Villareal in El Madrigal

Scott "Skippy" Macdonald is an unlikely starter for Celtic tonight against Villareal in El Madrigal. It is believed that the free-scoring Australian marksman would have started as a lone-striker but for a dearth of size 46 shorts. A spokeswoman for kit-makers Nike apologised expressing surprise that a professional footballer would have "that big of an arse".

Food Fascist

Celebrity chefs, those demi-gods of our age, not only tell us how to cook, they also tell us how to live.

John Torode, in a recipe on how to "cook the perfect roast (beef)" begins,

• Score and salt the fat on the joint
  
• Place joint in fridge
  
• Go to bed

Bed!

Yes, get to bed.

But it's only eight o'clock

Goodnight.

That's if you can even buy the meat in the first place. For the fat must be white with a tinge of yellow. And it must be marbled. White marbles, not yellowish marbles.

Otherwise you must tell the butcher to go to hell in a hand-cart.

Fascist!

Radiohead

I don't know why Radiohead keep asking me to remix their songs. They should just leave me alone.

They'd like me to concentrate specifically on a song called Reckoner. They've broken up the tune into pieces for me and they'd like me to remix it for them.  

Hold on! Radiohead. Tune? Shoorely shome mishtake.

Yea, we picked an easy one in 4/4 

4/4?

Yea, common time, you can get the stems here

Stems?

Yea, the different elements 

Elements?

Yea, the instruments.

Instruments?

...

Well they can forget it. Lazy, workshy fops can do it themselves. 

One of the main reasons I'm such a massive fan of the band is that I've had absolutely no involvement in the production of any of their music [1].

I'd like it to stay that way, thanks all the very same, Radiohead.

[1] Tellingly, I've been "on the knobs" for all of Coldplay's dire albums

Deception

Philip Roth wrote:

In my imagination I am unfaithful to everybody.

And so his wife divorced him. Not for being unfaithful. Not, necessarily, for being unfaithful even in his imagination. For just writing it!

You have to be careful what you write. People take it seriously.

Home again

Home again, home again. Not a second too soon.

At the airport I found myself indulging in racial badinage with the local whites. Definately time to leave.

The check-in system, such as it was, was about as inefficient as you could imagine. 

I only said, thinking aloud, to the guy next to me: 

This is about as inefficient as you could imagine. 

He replied (speaking aloud):

Get used to it, that's normal these days, buddy. 

Then he gave me a knowing look. He didn't need need to give me a knowing look. I knew what he meant.

He meant:

It's inefficient  since these blacks got power.

I meant:

This is about as inefficient as you could imagine.  

As I dozed on the long journey home Robert Wyatt sang:

My duck is cooked, I waddle safely to the shore.

As is often the case, his meaning just eluded me. Nonetheless, it felt about right.

Franz Liszt

Franz Liszt was born in Hungary or Germany or Austria. Apart from this fact, not much else is known about him. 

We do know, however, that Beethoven took a shine to the young Liszt and took to kissing him about the face. Once Liszt got older he asked Beethoven to stop and, to be fair to the older man, he did so immediately.

Liszt has built up a reputation as a punk-rocker of his day. He used to insist on breaking at least three pianos during each of his increasingly diabolical performances.  That's diabolical in the sense of being devilish, not crap. 

Anyone who thinks that Liszt was crap is an idiot. He was a genius and his music is awe-inspiring today. But he was a man out of time. His peers thought him a charlatan a fake and a show-off. A bounder and a prick.

One mocked,

"He would contort his face pretending to feel emotions; looking to heaven, he tried to act as if seeking inspiration from above"

Imagine one of today's rock stars trying that stunt!

When playing pieces by Beethoven, our hero would add cadenzas, tremolos and even trills, willy-nilly, presumably as payback for all that sloppy-kissing.

In the mid-1800's Liszt met Johannes Brahms in a tavern in Stuttgart. They became firm friends and  could often be found drinking, carousing, gorging and puking together. Thus the expression "Brahms and Liszt" was born which only co-incidentally rhymes with pissed.

Check out Liszt. He may have been a show-off but he had lots to show off.

Prostitutes

I've spent the last two weeks assiduously ignoring the prostitutes outside my hotel.

Last night I decided that enough was enough. An end had to be put to this rudeness. After all, they were merely doing a job of work.

So, rather than ignoring their calls of "Hi Honey, need some company?", I stopped and politely informed them that, whilst I truly appreciated the offer, I was going back to my hotel to read my book. 

I had the book with me and I showed it to them. Homicide, a Year on the Killing Streets. [1]

This had a strange effect. They seemed to understand what I said not as,

No thanks, I'm going home to read my book.

But rather as,

Yes please, not only would I like some company, I'd like a Thai bath with all three of you.

I was haranged and pestered virtually all the way into the hotel lobby.

Moral:

Never discuss literature with prostitutes.

[1] it's just struck me, perhaps not the ideal book to show to a pack of prostitutes.

Mujava again

With the exception of the first and last tracks, the intro and the outro (which sound like some kind of mentalist shanty babble to my uneducated ears), my new Mujava cd is magnificent.

I've been listening to it on the way to work and on the way back to the hotel. Or visa-versa, if you prefer. It fits my journey precisely. That's with the shanty-babble skipped.

Again, it's magnificent. 

It contains elements of West African rhythm, drum'n'bass, house, garage, front-porch and who knows what else. Each track leads into the next without interval and creates a themed whole where each part is similar but subtly different. The overall effect is a sweeping Mahler-esque soundscape which manages to achieve a distinct flow despite taking many a windey detour.

It's a fine piece of work. I'm really getting the benefit of only having a couple of cd's that I'm listening to properly on rotation. I'm heading back home soon to the complicated, hopeless life of having thousands of cd's that I won't properly listen to. 

There's a lesson in there somewhere.

Reinheitsgebot Standard, 1516

Reinheitsgebot, meaning "purity law" (and thankfully pre-dating Hitler by some 400 years), regulates that beer in Germany must contain only the following ingredients:

1. Barley. 
   
2. Hops. 
   
3. Yeast. 
   
4. Water. 

None more.  

But, hey big fella, what about:

• Rhoiso-alpha acids 
  
• Protease 
  
• Amyloglucosidase 
  
• Propylene glycol alginate 

Can't we put these bad-boys in? 

No. Fuck them.

Not even protease? 

Ok, but just protease.  That sounds sexy. 

Only, get that other shit out my beer.

Feather on the Breath of God

Was listening to Hildegard von Bingen. I like to get healed on a Sunday. 

Feather on the Breath of God. 

That's me today, that is.

Life on the Street

Talk about syncronicity. 

Just been reading Homicide by David Simon. Brilliant, brilliant book from which the equally brilliant tv series, of the same name, was adapted. Simon is the guy behind The Wire tv series and is a hero to me. 

So I flick on Sky News and who is on Adam Boulton's show? It's only the very same David Simon. Remakable! Truly this hotel room feels like the centre of the known universe.

Boo.S.A

Lee Westwood and his imaginary friend Soren Lorenson lose to bad-ass-kicking Kentucky pairing Boo Radley and JB Holmes. Not looking good for Yerp.

Wiki Pranksters

I've just realised that George Burley's middle name is very unlikely to be Elder. I suspect I've been a victim of a wikipedia prankster. Touché.

According to the SFA website, his middle name is actually Logan. I apologise for this error and hope that it caused no offence.

Racism

Just had a great meal.

Kudu, medium rare, served with a peppercorn sauce, on the side. Eschewing [1] the "starch" on offer I had a green salad and some sauted mushrooms. Washed down with a glass of house Pinotage. Double espresso to finish and the bill came to the equivalent of 20 euro!

The restaurant was peopled with both black and white people although, admittedly, the waiters were all black (people). It struck me that, per racial denominational capita [2], South Africa is probably the least racist nation in the world. And it's very racist. So go figger...

Anyway, the kudu, the wine, the ebony and the ivory leaves me with a really warm feeling for this hote ... I mean country.

[1] Sorry, horrible word - won't happen again

[2] To coin a phrase. Google is, unsurprisingly, unaware of it.    

The longest day

Today I got up late. Had a leisurely breakfast then read the paper by the pool whilst enjoying another latte. I meandered up to my room and watched a Rick Stein programme about Sardinia.

After that I went shopping and bought some shorts. The same ones pictured below in fact.

Now I'm back in safely in my room. I watched the Sunderland game then flicked between the Liverpool game and the golf. Next I'll watch the Arsenal game. After that I think I will risk venturing out for a steak. Then -barring incident- I'll return to my room in time to watch the afternoon fourballs. 

It feels like there's some kind of kink in the time-space continuum today.

New Shorts

Right that's it. I'm not going shopping again here. They're messin' with my mind, man.

I bought these shorts. Yes these, what's wrong with them? It's the American tourist look I'm always striving for. It's a good look, believe me.

They were marked at 340 rand. Seemed ok so I took them up to the checkout. The guy rung them up.

He said, "They're cheaper - 240 - you can have a t-shirt."

"Can I, any t-shirt?", I asked excitedly. I was assured I could take any t-shirt.

I assumed he'd rung up the full amount and was offering me a t-shirt by way of an apology. This bizarre twist in the transaction did not particularly surprise me. Weird stuff happens to white-folks in Africa. Quite right too. But then he charged me the 240 rand. 

I said, "But you charged me 240. Are you saying I can take a t-shirt as well?".

Always an eye for the main chance, me. He told me I could.

"For free?", I checked. 

Yes, he assured me, I could have any t-shirt. Then he asked me if I understood. 

"No", I assured him, "not even slightly but, since you insist, I'll take a t-shirt."

That's what I'm saying, he told me.

So I picked my free t-shirt. My favourite kind.

"Thanks", I said, "just pop it in the same bag."

Then, utterly predictably I suppose, he asked me how I wanted to pay for the t-shirt.

"Cash", I replied, resignedly.

I chuckled to myself on the way out. It was a great piece of salesmanship and he managed to upsell me a t-shirt. The fact that he downright lied in order to do so did not diminish my admiration for him. In fact I prefer to think of him kindly and suppose that he thought I had precisely 340 rand to spend today on clothes, on a "use it or lose it basis", and was helping me to do so.

I then went into a music store and picked up another DJ Mujava cd. I could feel the respect coming from the guy serving me. Good choice m'brother, his eyes said. He rung it up and told me it was 50 rand cheaper than marked. 

I was no longer some white-bread fresh off the plane who didn't know the system. Before he could say another word I had returned to the "Pretoria House" rack to pick my "free" cd.

I'll be in my room from now on if you need me,

Alt.Scotch Anthems

I've noticed that (the dreaded) bloggers are very keen on blogging about what they've been listening to.

Like we care. Idiots.

But look here! We're having a competition at work where each nationality have to compile their own country's "anthem's". Their word, not mine.

The anthems must fit onto a normal (round) sized cd.

Anyway, competing we have South Africa, Australia, Canada and (me, representing) Scotland. It's utterly idiotic, I know, but I plan to set my sail towards the prevailing wind and be tremendously successful. In this venture if nothing else.

The main attribute I have in my favour is this. Their music taste is rubbish and mine is magic. Today (tomorrow) will be all about me.

So my list is this:

Malcolm Middleton - Devastation

Edwyn Collins - Home Again

The Blue Nile - The Downtown Lights

Roddy Frame - Coast

Andy Irvine/Dick Gaughan - The Lads O' the Fair/Leith Docks

Robin Williamson - Wyatt's Song Of Reproach

Arab Strap - Here We Go

Isobel Campbell - Ballad Of The Broken Seas

The Proclaimers - Sean

The Proclaimers - Sunshine On Leith

(strictly speaking should only be one song per artist but like Craig and Charlie themselves, I've always thought of Sean and Sunshine on Leith as inseparable)

Camera Obscura - Let's Get Out Of This Country

Cocteau Twins - Bloody And Blunt

Belle and Sebastian - Song For Sunshine.mp3

Mogwai - Secret Pint

Ivor Cutler Trio - Mud

Boards of Canada - The Smallest Weird Number

King Creosote - Cockle Shell

Dick Gaughan - Both Sides The Tweed

Lord Kitchener - Cricket Champions
(Kitchener Scotch in the heid)

The Waterboys - Glastonbury Song

Now I'm heading up to my room to listen to it. I expect great things.

Good night.

Rio de Janeiro

Here's a couple of facts about Rio,

1. On average, since 1997, there have been around 1, 500 murders per year.
   
2. According to the UN, police, in that city, are responsible for 3 murders every day.
   

I'm no mathematician but, assuming they don't take the weekends or holidays off, this means that the police are performing about 80% of those murders.

Figure that one out cos I fucking can't.

Positive thinking

I am tremendously successful.

I exude positive energy.

Today will be all about me.

The same wind blows upon all men.

It is how I set my sails into that wind.

Are just some of the things some twat on the radio just told me to say to myself in the shower tomorrow. I mean, honestly, what kind of a tosser is he trying to turn me into. 

He's trying to turn me into him. His kind of tosser.

Nil all

Watched the Celtic game last night via a score update banner across the screen showing the Man United game. There were only 4 updates during the game. Scarcely enough for me to exert any influence whatsoever on the proceedings.  A draw was about that best that could be expected under the circumstances. A draw it was.

Jobi and DJ Mujava

I'm in Jo'burg.

On the way from the airport my taxi driver - a young man named Jobi - and I were chatting about family and the underground house movement here. This is music, not non-stationary subterranean dwelling-places (ha ha). 

He sold me a cd by one of the leading proponents, DJ Mujava. I really enjoyed being sold a cd by a taxi driver and I plan to do this more often. The music itself is funky and hard-edged and appeals to my black side (the left). It's also millions of times better than any of the shit they play on the radio here. 

He asked about my family and we chatted a bit about kids. Then I asked if he had a family. He told me that his wife had passed away in April leaving a 5 year old daughter. Since he had to work all hours driving big-shots like me around the place, his daughter was living on the Western Cape with his sister. He saw her every 2 months for about 3 days at a time.

Jobi's situation is desperately sad. The fact that he had lost his young wife made it especially so but, for many young blacks in South Africa, being separated from family is pretty much the norm. Paradoxically they are drawn to the poverty and danger of the big city townships in order to find gainful employment.

Perhaps Jobi was merely 'working tips' with his sad tale but I don't think so. If he was he was spectacularly successful. I gave him a whopping 200 rand tip and told him to buy something nice for his daughter. 

Buy something nice for your daughter! Who did I think I was! Telly Savalas?

Polish hairdresser

I just had a haircut. Number four at the back and sides and "forward yet back" at the front. Forward yet back is a style I invented in the early nineties and have stuck with ever since.  No hairdresser has ever asked for clarification on this request. So it must be well understood.

This doesn't come close to telling the whole story though. My polish hairdresser also provided me with an eyebow and nasal hair trim, rum head rub, aftershave and gel. She also enquired as to whether I was off today and stroked my hand slightly as I handed over a crisp tenner.

Team GB

They'll probably say ok lets just stick with Team UK.  We know it's factually incorrect, they'll say, but it served us well in Beijing didn't it?

To be honest I don't really care if they have a GB football team at the London Olympics. It's the thin end of the flippin' wedge as far as I'm concerned!

Praying

I was chatting to my daughter's teacher this morning about God. 

She goes to a catholic school but we are imposing our religious non-beliefs on her and making her opt out of prayers. Dawkins would probably consider this to be child-abuse but that's Dawkins for you. The teacher was assuring me that her opting out of prayers was no big deal and was causing no issue. I asked him what they were praying for and if it was working. He looked at me strangely and then we both laughed. I wasn't really sure what we were laughing at but I joined in anyway.

The school motto is "God Alone Can Save Us Now".

Hankies

It would take an industrial strength abacus to calculate how many hankies I own. It's probably in excess of 25 which is, clearly, way above the international hankie poverty-line. 

It's almost as if someone is sneaking into my chamber and leaving them there. Truly, in the kindom of hankies I am the handker-chief.

Profit without stout

With Scotland cruising at 0-2 last night I thought, by way of a mini celebration, I might pour myself an export strength (7.5% abv) guinness.  I was just pondering the wisdom of this act of school-night decadance when Scotland conceeded a penalty and had their captain sent of. 

I'd allowed myself to become complacent and had been punished. I abandoned my plan immendiately and watched the last 15 minutes in fraught, dry silence. The team managed to recover from my error sufficiently to -just- see out the game at 1-2. No thanks to me. 

I flicked over to the Croatia  v England game, which was 0-3,  and quickly concluded that it would have been impossible for me to drink enough to save Croatia from defeat. So I went to bed. 

The Factory by the Sea

I bow to literally no man in my ability to get lost. I popped out at lunch to get a duvet from the shopping centre. This map might help explain what happened. If you click on it you can make it big.

I followed the main road from the office to the shops, past the petrol station on my way. So far so good. I purchased the duvet (15 tog for the winter) with no more than the usual mishaps. 

Pleased with myself, I decided to try out a short cut round the lake back to the office. I'm led to believe that the lake is lovely round this time of year. I set off and fully expected to end up at the blue dot. I sensed that something was amiss when I passed, not the lake but, the factory by the sea. Before too long I was at the yellow dot.  Miles away from my intended target. It's really dodgy round by the yellow dot. So I turned round quickly and hopped back onto the main road and by pure luck managed a right turn towards the office. 

I mention this as I feel that this level of directional incompetence  is unusual and perhaps quite special.

Education

Even schools are sloganeering now. It's no longer enough to say just the name of the school. They need a tagline. Possibly influenced by the staggering success of Centra's "For the way we live today" a school in the town in which I live are marketing themselves with "Educating for the Future".  I suppose they're not doing it for no good reason. Perhaps parents are getting picky about which schools they send their kids to. I would imagine one that educates for the future might just have an edge.

Parenthetical Girls

The great thing about Bruckner is that his tunes last for about half an hour each.

Downloading one of his symphonies from the excellent emusic service will cost you 4 downloads. Whereas, if you wanted the latest offering by the Parenthetical Girls, say, this would cost you a whopping 11 downloads for a mere 32 minutes and 41 seconds. 

Our snuff-snaffling friend was way ahead of the curve here and who is to say he didn't have this in mind when composing his meister-werks.  

Now clearly the Parenthetical Girls are great and super and it's by no means my intention to dis' their stupenous oeuvre. Not in the slightest.  

But with Bruckner you can mind the quality whilst feeling the width.

Maestro

I dunno about this series. I thought it just got worse and worse. I watched them all but last night I just gave up and watched the excellent Flight of the Conchords on BBC4 instead.  Maestro is precisely the kind of thing that should appeal to a pretentious git like myself but I got really irritated by it. I'd say there was a little bit wrong with almost every aspect of it. Clive Anderson being particularly insufferable at times. And like the proverbial curate's egg the bad bits ended up spoiling the whole thing. A great idea in theory but they should have thought it through properly and - on balance - opted to show the test card instead. Then I could have read a book or went to the pub. Or watched the test card.

Anton Bruckner

And now to Bruckner's 7th. Very cinematic without the ups and downs and twists and turns of the dreaded Mahler. Very good. 

Bruckner, though,  should under no circumstances be listened to. Merely heard. And, if at all possible, not seen. That's him taking snuff off Wagner. Creepy, eh.

Things can only get better

Apparently the world will end tomorrow when the ex-keyboard player from D:Ream creates a black hole in Switzerland triggerring all sorts of weird time travel and death.

Blikey, can't you even batter a few protons together without everyone making a song a dance about it. And, in the meantime, in anticipation of this great event, all the protons of the world have called a ceasefire and will stop bumping into each other. Instead they'll go to Starbucks and read books.

Elusive Dreams

They don't write songs like they used to.

As an antidote to the relentless Mahler, I've been listening to Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood. These were the original "beauty and beast" pairing who set the blueprint for the likes of Waits/Gayle, Cave/Minogue and Lanegan/Campbell to name, precisiely, three (pairings).

One song "Elusive Dreams" is quite remarkable. So remarkable in fact that I'm writing about it here now on this blog.

This duet concerns a couple who travel from town to town in search of happiness. They search in vain from Texas to Utah and onto Birmingham (which features a pleasing rhyme with Alabam'). 

We, the listener, must assume that happiness is the elusive dream that will not found no matter where the devil they go.  We, the listener, should not make rash assumptions until fully equipped with the facts.

Next to Memphis where they have a child. Lee then drags them to Nashville (presumably to pursue a career in country music) and Nancy, biddable as ever, tags along.

So far so predictable. On via Nebraska they end up in Alaska in search of gold. Now the bombshell,

L: And now we've left Alaska

L: Because there was no gold mine

N: But this time, only two of us moved on

(Ah, finally she's left him)

N: Now all we have is each other

(Unless...)

N: And a little memory to cling to

(Shit, the baby's dead)

L: And still you won't let me go on alone

(You bastard! Get Frank to have him "taken out", Nancy)

So much said in a mere four lines. Like I said they don't write 'em like they used to.

This left me with a manly lump in my throat. I think, in fact, it's called an adams apple.

George Burley

The titular Scotland manager's full name is George Elder Burley.

He really isn't gonna last long.

Bloggers

I hate bloggers.
They'll say "I hate cyclists. But, hey, you already knew that didn't you."
No I didn't. How am I supposed to know about that?
They might begin, "In case you've been wondering where I am...".
Nope, I wasn't wondering that, you humourless, self-regarding arse-biscuit.
They even blog about not blogging sometimes. "I'm so bored with blogging", they'll whine. What they mean is they have nothing to say but they can't stop themselves from fucking blogging anyway.
Bloggers. Should be shot at birth.

Two haymakers

This afternoon I punched my 3 year old on the face.
We were at the swimming pool and I was putting her armbands on. The armbands were slippery (when wet) and I was struggling the first one onto her arm when my hand slipped and I punched her in the cheek. She got quite a fright and if it wasn't for the fact that she was so excited about getting into the pool she might have really cried. As it was she just gave me a shocked look before gracefully accepting my profuse apologies. We put the incident behind us and moved onto the second armband. I was really careful this time but unfortunately - and surely against all odds - I punched her -whack!- on the other cheek. She did cry this time.
The whole thing would have been amusing if it didn't involve punching a small child in the face repeatedly. 

The trick, of course, is to deflate the bands first and then inflate then when they are on the arm. But what a right pain in the arse that is.
On the way home we stopped at Centra for the paper. Centra, for the way we live today. Chortle.

Gustav Mahler

I've been listening to Mahler's 9th this morning. Apparently it's his most calming work.
Must admit it did little to calm the Musters household. Two screaming kids were as nothing compared to this drama. I was asked to switch it off with all due haste.
This is music to be listened to. Think about that. Music to be listened to. Imagine!
Not at all for the way we live today, I'm thinking.

Cash or Laser

I don't quite understand why Aldi need to know so early in proceedings whether I choose to pay by cash or laser [1]. They ask the question before even processing my items through checkout. It's way too early. They clearly don't want to ask the question cos they're sick of asking that question to everybody. So they just kind of look at you first and try and prompt you to answer the question they haven't asked yet. I'm no fool, I know the drill but I still make them ask the question. I'm not buying into that bullshit.
"Cash or laser?", they'll ask.
"Laser", I'll invariably reply.
Where the hell am I gonna get €63, 40 in hard cash?
Laser, for the way we live today.

[1] switch, debit card, whatever

For The Way We Live Today

We being?