This condescending woman asked archly,

Would you spend hours defrosting a chicken when you could simply pop it in the oven?
No, I would spend hours doing other things while the chicken defrosted.

Not content with my response she went on:

Would you light a fire in the centre of the living room when you could simply switch on the central heating?
No, but I might light a fire in the fireplace.

She persevered with this absurd line of questioning.

Do you have a DAB radio yet?
No, they don't feckin work in Galway.

She then lost the plot, in my humble opinion.

You don't have a DAB radio yet! Do you use a quill to write with?
A quill! Ha, ha. That's good. Quill. Excellent. Quill. Haaahaaa.

A quill. No.

Humanist

I was at a humanist funeral ceremony yesterday. Performed by an excellent lady from the Scottish Humanist Society.

The great Tam Mcginn, a gentleman and a gentle man sadly died aged only 57. He wasn't a believer in God but he was very much a believer in his fellow man. Tam was a great human being. He was certainly a humanist.

Driving home my Mum asked me if I would like a humanist funeral. Presumably she meant when I was dead! I replied that I wasn't sure I liked humans very much either. Not missing a beat she suggested I call the Scottish Canine Society. Perhaps they would put me down humanely.

Mothers can be so cruel!

O'Connor's

Was in the worst pub in Ireland last night.

I don't really think there's any doubt about it. O'Connor's "famous" pub in Salthill is truly dismal.

Just look at it!!!

Question:

Does Ireland really need an Oirish theme pub?

No, no, no. A thousand no's.

From the pots and pans hanging above you to the yellowed long johns hanging limply in front of the fire this pub simply reeks of tourist hell. I would urge you avoid this gallimaufry of soulless kitsch with the greatest possible haste. Avoid it now in fact.

Another question:

Does anybody care that Lisdoonvarna is 23 miles in that direction?

No. Especially when it's not. 

Two signs on the piano warned,

DO NOT CLIMB IN THE PIANO!!!

I can only assume that these are aimed at the pixies and elves rather than any of us sad-sack punters.

Robit

You come home after eight pints and find that a Danny wallayce has circumnavigated the globe searching for a robot thta can talj ike jim.  

Horison colon Whare's my Robit?

You relaise that he had dicovered that the robitics world is as weird as it it insanely complimicated [S].

You futher must wunder why there is nothing decent on the tel,ly.

C&W

One of my daughters, can't recall precisely which one, said to me yesterday,

Please Daddy Don't Get Drunk This Christmas.

Don't kids say the cutest things?

In saying those words she accidentally recalled the precise title of a song by Alan Jackson. She also triggered a reaction in me which made me immediately set aside Mahler, Aphex Twin and their unremittingly demanding ilk. I realised that this Christmas would be a Country and Western Christmas and that, sadly, I would, indeed, get drunk.

I started this morning with George Jones. The greatest singer of them all. Then straight onto Dolly with her Coat of Many Colours. I even dipped briefly into the arch Big Hat himself, Garth Brooks. I only like one of his songs. I've Got Friends In Low Places. But, yessir, I sure do love that song a whole lot!

Slaid Cleaves and Hayes Carll were quickly followed by the great Lyle Lovett and that's what I have on now. I also have on one of my C&W shirts. Black with white trim. I didn't even mean to take things this far. I just stumbled to the closet and found my cleanest dirty shirt.

 

Pharmacy

My eldest dotter was prescribed 150 ml of drugs last week.

Cut a long story short. She only got 100 ml last week because that's the amount that would stay fresh. The other 50 ml would, presumably, go off and be as ineffectual as a pair of self removing driving gloves.

This morning I went back to get the other 50 ml. The pharmacist mooched about behind his desk for ten minutes before coming forward and giving me the bottle. 

He told me that it only came in 100 ml bottles and therefore I'd "probably" have some left over. He also charged me for the full 100 ml meaning that, in total, I'd paid for 200 ml. Even though she only needed 150 ml. As prescribed by the doctor. 

"It only comes in 100 ml bottles"

I don't know about you but I was always under the impression that pharmacists actually made up these prescriptions. That's why they always made you wait. They had to mix the medicine, so to speak.

"It only comes in 100 ml bottles"

I really, really wanted to say to him. "What are you for?" But I said nothing.

My life was already feeling enough like an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Hoy!

Seeing Chris Hoy for the first time ever last night without a union flag draped over him it struck me that perhaps I've been a little unfair on the boy. He is a tremendous athlete, there's no question about it. He looked normal enough and spoke well. 

So, today, when he woke up as "Sports Personality of the Year" and threw back his union jack duvet, ready to meet another red, white and blue day, I wonder, will he feel the same? 

Or different.  

Hoegaarden

Out last night with the family for a pizza after a very enjoyable Snow Queen ride 'pon the cold, dark ground.

I ordered a Hoegaarden. A beer I'm very fond of. One which goes very well indeed with pizza pie.

The waiter, a very young man, came back and apologised that they were out of Hoegaarden. I informed him that Hoegaarden was a beer I'm very fond of. 

He apologised again and told me that the only other ale they had was Smithwicks.

"Pardon", I said?

He said the only other ale they had was Smithwicks.

I asked him if he minded sitting down for five minutes. That I need to speak to him urgently.

"Pardon", he said?

"Would you please sit down", I repeated. "I need to speak to you".

He told me that he couldn't sit down. He was working. On top of that he was forbidden to sit down with customers. He asked me would I like a pint of Smithwicks.

I told him under no circumstances to bring me a pint, or indeed any other measure, of Smithwicks. Ever. I asked him to bring me a glass of red wine. 

When he returned with the wine and pizza he apologised again. For the third time which was probably only two apologies shy of what I deserved.

I told him it was a damn shame he was forbidden to sit with customers and was working. There was so much I wanted to explain to him.

DESSICANT!!!

SILICA GEL

"DO NOT EAT".

(their quotes, not mine)

THROW AWAY.

DESSICANT.

"DO NOT EAT".

Ok. I'll throw it away. I won't eat it. I'll ignore the word "DESSICANT". 

I don't know what you mean. I don't even know why you gave it to me.

Economy

I note with detached interest today that the pound and the euro are now the same thing.

In Ireland I paid €3.60 for a bottle of Black Sheep ale last night. In Scotland the same beer would probably cost about £1.60. 

What's that in euros?

Yes, €1.60.

For £ read €.

I'll tell you one thing. If I was English I'd be fucking furious at these Scotch bastards [1] fucking my country up. Why don't they just go back to their own country I might add. Before spitting indignantly.

[1] that's Brown, Darling.

Advent

Three setting of Our Father. From Hungary, Poland and Slovenia. One each.

A couple of Kyries, a Cantata to St Nicolas, a Gloria from Spain and three Motets before traversing the breadth of that great American hinterland for two very different but equally frightening Advents.

Oh Wisdom of God, the First and Last. He said. 

This woke me up. Afraid and trembling. Then, O Antiphons!

Note to self: It's a lot safer just getting up with the kids.

Started feeling better after the fourth sausage. Then we went to the beach and liberated several thousand discarded shells and unusually coloured pebbles with which to fill our house up some more with.

It's more full than empty. Lets just leave it at that.

Woodwind

Chris Bleth is a woodwind player from the City of Lost Angels.

He's incredibly talented and can play all woodwind instruments except the Piccolo which he fears deeply. He recently played Pan Pipes and Sea Kelp flute (for effects) in Don't Mess With The Zohan and has played on a variety of radio commercials and video games.

I'd love to meet him but, sadly, I've never been faced with Bleth.

Odetta

A friend came over to my desk the other day [1]. 

"Odetta is dead", he announced.

Not "I have some bad news, perhaps you'd like to sit down, great mate". 

I was already sitting, of course, but that's beside the point.

Not "I have some news. Can I make you a cup of tea, chum?".

I did already have tea but I'd made it myself and it's always nicer when someone makes it for you isn't it?

Just "Odetta is dead".

He's such a heartless bastard.

[1] He's also a colleague. My friends aren't in the habit of mooching into my office to tell me things.  My mate Hendo did it once in the late eighties but I had him removed immediately.

Men

I used to play golf. I'll play again when I have the time.

I don't give a shit about it or anything. I'm not mental. I just enjoy the fresh air and a bit of a laugh with my mates. Now and again you might even see some boxing hairs or a magenpie stealing a golf bag. These are the moments that make golf great and, believe me, these thieving bastards will take anything. They're only wee but they have great strength.

Back in the day we would talk of many things. It may have been the rise and fall of Worcester Sauce crisps or the difficulty in playing both Neil Lennon and Paul Lambert in the same midfield. 

It could have been virtually anything but, for sure, the approach to the third or the length of the rough on the twelfth would have been a mere sideline to, say, Roy Orbison's stunning version of Elvis Costello's The Comedians.

I overheard a chap in the airport the other day saying that watching Mamma Mia was a waste of time if you'd seen it in the theatre. He felt strongly about this. Apparently the film was just a rehash of the show.  Tonight in the pub I heard two men discussing the relative merits of the contestants on the X-Factor. I even have one friend who watches Strictly Come Ballroom. A man, yes.

Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?

Nun

Prior to my operation this morning [1] I was placed in a small ante-chamber with a nun.

Apparently she had been asked if she minded if I sat with her prior to her own "procedure". She didn't so I could hardly object.

But what does one say to a nun?

I asked her what she thought of Gabriel Faure's Opus 48?

She'd never heard of it.

(She'd never heard of it!!!)

I told her that I, myself,  had, sadly, never been blessed with faith but was keen to get involved purely from a musical perspective.

She told me she had been retired since 1992.

This was an opportunity not to be missed.

I asked her if, when filling in forms, she entered Occupation as "None". Or still "Nun". It was a very difficult joke to get over as I was effectively saying the same word twice. It's a lot easier when you write it down.

She told me she had been retired since 1992.

The conversation seemed to dry up then and I was relieved to be called into theatre. The surgeon shone a bright light on it and said it doesn't look much, do you mind if we just scrape it off?

I actually did mind but you can hardly argue with these Billy Bigshots.

[1] a simple limb removal, if you must know

Films

Watched two films on the plane.

Before I went to sleep, when I was drunk, I watched Ghost Town. This is the one where Ricky Gervais plays a misanthropic dentist who dies for seven minutes and can therefore see lost souls. For lost souls read dead people with unresolved bidness with shoomans. Generally I have to say it was pretty poor but it did have some brilliant moments and I laughed like a drain might laugh (if it could) on a good few occasions. As I said, I was drunk. Like my good friend Ageing Hipster I fear I may be over generous with my plane reviews. Due to drink.

Then I want to sleep. Fitfully, to say the least. They use zed's to indicate sleep don't they.

z zzzzz  zzzzz zzzz  zzz  zzzzzzz zzzz zzz zz zzzz zzzz  zz zz   zzz zz z zzz

(The spaces show that the sleep was broken.)

When I woke up, and had a hangover, I watched Brideshead Revisited. I thoroughly enjoyed this. I am a bit of a sucker anyway for these period dramas but this was edgier than most and was about on a par with the extremely dipsomaniacal Withnail and I in terms of alcohol consumed. It was brilliantly acted and made. I can't pretend to understand these romantic male friendships which seemed to be all the rage back in those days but the poignancy of the relationship was not lost on me. 

I'll make a note to ask one of my Indian friends to explain them to me.

Opus48

I'm not a religious man. Sadly, I have never been blessed with faith.

On the plane though last night I was listening Faure's Opus 48 and, purely from a musical perspective, I was utterly entranced by this heroically beautiful setting. 

My enjoyment of the music was tempered only by the knowledge that I could never appreciate this as much a true believer. Being moved purely by the music is one thing but imagine if I could enjoy this and be filled with the spirit of the Lord. Wouldn't that be something.

Christians are such lucky bastards.

Penis

Driving to the airport yesterday with a colleague from India. 

I was asking him about the Indian culture of men holding hands and generally being more tactile with each other. But not gay. There are no gays in India, he told me.

He laughed and said it was a little awkward for him and his Indian friends in South Africa because sometimes they would smack each other playfully on the arse without thinking. Playfully smacking another man on the arse is embedded in the national psyche and almost impossible to avoid. 

But people from other backgrounds think this behaviour most strange and he has to curtail his arse smacking instincts. Terrible shame.

I said to him just be careful you don't touch anyone's penis and you should be fine.

He didn't say anything. We drove on in silence. I think I'd taken a good idea and overworked it. 

Wine

It used to be generally accepted that if you were having, say, beef or lamb then you'd drink a red wine. Whereas if you were having chicken or fish then a white wine would most likely be the best match.

Of course there has always been exceptions to these rules. For example a hearty bouillabaisse would most likely find a suitable bedfellow in a robust red. And perhaps a salad with thinly sliced carpaccio of beef would fare better alongside a lighter white. This was ever thus.

I believe that ignorant people in France and Italy who know nothing of these matters still hold on to these antiquated ideals. Poor saps.

But all has changed now it seems. There was a magazine article in some magazine or other and this changed the accepted wisdom completely. The article said that it didn't matter a jot what you were eating. It said you must drink whatever wine you preferred. This magazine article may or may not existed but it caused a collective sigh of relief the world over. No more would food and wine fascists be able to dictate how people lived. 

Now, if I were to suggest to you that a fragrant Semillon Blanc might not quite be the most fitting partner to your venison loin you just tell me to go stick it. You can tell me that these silly rules no longer apply. It simply doesn't matter any more. It said so in the magazine article.

Departure

Sitting in the business lounge at Joburg airport. Minding my own business.

Some funny people here though...

An Austrian woman just berated me for lifting my sandwich to my mouth (the better to eat it) without lifting the plate over. I was making crumbs I suppose and she disapproved.

Technically, of course, she was in the right but what a bloody nerve. Then she demanded that I get her some biscuits:

"I have one piece of cheese and I require some biscuits to accompany it with", she told me. 

So I got her the biscuits and watched her very carefully while she ate. Not one single fucking crumb. I'd definitely throw the great brute out of bed but it wouldn't be for making crumbs that's for sure. 

Of course the drink here is quite free. And that seems to be forcing people into drinking weird combinations. I, myself, am sticking to G&T's with nothing more complicated than beer on the side. In the classic style. 

The man opposite me, though, has tonic water, ginger ale, coke and red wine. Crazy. Frau Hitler over the way is drinking baileys, sparking water and still water. She's mixing the sparking and still water in the same glass. I can only assume that makes it less fizzy (or less still) but I daren't ask her in case she starts picking on me again.

I'm thinking about my friend Tom. He always used to insist on me having a beer with my G&T. I'm drinking to him tonight. As I sit here in this lounge he's fighting for his life in hospital. I can hardly believe it. 

If I don't get the chance to see you again, Tam, just want to say I love you mate. Always did.

Layman

In this incendiary 1967 recording Monsignor Henry Beck discusses the perplexing and divisive subject of religious involvement in the lay world.

To cut to the chase this Monsignor is most strongly agin it.

Monsignor Beck lays out his arguments in a clear and incisive way that even a layman can just about comprehend. 

The argument over whether religion should have any involvement in the lay world is one that had divided theologians since time immemorial. 

I, myself, have always had a deep interest in the subject but I could never really make my mind up on this thorny issue.

This morning, however, my mind became clear on the tenth consecutive listen to this landmark sermon. I agree fully with the Monsignor's viewpoint:

Religion can play no part in human life.

INXS

Fans of the Australian rock band INXS are, as one, of the view that the band's best songs came from their first album. So my friend and driver for the day, Damian, told me yesterday.

As I listened to some of these tracks in his car yesterday I couldn't help thinking that this was about the equivalent of proclaiming The Wereth Killings, in which only eleven American soldiers were shot by the SS in cold blood, as one of Hitler's least bad atrocities.

But I didn't say anything in case he threw me out his car. And by extension had me killed.

Black

Tonight to try and balance things out after my appallingly caucasian day I went for a few drinks in a black bar. It was 99% black, anyway, and there was exactly 100 people there. 

As I sat sipping my Tom Collins I tried hard not to look around for any white people in case I got caught looking around for white people. Instead I watched a table full of youngsters celebrating finishing their exams . Everyone was having a great time. The girls there had more shapes than a flowchart stencil and the boys all looked fly. 

I looked like an idiot so I let them be and went for a curry.

Erections

On the way home through one of the many hopelessly depressing townships we saw a sign which said:

LARGE ERECTION COMING SOON

We laughed but it was hollow laughter. As hollow as the flaccid looking corrugated iron huts that these desperately poor people called home.

Though another town the kids were holding signs saying:

PLEASE MAKE A DONATION TO OUR LOCAL CRICKET CLUB

Ten out of ten for ingenuity but, frankly, I'd rather see them starve.

Joking...

White

My getup today was as follows:

1. Orange Hawaiian shirt (Boss) (borrowed)
   
2. Greenish camouflage safari hat (borrowed)
   
3. American tourist style shorts (mine) (as seen here)
   
4. New crocs (green with orange trim) (er, mine)
   
5. Cigar (to complete the look)

What look?

The look, chum. It was a good look believe me.

Only thing. I never felt so damned white in all my life. I'd never looked so white in all my life. I was the whitest person in Sun City by a Hawaiian shirt and a camouflage safari hat.

They were trying not to I could tell, but everyone was looking at me enviously. And smiling to each other.

Lightning

The best footballer ever to come from my home town was without doubt John White.

John played for Spurs and was known as "the ghost" for his uncanny ability to appear as if from nowhere in the box. And when the ghost appeared he invariably scored. Like in the picture above where he's probably scoring against Blackpool.

Tragically John was killed by lightning whilst playing golf in 1964.  He was only 27 years of age and at the peak of his career.

My uncle knew him well and tells me he was an absolute gentleman as well as a genius on the football park. 

On the eighteenth green today watching Lee Westwood about to putt I felt a few wet drops on my neck and assumed it was merely the drunk kid behind me pouring lager down my back for a laugh. But within a few seconds the rain was pouring and there was a loud rumble of thunder. Soon after there were streaks of magnificent lightening across the sky.

For heavens sake, I thought, surely it's not about to take the second best footballer ever to grace that honest toun.

Issues

Unfortunately I was unable to go to the office Xmas [1] party tonight due to personal issues. It was a total freebie too.

So I went to my favourite Thai restaurant and was forced to drink mojitos and hot and sour soup instead. I took a look at the angry duck and it looked right back at me and told me to have the Larb Gai. So I did. And I had to spend actual money and it was ghastly.

A similar situation will prevail next Friday at another Ch'mas [2] party. Again, my absence can be correctly attributed to "personal issues". Instead I will be forced to stay home and drink bottle after bottle of expensive Black Sheep ale and watch QI. The horror!

What are these issues you speak of?

Well, frankly, they're personal.

[1] yes, it would be too much trouble to write the name of Our Savour in full.

[2] still, yes.

Golf

I'm off to Sun City tomorrow for the gowf.

At dinner last night I told a brilliantly imagined story about peering through my binoculars on the 1st fairway watching Miguel Angel Jiminez repeatedly trying to mount a recalcitrant Sergio Garcia from the safety of my safari jeep. It's an enduring image.

This is a golf tournament. I ain't gonna play Sun City.  Just watching.

Brian

A broad categorisation of Celtic and Rangers fans might be:

Celtic : nasal whiney

Rangers: slow witted

M'colleage and erstwhile friend Brian suggested that, if this were true, then that made me a "generic Old Firm supporter".

He's wrong though. I'm not nasal and whiney at all.

SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!

History

On the way here I decided I'd get myself a book. I love the idea of buying books at the airport but the reality never quite matches the anticipation.

The idea:

Buy a book. The world is your oyster. The freedom of the open road. What gem of literary wisdoms to take for company.

The reality:

Airport bookshops are a bit rubbish. They never really have any books.

 

This time, for reasons which elude me at time of writing, I decided that I'd buy a history book. Something weighty and worthy and learned. Something I almost certainly wouldn't read. That's what I wanted.

So I bought Eric Hobsbawm, Age Of Extremes : The Short Twentieth Century 1914-1991

Thought:

It's not that fucking short!

This isn't the first time I've erred on the sign of stupidity in this regard. I seem to make these monumentally stupid choices based on a delusion that I will read and understand history whether I like it or not. 

It will come as no surprise to you that I like it not. It's brilliant and incisive but I can't concentrate for so much as a minute on the brilliant, incisive, lumpen text. 

A terrible decision and one I will have to carry home with me. Literally. One thing is for sure though. I will make the same mistake again.

Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it. 

Statues

It takes a very long time to get anything at all in the canteen. Notwithstanding the coffee debacle they just tend to stare at you (me) whatever you (I) say. Like you're (I'm) some kind of foolboy. Then, when they finally take something closely approximating what you've (I've) ordered they spend minutes (seconds) staring into space. 

Like statues before they're even famous. 

Coffee

When I order coffee from the canteen I ask for black coffee with hot milk. 

But this confuses them because if you put hot milk in black coffee it ceases to be black coffee and becomes white coffee. They're quite right to look at me quizzically like I'm an idiot before ignoring the hot milk bit and just giving me black coffee. 

And anyway, who do I think I am to coming over here and demanding white coffee! 

It's as if truth and reconciliation never happened.

Stomach

I've had a bit of a dodgy stomach recently. Perhaps it was something I ate although it could have been a bug. Come to think of it, I think it was a bug. I shook hands with eight people yesterday and five of them are sick with a stomach bug. Such power.

Stomach still wasn't 100% last night so I went to a Thai restaurant and ordered some hot and sour soup and then some angry duck to try and find some kind of gastric equilibrium.

This morning I'm happy to say the stomach bug is 100% cleared up. 

The duck is now livid however.

Prostitutes

Coming home tonight there was more than the usual Tuesday night gathering of prostitutes demanding sex. It felt more like the Monday crowd in fact.

I tried to sneak past them by hiding in some long shadows but one evil looking one (the leader if I'm not mistaken) saw me and immediately demanded, not sex, but details of what I was carrying.

"A book", I told her.

"Which book?", she demanded.

"The Book Thief", I told her.

"Did you steal it, Baba?", she asked, slyly.

"No, I did not steal it", I said, tears welling. 

I looked her in the eyes and told her angrily that the title of the book was The Book Thief. That didn't mean anyone had stolen it. I may have called her a harlot.

She looked away from me in disgust. Not even bothering to demand sex.

What is the world coming to!

Bookless

I once knew a chap name of Bookless.

(Hold on who said this was a Limerick!)

Bookless once sent an hilarious email round the company asking who had stolen his book.

Of course, he didn't use the word "stolen" but like all emails of that ilk he implied it.

There was a veiled threat in his tone of email.

And here's something funny. I'm reading a book called The Book Thief. I wonder what Bookless would say to that! 

Lunch

If you're buying a roll for lunch and it's filled with salami, mozzarella, lettuce and tomato and the friendly woman says to you "Baba can I make it hot for you" you should do none of the following:

1. Get all giddy with the sexual frisson of the moment and say Yes
   
2. Assume she knows what she's doing and say Yes
   
3. Say Yes
   

Why not?

Hot lettuce is shite. 

Andy

I just like to have a little joke about not speaking to Andy except in the pub about McGonagall. But I don't really mean it. Not much anyway. No more than about a third.

I can say anything I want about him on here though. 

Like how he was scared to go into pubs on his own til he was thirty-eight. He used to hang about outside til his mates turned up. Heavens above, can you imagine! 

He still thinks it's a bit sad for a man to drink alone. I counter with the argument that it's sad for a man to drink with other people. But only for comedic effect.

And I can say all this because he never reads his intanet. He refuses to follow links, you see. He hasn't followed a link since he was thirty-six. I think the last link he followed was disgusting and he's never clicked on one since. So the only way he'd find this link is if he typed in http://forthewaywelivetoday.blogspot.com/2008/12/andy.html by absolute mistake. 

Unlikely happenstance.

Why Andy doesn't follow links.

He'd argue...  

If we were in the pub having a pint and some crisps, you'd never make reference to another source, e.g. a book, and say there you go look it up there and see what you think about that. You'd have to explain it manually. 

He has a slight point but remember this is a man who has turned having slight points into an art form.

I was reminded of this no speaking thing this very morning at a meeting I was called to unexpectedly and unnecessarily. Someone, lets call him Davy Bond, said something quite extraordinary that I'd love to tell you about. But I can't because I think it might be in breach of work/blog confidentiality and I might get fired (at).

Kind of Blue

It's been a kind of blue day so far. Insofar as that's possible in a top class hotel anyway.

The pool is kind of blue. The sky is awful blue and me, I'm just trying my best to fit in with the general mood. Why rock the boat? But don't you go worrying about me. You have enough of your own problems. The thing with the thing!

Anyway, lying by that blue pool, which is only blue due to the blue sky reflecting 'pon it, I listened to Kind of Blue. What I find amazing is that anyone, even you, can simply call upon Kind of Blue whenever you want. If you want to. 

This is the line up:

Miles Davis - trumpet

John Coltrane - tenor sax

Bill Evans - piano

Cannonall Adderley - alto sax

These great jazz immortals are all dead now but can be brought back to life via the play button. To spend an hour in the company of these cats playing their thymoleptic, sizzling music is a simple but intense pleasure. The most amazing thing about this album, more than any other jazz album, is how distinct you can hear each player but, equally, how seamlessly the overall sound comes together. 

The sound of Spring, New York, 1959. WRIT LARGE.

Time. The old enemy.

Awoke this morning to the sound of the cleaner banging my door and shouting "Are you awake, Baba?".

I checked the time on my phone. 9:32am. What bliss. A lie in.

"I am now, Mama", I shouted back.

I'm not sure if I was being rude or charming here. Impossible to gauge, really. It may even have been deeply racist.

I got up to buy some skype credit on my intanet to find that my computer disagreed with my phone's analysis re 9:32.  It countered, 8:32.  

Then I checked my watch, you'd think the authority on the matter, and it disagreed with the analysis of both my computer and my phone. 

10:32.

What a mess. What a temporal debacle this day was turning into.

I'm not quite sure what happened but suffice to say I missed breakfast. Badly.

Terminal 2E

In the barrage of music that's been pouring into my poor ears this year I almost forgot about Portishead's Third. A doctor friend of mine (sadly not a real one) paid actual money for it and I ripped it off him as Winter gave way to Spring's first flushes.

I think I put it on while making some pizza and it didn't fit the Friday night mood quite right. So we reverted to Rufus Wainwright who never fails on such occasions.

But now we're in the bleak midwinter and terminal 2E at Paris airport is an unbelievably depressing place to be right now. The Beaujolais Nouveau I'm drinking couldn't be much more out of place and somehow then feels about right.

And now, here, I'm finally catching up with Portishead's Third. I think it's been worth the wait. The chilled wine may be helping but I'm warming to the occasion. Two hours til we board and this place doesn't seem so bad. It's cold and unfriendly but, like everything perhaps, has an inner beauty. It's not an easy place to be but once you're here you can just about make sense of it. 

The album isn't an easy place to be either but it's starting to make sense too. It's spikily difficult but Beth Gibbon's stark, intimate vocals are lovely juxtaposition to this wonkily evocative soundscape.

An hour to go and perhaps one more incongruous Beaujolais Nouveau may be in order.  Yes, why not and a second attempt at Third to go with it. I'm tired and a little depressed but, still, I must be punished.

Smithwicks

Dublin airport last night. 

Watched aghast as a fellow showed pints of Smithwick's no respect whatsoever.

He downed four pints in an hour as I nursed by pint of stout. Each pint of fizzy keg ale was afforded no more than four gulps as he poured it down his throat. A heroically quadrilocular effort!

If anything I showed the Smithwick's even less respect [1]. But from a very safe distance.

[1] less than no respect whatsoever?

Why the ten?

If a cup of tea is €2.10 you might ask yourself why.

Like this : Why?

You probably wouldn't bother asking why you'd been ripped off. You'd expect that. Especially on a train [1].

A better question would be why €2.10. Or why the .10?

I can see two possible reasons for the .10 :

1. A charge of €2 exactly sounds like they just made it up. Plucked a number out of thin air.
   
2. They simply couldn't do it for less. Suzie in Accounts crunched the numbers, cooked up a pie-chart which said €2.10.

€2.10 for a cup of tea though. Can you imagine! What with the credit crunch and everything. 

Imagine if you went into a bank and asked for a loan of €2.10 for a cup of tea. They'd laugh at you. And rightly so. 

Haven't you heard about the credit crunch, they'd say.

[1] Funnily enough, I was charged €2.10 for a cup of tea this very morning. On a train.

Are you ok with your decay?

I'm wondering. I've been reading Philip Roth's Everyman and listening to Grandaddy's The Sophtware Slump. Not necessarily at the same time. 

They're both about decay. The first about the decay of the human body and the second about the decay of computers and technology. But Grandaddy may actually be using the decay of obsolete technology as a metaphor for the decay of human relationships. Heartbreak to give it another name.

So are you ok with your decay?

It's not fucking ideal is it, but what can you do!

Let's leave the last words on the matter to those much missed Californian alt-geek rockers:

In truth I'm okay with my decay

I have no voice

I have no choice 

So I rejoice

Isobel Campbell

I listened to the fragrant Isobel Campbell being interviewed by Guy Garvey on his 6 Music show last night.

I think she's a terrifically talented songwriter with the voice of an angel. She's also very normal, surprisingly ditsy and giggly, barely able to string a cohesive sentence together. Like a girl you might meet whilst getting a colouring at the hairdressers. Guy was clearly smitten and giggled like a schoolboy throughout. I liked her a lot.

Not much of a blog, I know, but at least I now have a picture of Isobel Campbell up. Two pictures.

The Ecumenical Council

I first met Tom Holland in 1972 at a Welsh Ladies Fencing tournament in Llandudno.

We had a shared love of the sport and we bonded over beer and doctrinal technicalities that weekend. Even then Holland had only 3 interests in life:

1. Ladies Fencing
   
2. Beer
   
3. The Ecumenical Council

But not in that order. In the opposite order:

1. The Ecumenical Council
   
2. Beer
   
3. Ladies Fencing
   

You would imagine that a man so obsessed with recounting  intricate details of The Ecumenical Council would be a dull man indeed. Not so Tom Holland. He imbued these weighty ecumenical matters with such a spirit of Temps d'Escrime and parried questions with a Rapier-like Froissement that it was impossible not to be captivated. 

Drinking pint after pint of strong Brains bitter that little bar in Llandudno truly felt like the centre of the known universe. Happy times indeed.

In 1975 when Tom got his first record deal there was only one subject he was likely to record. His beloved The Ecumenical Council. 

Listening to this record over 30 years later you realise what a remarkable and enduring piece he has created. With nothing more than harp and snare-drum by way of accompaniment he truly brings the subject to life. 

If anything, I understand the actual details of his monologue even less now than I did all these years ago. But that matters not. After just a few minutes I allow my mind to drift off calmly on his dulcet tones and we're back in that little bar once again. And I think to myself:

By Christ, we did some bevvying that weekend!

  

The Dangers of Religious Life

I was lying in my sunroom yesterday listening to this sparkling sermon from the Very Reverend William (Bill) McNamara. 

Of the Reverends I know Bill is definitely the Veriest.

He's also some man for the words and they fairly danced and sparkled from his mouth, each more layered and imparting deeper metaphor than the previous. As I lay there, watching the dip and swell of the ornamental parachutist in my vestibule, my brow became fevered and my spirit fervoured.

Then I realised that I'd left the bath running and water was cascading down the stairs destroying everything in it's wake. What a calamity!

Never had the powerful motif of this forgotten old piece of scratched shellac seemed more prescient.

Escapism

I was listening to child psychologist, Dr Tanya Byron, on Radio 4's "The Media Show" recently.

She was discussing why children’s viewing can and should be controlled. But, she argued, children, like adults, need some tv "downtime" away from the stresses of daily life. 

After a hard days learning at school and dropping crumbs all over the house they need to simply sit down, empty their tiny little minds and be entertained and enchanted.  Not challenged. She lauded "Spongebob and Squarepants" in this regard, a programme that she, herself, greatly enjoyed. 

She went on to say that adults were exactly the same. When she went home at night after a hard day's kiddie staring the last thing she required was some informative documentary about the boring old war or some outdated Dickens dramatisation with fancy language. She preferred to sit down, disengage her brain entirely, and watch "Strictly" or "X-Factor" with a glass of Australian Chardonnay. That's what she said. 

It's what being a human being is all about, she also said.

Internet Radio

My internet radio is a fickle mistress to say the least.

As times she leaves me whimpering with simple pleasure but, as often, leaves me depressed, helpless and cuckolded.

They say there's a book in everyone and, if that's true, I suspect the fractious, beautiful, unhappy and joyful relationship I have with my internet radio may be the subject of my own tome. It would be a cast of two since everyone else in our house, quite rightly, stays well away.

I'll probably cover this in more detail in the future when I'm less emotionally frazzled.

Bolander

Here's my old sparring partner Neddy appearing as Bolander in my house last night. It was a great honour to have him perform in my living room and I emailed him to let him know.

You're probably wondering, did I use some kind of fancy screen scrape technology? 

Nope, friend. I did not. I took the picture off the telly with my ducking? phone. 

I didn't think this was possible due to semi-diffusional gamma rays or some such. It certainly didn't used to be back in the days. 

My parents have an alarming number of pictures of a grey tv (some inexplicably featuring a single slippered foot at the bottom left of shot). The idea that the tv could genuinely have been off on each occasion is not a feasible one. I can only conclude that they were trying to take pictures of Tommy O'Connor or Jimmy Tarbuck for whatever the seventies equivalent of a (world wide we)b log was. 

You think this is all a bit mentalist? Well, at least I wasn't watching 'X' or 'Strict'. 

Je reste mon valaise.

Not sure why Neddy (Bolander) is wearing a Dundee United scarf. Perhaps he's a fan. I'm sure he would have mentioned it though...

 

Predictive Text 3

It doesn't even like me swearing...

I don't need no moral guidance from a bleedin' phone.

I don't swear that often but the notion of deciding the 2011 Rugby World Cup seedings 3 whole years in advance for "logistical reasons" is ducking? ridiculous.

Orange Conundrum

You may consider this a matter or no importance and I might agree before adding that, if that's true, then the matter is very welcome on this blog. This blog's very raison d'être is to find a home, to love and care for, such matters. For if not here, where?

But what is the matter of which you speak?

The matter is this (and thanks for your patience) .

When I'm eating a tangerine (as I do at least twice per day) or a mandarin (I don't know the difference) and reach for the second half I find that it's never there.  It's already been gobbled. 

Now I'm not suggesting that someone is coming over to my desk and stealing it. I think that's unlikely although not impossible. More likely is that I've already eaten the second half before I reach to get it. 

Is this confusing? Bear with me. It's important (although obviously of no importance).

Now clearly I must have reached to get the second half a first time before eating it. But what I think is happening here (and this is merely a theory at this stage) is that, perhaps due to excessive juicyness, I've actually achieved some kind of internal tangerine/mandarin frenzy and have become completely blind to the fact that I've already reached for and eaten the second half. And, thus, end up reaching for an already eaten and therefore non existent tangerine/mandarin half.

And, worse, I do precisely the same thing with the second tangerine/mandarin. Another frenzy resulting in a futile search for a non existent second half.

Unless someone is coming over to my desk and stealing them...

Butcher v Maradona

Would Terry Butcher at least have the decency to act Scottish?

Diego Maradona is an icon, a legend in Scottish football. He doesn't deserve the nasty, petulant, babyish side-swiping and whinnying from Butcher who refuses to forgive and forget the infamous Hand of God goal.

Anyway, as you can see from the picture, it's far from conclusive yet.

 

Sargeant's Ballroom

John Sargeant has decided to pull out of Strictly Come Ballroom Dancing. Or Ballroom as it's known. 

He said, 

"The trouble is that there is now a real danger that I might win the competition. Even for me that would be a joke too far."

Now the way this works, for those of you less au fait than me with the Ballroom format, is that the expert judges, judge the dancer's performance but then, as a clever twist, their expert opinion is completely ignored. 

Instead, the BBC ask the Great British Public (GBP) to spend their hard earned money to phone in and gainsay the expert judges. It's all jolly good fun and helps the BBC keep Ballroom on air every single night of the week. Without adequate Ballroom our life would be very difficult indeed.

But here's the nub...

The GBP don't like the so called expert judges one little bit and they boo and hiss at them pantomime fashion.

What do these idiots know!!!, they pontificate from their Saturday night armchairs. 

Bunch of bloody poofters wouldn't know a good dancer if they saw one!!!, they perhaps add.

On an internet chat room (therein lies madness) today one actually said,

"I am very angry about this ... I have supported John from the start and have voted for him and now the bullies have won."

That, of course, is part of the trick. The judges on Ballroom are all effete arseholes and are eminently dislikable. The GBP, on the other hand, are normal people and as any fule kno have a much greater appreciation of the more technical aspects of the dance genre. Through attending weddings and the like. 

But now, Catastophe Hathst Strucken! 

This has backfired horribly on the BBC. Everything is ruined, ruined. All their clever thinking has been cast asunder. John Sargeant with his fancy ideas and gadoid mush has presumed to know better than the GBP. 

Treason! Hang that man.

Ned's Reply

Finally, finally, Ned Beatty emailed me back.

Since our last correspondence I've watched the Big Man twice on Homicide, Life on the Street. With each passing episode my admiration for his work grows. I consider Neddy to be a friend and, as you'll see, I think he feels the same way about me.

From: Ned Beatty (nedbeatty@nedbeattysings.com)

Sent: Mon 11/17/08 6:05 AM

To: musters@forthewaywelivetoday.com

Howdi Musters,

Word up! And ... "In the Beginning Was the Word."

(Just my little joke)

As the holiday season approaches, it's been very busy so apologies for not replying sooner.

Steve, Thank-you so much for considering me for your project, Thank you, Thank-you, Thank-you!

I'd love to say, Yes, my friend, and verily I was very close to doing so. Then, after discussing the project with my wife and sister we decided the answer had to be a reluctant ... No. All of us are Worsted Yarns now, you must understand!!!

But that night we had a few glasses of wine over dinner and it seemed like a swell idea again. None of us had ever visited Budapest, Hungary...

But, now, alas, in the cold, caliginous light of the new dawn it must flip back to No, No, No. I wanted to send you this email NOW in case we changed our minds again!!!

Would you like to buy my new CD? With all of the holidays being just around the corner, maybe a CD would make a thoughtful gift for YOUR family and friends. If you think so too just click on the link below!

May this holiday season bring to you and yours all of the joy and happiness that you deserve.

God Bless,

Neddy

http://cdbaby.com/cd/nedbeatty

Am I disappointed? A little, of course. But I understand. If Ned could have helped Ned would have helped. I'll have to keep looking is all.

(I bought one of his CD's)

(Actually, I bought six by mistake)