Combat erectile dysfunction

Just watched an advert for Cialis which is a drug to combat erectile dysfunction.

In the "small print" they say,

If your erection lasts for 4 hours seek immediate medical attention.

Anything under the 4 hour mark is fine. Just enjoy yourself and treat yo' woman right. But if you maintain your belisha beacon for a full 4 hours then don't mess about. Stop enjoying yourself and seek immediate medical attention.

Cialis. For the way we combat erectile dysfunction.

I'll say.

Obituary Subject

Obituary Subject
From: musters musters
Sent: 29 August 2009 11:38:17
To: schilds@scotsman.com

Hi Simon,

I note in today's edition of The Scotsman that you are soliciting suggestions for possible obituary subjects.

I wondered if you'd considered basing an obituary on that most thorny but, Alas!, unavoidable subject of DEATH itself?

Best Regards,

Musters

The Jamhouse

I was in the Jamhouse the other night. I had a lovely evening. You might find this surprising given that the Jamhouse is almost certainly the worst pub in Edinburgh.

I'm not even talking about the beer. The beer selection and quality is awful and aimed exclusively at the hard of tasting market. No, in a place like the Jamhouse you should expect bad beer. And you definitely won't be disappointed.

We were all having a good chat and generally 'meeting and greeting'. But would it have killed them to put the Celtic game on with the volume down?

The bar staff were utterly gormless to a man but, in their defence, in the unlikely event of them knowing how to operate the remote control, they still couldn't have put the game on. No, for it was the pub policy not to show sport. Even if we, the customers, wanted it on. Instead they had a Jamhouse slide-show showing various elements and representations of boogie-fucking-woogie.

And when you find boogie-fucking-woogie you can be sure that Jools Holland is not far away. Indeed, the Jamhouse is his gaff. And another policy of Holland's is that there must be live music (boogie-woogie, of course) every single night. So above, pictured, we see a band performing boogie-woogie to an empty hall while we all have a thoroughly lovely time drinking overpriced piss-water through the front bar.

For the way we live today.

The Diary Of Horace Wimp

The other night I met the guy who used to run Ace Music Centre. A record shop beloved of my teen years and now, sadly, no more. This guy, lets call him Keith, for that's his name, was kind and patient and would always let me return records even though, patently, it was my dodgy stylus which made them jump.

I bought him a pint and we talked about the good old days. About Milk and Alcohol in white vinyl and Sound of the Suburbs in clear. We got onto ELO, a band we both still have a fondness for.

"That reminds me", I reminded him.
"What's that?", goes Keith, sipping his pint.
"You fucking sold me the Diary of fucking Horace fucking Wimp"
"Aye?"
"Had you no concern for a gullible fourteen year old?".
"Hmmm", he said thoughtfully, adding, "Same again?".

Lousy, sexy sweet wrappers

Is it absolutely necessary, do you think, for these children's sweet wrappers to be quite so damned sexy?

GIT sticker

My man on the ground sent me through this picture of a GIT sticker. And thoroughly distasteful it is too.

If you see one of these GIT's I urge you not to give them any business. And make it your business to tell them why.

btw, don't bother trying to look on their website. It doesn't exist.

Address Not Found - Firefox can't find the server at www.gitaxis.vp.ie.

Nitwits!

More on GIT's here and here.

Taxi and Hutch

TAXI and HUTCH
STAXI and HUTCH
STARXI and HUTCH
STARSXI and HUTCH
STARSXY and HUTCH

...STARSKY and HUTCH!!! Like the tv program. But a taxi.

Wow!

Vivaldi's Four Seasons

I went to hear the Cologne (Colognic?) Philharmonic Chamber Orchestra play last night. I was in the very front row but had no fear of being picked on by these nice young Germans. They played beautifully with great energy and verve. They played Bach, Handel, Mozart and the whole of Vivaldi's Four Seasons. The entire album! They played the piece collaboratively and authentically, laying to rest the ghost of Nigel Kennedy's virtuoso, modernist, uptempo fiasco.

The only thing that ruined it for me was that the woman next to me continually hummed along to the well known bits. After the show, I was discussing this with my Mum. I told her that humming along to an orchestra was an absolute NoNo and constituted a social faux pas of gargantuan proportions. It would certainly have ruined an otherwise splendid evening's entertainment for anyone within the hapless woman's general vicinity. She agreed and told me that in future she would take greater care to restrain herself.

The Irish Pink Floyd

Here's the Irish Pink Floyd from the other night. It was quite a show.

They did the whole of the Dark Side of the Moon. It was proper brilliant.

If they come back and do the other side I'll be first in the queue.

Conversations with a non GIT

My driver told me last night that GIT's are frequently rude to him and also cut across him in traffic. They are generally impolite, un-Christian and sneering. As he put it himself, "they is always getting thick with me", "you know that kinda of a way" and he also commented that, in his opinion "they have lost the run of themselves".

When we got to my house he asked, "Do you live here?".
"I do indeed", I replied. "This is my house".
"I'm just after bringing two ladies here".
"Really!", I replied. "That would have been my Aunt and my Mum".
"Janey Mac!", he exclaimed. "Small world".
"It is indeed", I told him. "But I wouldn't like to paint it".
He laughed and told me that my Aunt and Mum were "Great craic altogether".

Then he promised to send me some pictures of GIT's.

Illegal Cocaine Binges

Kerry Katona, whoever she is, is in the papers today. She says that she will definately "die young", "before her mother", due to "illegal cocaine binges".

Here's an idea Kerry Katona, whoever you are. If you want to live longer why not find a country where cocaine is legal and binge on it there?

Just an idea Kerry Katona. Me to you.

Progressive Brothers

Just got home from a Pink Floyd gig. The Guaranteed Irish 'Floyd. More later...

Tried three taxis before I found one guaranteed not to be Irish. The presence of an Irishman in each driver's seat was a giveaway.

The fourth car mercifully was driven my a Nigerian, who was not Irish. We discussed the witch hunt gravely. He promised to send me some pictures of GIT taxis. And also some other racial material he had procured.

He said he'd share this blog with some other "progressive brothers". By "others", I assume, he meant cats like me and him.

Esler, MacAskill and Megrahi

First let me say this. I fully agree with the Scottish Government's decision to release Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi on compassionate grounds. Also, for reasons that go way beyond this particular case, I took great pleasure in Scotland being able to assert it's independence in this matter.

I watched Newsnight last night. Gavin Esler was interviewing Scottish Justice Minster Kenny MacAskill who was, it must be said, utterly out of his depth to the point of being embarrassing. I don't ever recall seeing a politician so over-coached, so unable to come remotely off his script, so unable to think on his feet.

Esler, for his part, employed an unnecessarily aggressive and hectoring tone and seemed to base his entire argument on the following points:

What about compassion for the victim's families?
Megrahi served less than 14 days per victim.

MacAskill, sounding more like a broken record than a human being, didn't actually answer Esler. He just parroted on about "compassion" and "compunction" and said absolutely nothing. Here's what he should have said instead.

What about compassion for the victim's families?
This man is almost certainly innocent. Let him go home to die with his family. The dogs on the street know that this crime was state sponsored. He was a pawn. I hereby declare that we, the Scottish Government, will begin a public inquiry to bring the true perpetrators of this heinous crime to justice. This is how we will show compassion for the victim's families.

Megrahi served less than 14 days per victim.
Fuck off Esler. This man has less than 3 months to live. Let him die in the arms of his family. If he dies in prison he will have served less than 14.1 days per victim. Stop asking stupid questions. Where's Paxman?

The Coldest Pint Ever

Amidst a flurry of bus stop photo posta postings we now have this one.

Budweiser ICE COLD.

THE COLDEST PINT EVER.

As one who prefers his beer piping hot I confess to being a mere child in these matters. But I do have three important questions.

1. How do they... ehm
2. What if somebody took...er
3. Even if it is then why would you...y'know

Any idea?

GAA and Kipling

Here's an advert for the GAA featuring the poem IF by Rudyard Kipling.

Why the GAA, those staunch Defenders of Hibernian values, would agree to have their "product" promoted using poetry by Kipling, that staunch Defender of Colonial British values, is ... well, when I come to think about it, not that bloody surprising.

Rab, Storyteller

Due to heavy traffic last night I didn't even attempt to get into the car. If I had attempted, of course, the chances are that I would have succeeded. What I mean is that I simply chose not to get into the car.

Instead, I put my rain coat on, left the building and started walking. Past shops, houses, trees, people. The usual kind of everyday landmarks. Soon I reached the pub and entered that place. I got myself a bottle of ale and sat down.

Soon, the room started filling up with other people. They all looked otherworldly to me. It was that kind of an evening. Then a short Scottish man arrived and introduced himself as Rab. "Hello Rab", I said. He told me he was the storyteller. "Then why are you Scottish?", I asked. "You'll need to ask my parents about that", he retorted, untroubled by the non-sequitor.

Rab then started to tell stories. He was a story teller. And a very good one at that.

We listened and watched in rapture as Rab regaled us with tales of land of sea. Of faeries and mermaids and mysterious old men with humps. None of these stories were remotely true but they all contained truths (much like this blog if I may venture). In these old tales, explained Rab, we find the historical truths of Scotland and Ireland. We believed him.

Rab asked if anyone had any questions. I asked him what faeries looked like. He told me that you could never recognise a faery because they looked just like you and me. He even suggested that they might in fact be slightly more beautiful than that even. I laughed uncomfortably and shook his hand. Then I thanked him for the stories.

"But why did you tell all these stories, Rab?", I asked.

"I'm a storyteller", he replied, simply.

More on faeries here and, indeed, here.

Guaranteed Irish Taxi

GUARANTEED IRISH TAXI
So proclaimed a taxi's bumper sticker I saw recently. I couldn't grab my phone in time to snap a picture of it so you'll have to take my word for it.

GUARANTEED IRISH TAXI
I blame Dunne's with their irritating "The Difference Is ... We're Irish" slogan. Is that the only fucking difference you bunch of fucking opportunists?

GUARANTEED IRISH TAXI
Here's a comment from Mike in Galway from some message taxi board.

1. # mikeon 18 Jun 2009 at 6:36 am

   im a taxi driver in Galway city our city is rife with illegal drivers and uninsured vehicles and when you ring regulator or gardai they dont want to know.I have a 30,000 euro loan out formy unit and now finding it hard to make a living and then we have them calling born and bred Irish taxidrivers racist because our carrys a sign on our vehicles stating that we are Guaranteed Irish Taxi Drivers nxt thing you know they will say our cows are racist because its Guaranteed Irish beef its time to stand up and be counted and stick together and rid ourselves of these so called psv drivers who dont even know how to find eyre square rank.

Yes, that's right. I am saying that Irish cows are racist. That's definitely what I'm saying now. Well anticipated Mike.

GUARANTEED IRISH TAXI Or, for short, GIT.
Why get one of these bloody foreigners to take you home for €15 (and tell you how JESUS WILL SAVE YOUR SORRY SOUL) when, for a mere tenner extra, and you can get a local racist GIT to do it?

Bul-shit

In perhaps the most inspired marketing move of this, the twenty first and final, century Bulmers reduced the alcohol strength of their cider by 1% and added €1 to the price.

And they got away with it. They more than got away with it. They turned a shit product consumed only by alcoholics into a fresh, youthful antidote to Guinness. And the kids loved it. Grown adults loved it too as evidenced by Bulmers outselling Guinness during the summer months [1]. Folks poured it over ice and it felt all spritzy and cool. Not at all like a 'dorty pint'.

But, it hardly needs mentioning, it's still a shit product.

And look at this now. They're bringing the price back down. I'm stunned they didn't mention the 'credit crunch'. As in crunching into an apple. Watch out for it. The fuckers won't miss that trick.

[1] I've done no research here so just pretend I'm telling you this in the pub where what I say has about a 50-50 chance of being true.

Keep the low, low.

I am under enormous (well, enough that I would mention it) pressure tonight to drink.

It could either be in the village or indeed in the city. Either way, people expect me to drink. One person was aghast when I declared my intention to remain utterly sober throughout the game.

The game, of course, is Celtic v Arsenal. I don't tend to drink during Celtic games as I prefer to maintain concentration. When I drink my mind wanders and I could completely miss some tactical nuance. And that won't do at all.

The other reason I won't be drinking tonight is that Celtic are playing Arsenal who are a very fine team indeed. In some ways the best in England. So there's a decent chance we might get beat. And if we do, then I'll be on a low. If I was drinking it would only make the low lower than it needs to be.

If we win, though, I will indulge in an unfeasibly large whisky and crabbies by way of celebration. A draw might even justify this action.

C'mon the Hoops!

Book Shelf Fiasco

I'm listening to the beautiful, mellifluous tones of An Brun. But even this can't block out the horrors of the above picture.

I don't mind a mess.
I do.
I'm patient with the kids. Allow them to be expressive even if it means using the sofa and bedclothes to build a tent.
Well...

Tonight I was out on the green with them until 8 o'clock playing footy and the usual shove-piggy-shove even though I'd had a busy day and was fucking starving. But I didn't really mind.
I did really.

But then to come in to this. It's just too much. It's not that the books are utterly un-alphabetised and un-categorised. That would be asking too much. Even the odd size mixture is something I've had to learn to accept.

But spines, spines must be to the front. Otherwise ... otherwise, children ... what do we ... yes?
What do we have to believe in?
That's right. Now get to bed!

Sacred Cows

I found out last night that, in my local Indian restaurant at any rate, all cows aren't sacred.

We ordered beef jalfrezi. I asked the waiter how come they had beef on the menu. I'd had a couple of Duvels before and I was in a cheeky mood. Surely the cow is sacred, I teased.

These cows are Irish, he deadpanned before heading off to the fridge to get me more beer.

Multi-Tasking

Whilst this bottle of olive oil was being decanted into the nice olive oil dispenser I managed to complete the following chores:

1. Open a bottle of Bishop's Finger (first things first)
2. Bring in some towels off the line
3. Put the doctor's set back in it's box
4. Kiss two children (my own) on the top of the head.

I was immensely pleased with myself. Heretofore I've stood by the olive oil and supervised the project. After all these years of training it can now be trusted to pour itself.

Another small victory for the domesticated man.

WeLoveTheNHS#

Twitter allows everyone and anyone to be a broadcaster. This clearly isn't always a good thing.

But you'd expect better from the likes of Graham Linehan (Glinner) than the kind of hysterical tw-utterances he's been tw-uttering today. You can read more about it here.

Here's what went down. He created a Twitter tag called WeLoveTheNHS#. I won't explain what a tag is (because I can't) but it's aka a hash. Anyway, judging by the ill informed BILE of his tweets he might as well have called the tag HowDareThoseYankeeRighWingWackJobsSlagUsBritsOff#.

Glinner says that "everyone has a story about the NHS helping them in some way...". (Presumably medically?) And therefore it's great and superb? Actually not necessarily.When we read on he does concede that it's not perfect. The issue this Irishman has is that only "us" Brits are allowed to criticise the NHS.

He BLARES:

"Oooh, these rightwing wackjobs in the US lying about the NHS really gets my goat. The NHS isn't perfect, but it's better than the US system!"

And:

"..it's like if you criticise your parents. You can do it but if someone else does it you will murder them."

Murder!!!

Finally, just when you think things can't get any worse, things get plenty worse. He asks his great mates Stephen Fry and Jonathan Ross to help out against the evil American fascists:

@stephenfry @wossy hey guys, want to put your weight behind this? Let's help stop rightwingers in the US slagging off the NHS #welovetheNHS

Typically Gordon Brown, ever an eye for the main chance, jumped on the bandwagon too and offered his support. Our boy Glinner pooh poohed this though:

"Gordon Brown's Twitter was kind of embarrassing; it just sounded like political babble. He doesn't understand yet what Twitter is. It is the kind of platform where political cant can really be exposed under a very harsh light."

Oh Well then. Maybe someday Broon will understand what Twitter is. Perhaps Glinner might kindly explain what it is to all of us. Preferably without using the words cant and can next to each other.

DOWN WITH THIS KIND OF THING!!!

Fitter, Happier

I'm all for hygiene (especially on the company time) but aren't things going overboard a bit?

These signs around the office are utterly daft. If you really want people to improve their personal hygiene lets at least make the instructions grounded in reality. I followed them to the letter earlier for scientific purposes and here's what happened:

• It took me ten minutes to wash my hands.
• It took about five litres of water to wash my hands.
• People gathered round to watch, point and laugh at me washing my hands.

Look at the the last two points:

6/ Dry hands completely with clean paper towel

7/ Use the paper towel to turn off the faucet so your hands remain clean.

That's the paper towel, mind. The one you just dried your hands completely with. And how long does it take to completely dry your hands. Twenty seconds? During which time we must leave the fucking faucet (i.e. tap) running!!!

I hate these signs. They seem to encapsulate the way we live today.

This Shirt Belongs To

This is the shirt I'm wearing today.

It has a little name tag at the bottom 'pon which, presumably, I'm supposed to write my name.

As much as this tickles me, I cannot, however, bring myself to write "Why me, Musters, of course" on my shirt.

I have a feeling, though, that it wouldn't take all that many light ales to change my point of view.

Independance Please

There are many reasons why I would like Independance for Scotland.

But, on balance, this is the main one.

Scotland, you see, isn't a country according to my internet.

Monumentally Tacky

As you may know I've never been blessed with faith.

But that doesn't stop me from appreciating biblical stories and here we see a monument depicting Our Lord preaching His Word to one of the seven disciples on the mound at Hyades.

It's an important event and one that, arguably, underpins the whole of modern Christianity. So, why then must this monument and thousands of others dotted around the country be so unbelievably... undeniably ... what's the word?

Tacky?

Yes.

Tabbouleh

Tabbouleh

From: musters

Sent: 09 August 2009 15:29:52

To: ledbury@ottolenghi.co.uk

Dear Yotam,

Today I tried your tabbouleh recipe as featured in last weekend's Guardian magazine.

Your point about there being a right way (and by extension a wrong one) was well made. You talk about a "million bastardised versions of this simple salad". That, under no circumstances, must couscous be used. No, it must be bulgar wheat but, in fact, parsley is the star of the show and that it must be chopped very fine and not bruised. Top-quality olive oil must also be used no matter how expensive top-quality olive oil is. Several hundred pounds a bottle you'll find.

Yotam Ottolenghi, you are clearly a tabbouleh purist and I'm aware that you chefs are well trained in offering verbal abuse the better to improve your employees. It is with that in mind that I must inform you that in your pedantic and pompous description of the "perfect" recipe you have forgotten one tiny detail, numbnuts.

It is this. Bulgar wheat must be cooked. Not merely sieved under cold water to remove starch. Otherwise it's hard and utterly inedible.

You towering idiot!

Best Regards,

Musters

Chewing Gum Boy

Someone is putting chewing gum in my letter box. And placing it in the lock of the car boot.

Not fresh chewing gum mind. Chewed chewing gum.

I had a sniff today. I half expected cherry or strawberry flavour. But, no. Mint. Spearmint.

So a boy. A pesky boy.

I made some routine enquiries. Soon I got to the bottom of the matter. I was given a name. As expected a boy's name. I went straight to his door. No answer.

I intended to speak to the boy's parents in the strongest possible terms. But don't worry. I'll be back.

This chewing gum PEST of a BOY. WILL be brought to JUSTICE.

(to be furthered...)

The black man's music...

I forgot to mention. When I dropped the car back at Jo'burg airport I gave the guy a cd. A blues sampler from Uncut.

I'm sure he would of preferred a straight cash deal but he was visibly moved anyway.

"The Blues, eh", he said.

"Yea, the black man's music in America", I seemed to say out loud.

He then hugged me. Quite a tight one that went on for ages. About 5 seconds probably.

During that period I thought of a few things. The years of apartheid, Mandela, truth and reconciliation. I was thinking how much I loved the people here. It was my last trip and in a funny sorta way I was gonna miss this beautiful country.

Mostly though, I was thinking about the overwhelming smell of body odour and ways that I could conceivably avoid catching swine flu.

Thomas Cook it

Don't just book it. Thomas Cook it.

So goes the strap line of troubled travel agency Thomas Cook. Workers in Dublin this week locked themselves in their office after hearing that they'd been made redundant. There, they ate pizza and frantically booked holidays for people.

Thomas Cook, like all travel agents, have a special version of the internet that only has holidays on it. If, say, you wanted to visit your daughter in Morocco they might, instead, send you to Mexico. Your daughter would still be in Morocco, of course, but, crucially, all your food and drink would be included in the price.

So. Without travel agents to book holidays on their special holiday internet what will become of us all? It's a frightening prospect to be sure.

UK Citizen Test

Here I learned that I was 82% hetero. This came as a major shock to some of my mates who'd theretofore assumed I was gayer than that.

Now today, we have this bombshell.

Here according to my internet I am a whopping 50% UKish. Or British, if you prefer. I certainly don't. The fact that I failed is scant consolation.

How To Bet Properly

On Friday night I was in the pub watching the Galway races. The place didn't have the usual feel of a Friday though. Most of the punters looked like they'd been going hard at it all week, drinking and gambling, and they had a jaded look about them.

But I hadn't been drinking or gambling all week. It seemed that with no more than a cursory glance at the racing pages I could pick a winner or, at the very least, get a decent run for my money. In the end I had three winners. I did this more or less by following jockeys I'd heard of. None of the other punters in the pub seemed to be sharing my luck. Perhaps they were making the school-boy error of following horses they'd heard of. Or worse, tips they'd been given.

Then I realised. As I looked around the pub I noticed with growing disbelief that nobody, except me, was wearing a bookie's pen in their ear. It's far too easy in life, I thought, sipping my cider, to lose sight of the basics

Jack Johnson and iPhone

I was seriously thinking about getting me an iPhone. Then I saw the new ad last night where you have to tell it - speak to it mind! - to call Dave Taylor and play Jack Johnson.

Now I know Dave Taylor of old and, let me assure you, I have no intention of telling my phone to phone the shambling drunkard.

Jack Johnston presumably seen as a safe choice musically since everybody likes him. What's not to like? Who wouldn't want to tell their phone to play some old Jack?

Yes, you guessed it. It's me, Musters. I can't abide the unvariegated acoustic garbologist. I'd like to bury him and his guitar up to the neck in sand. Quick sand.