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)

Phones and McGonagall

My mate Andy phoned me last night. He phones now and again for a chat. He enjoys chatting.

So I took the phone through to the place in the house with a poor signal and answered. I could just about hear him but he couldn't hear me. Eventually the poor signal deteriorated to no signal at all and the line dropped. So I went back to watching the Munster game in peace.

There was a time, not so very long ago, when phone conversations with my mates were along the lines of:

Hey

Pint?

Yup

Friday at 8, Staggs?

Aye, see you then

Bye

Sometimes the above conversation could be obviated entirely by actually arranging the pint the week before. In person, while drunkenly staggering out of Staggs. And, regular as clockwork, everyone would be there the following week at 8. These were simpler times.

Now everyone wants to chat. Even men. It's all gone a bit arse over tit, if you'll forgive the expression.

From what I could make out, Andy wanted to have a chat about the Scottish poet William Topaz McGonagall. Now I'd normally be more than happy to discuss the merits and demerits of McGonagall at great length so long as I was safely ensconced in the snug of Milne's Bar with a pint of 80/- in front of me (and possibly 3 or 4 behind me). Certainly not over the phone. 

Honestly, if it wasn't for emergencies, I'd seriously consider disabling my phone's voice function.

Settings / Phone / Voice / Off.

Paradox Smokehead

I note with interest that BrewDog have just won  first prize at the "Prince's Scottish Youth Business Trust ‘Young Entrepreneur of the Year’ Awards." Apart from being an apostrophal nightmare, this is an extremely coveted award.

But the brewery has come in for severe criticism from some quarters (not least this one). They have been warned by The Portman Group, who promote sensible drinking, that drinking Brewdog products is the very definition of not-sensible. They go on to say that the way Brewdog advertise their products promotes excess, particularly among younger people. Brewdog respond simply by calling for the abolition of The Portman Group. They don't care, what anyone thinks, see.

Now my own view on Brewdog are documented here (me no likey) but I don't quite see what all the fuss is about. Young people bent on excess are hardly likely to be swayed by guff like "Paradox Smokehead - a unique whisky cask aged stout" even if it comes in at a hefty 10% ABV. Like normal young people they'll simply seek vomit-inducing oblivion via the medium of the cheapest can of cider they can find. I think we can rest safe in the knowledge that none of our young people would be stupid enough to drink anything from Brewdog.

So, who in the name of Sweet Baby James, does drink this stuff? Who are they marketing their crass and overbearing marketing at?

Well I don't know. I can only assume that they are aiming for the age group at the highest point on the Earnings/Stupidity scatter diagram. Should such a thing exist.

They're right about one thing though. It is a Paradox. I just can't fathom it.

Percy Grainger

If you haven't heard any of the extraordinary symphonies, choral works or piano music of Percy Grainger I would urge you not to bother with the greatest possible haste.

Grainger was born in 1882 and managed to mooch around, generally annoying people, until his death (of natural causes) in 1961. He was born 6 years before Celtic Football Club were founded and died 6 years before I, myself, was founded (i.e. born).

Can anything be read into that?

Unlikely.

The notable thing about Grainger is that his primary interest in music was to promote his daft ideas about racial purity. He had very little interest in the music per se (per cy).

For example, he despised all musical instruments. He considered them an absolutely unnecessary affectation in the making of music. He preferred to develop and promote his daft musical ideas about racial purity via less conventional forms. He eschewed actual musical instruments and composed and played his pieces literally "upon and in the air we breath". 

Percy Grainger was a very odd man.

He had a particularly strong aversion to the piano. He believed that it "deliberately destroyed" his "melodiously conceived ideas" by trying to "shoehorn" them into the limitations of "two human hands" and a "box of hammers and strings". Strong words indeed.

He did, however, manage to "dish up", as he put it, several piano pieces in a variety of styles. All of them were, unfortunately, unplayable. This was much down to Grainger's unconventional musical notation which he attempted to free from Latin and Greek "impurities". So his sheet music contains such racially engendered terms as "louden hugely", "heavily but cloyingly", "harped all the way" and "make toppermost whiter" that nobody, but nobody, could make head nor tail of.

What else? Let me check my Wikipedia ... here we go,

1. Grainger's mother allocated time each day to stare at a statue of a Greek god in the belief it would pass some of its qualities to her child.
   
2. In London, he was known as "the jogging pianist" for his habit of racing through the streets to a concert, where he would bound on stage at the last minute because he preferred to be in a state of utter exhaustion when playing
   
3. In 1910 Grainger began designing and making his own clothing, ranging from jackets, to shorts, togas, muumuus and leggings, all made from towels and also intricate grass and beaded skirts.
   
4. He also designed a crude forerunner of the modern sports bra for his Danish sweetheart.

As mentioned, Percy Grainger was a very odd man.

Eventually, disaffected and embittered, Grainger gave up composing and playing entirely and spent his winter years making up jolly folk songs. About racial purity.

Neachtains

I dropped into Galway's best pub, Neachtains, last week for a couple of pints.

I was welcomed in the door by Tom Waits' Rain Dogs playing at a slightly louder volume than you'd expect. Waits doesn't do background music and, even if he did, it wouldn't be Rain Dogs. This album, along with it's predecessor Swordfishtrombones, marked the end of Waits bohemian, crooner persona and heralded his junkyard, bone machine shouty one. The persona he maintains to this very day. 

Then I saw another musical hero of mine, John Martyn. I grabbed my pint and asked him if he minded if I joined him. He didn't seem to.  

We talked about his life and music and I told him how much I admired how he'd re-invented the folk genre with his unique jazz inflections and deliberately slurred vocal style. I reminded him that we'd met, years ago, in Kendall, when he was wearing a kimono and showing large Bacardi and dribbles of coke the very smallest of respect. He was literally throwing them over his neck. 

He laughed and told me, veering - within a single sentence - between a Scottish, Irish, American and London accent, that he vaguely remembered the occasion and asked me if I'd buy him a pint of stout and a short while he went to the toilet. I assured him I would, with absolute pleasure.

As he got up and walked to the toilet it struck me that John Martyn, the singer, was confined to a wheelchair after having his right leg amputated below the knee a couple of years ago.

It's a great pub Neachtains. You just never know who you're going to bump into.

Po Kng Fre Plasy

There was one thing I wanted to talk to you about.

According to the note I scribbled last night it was Po Kng Fre Plasy.

Sometimes, I get inspired and a brilliant idea comes into my head. But I'm not near an intanet or I'm about to watch a program about Stephen Fry in America. So I write it down.

This happened last night and, according to my notes, the matter I wanted to cover was Po Kng Fre Plasy.

Do you agree?

Functions

I love functions. Weddings, Birthdays, Young Entrepreneur of the Year, that kind of thing.

You may sit with a banker or a prostitute but, at that table, everyone is equal. Typical of my luck, I sat down at a recent function with a banker.  

Whilst we tucked into our chicken and ham vol-au-vents and had a few drinks we put the world to rights.  By the time the chocolate profiteroles had arrived we'd not only put this world to rights but also the other eight planets which orbit the Sun [1].

Then the dancing started and everyone is having a great time. There's very little I enjoy more in life than watching people having fun. It's part of the very air I breathe.

So, as I sat there, watching people dance, chatting and enjoying their night out away from their hum drum, everyday lives, I though one thing. 

I wish I'd brought a book.

[1] we failed to put the Sun to rights and in fact, clashed violently over the matter.

Antiques Roadshow

Boy, were we ever sold a pup last night!

I'm a minor fan of this show in a very particular early Sunday evening kind of way. The same goes for One Man And His Dog which, sadly, seems to be no more. I'm even toying with watching Songs of Praise but I fear this may be taking things too far. Still, at least it's not as evil as it's Saturday night equivalents, X-Factor and Strictly Come Ballroom Dancing.

Anyway, I was more than usually excited about Antiques Roadshow last night as I'd read that some punter had turned up with an article which the assessor had valued at one million pounds. The details were a closely guarded secret and that only heightened my anticipation.

On the show last night there was a series of lovely items. A Faberge egg, delicately carved. An amazing Edison phonograph once owned by Harry Lauder. Some Francis Bacon sketches he did whilst out on the piss one night. These were only valued at only a few thousand each. What could possibly be worth a million?

Then some Tyneside local councillor turned up with a prototype Angel of the North that, by all accounts, he's nicked out of the broom cupboard. And this, this rusty piece of bronze, was valued at one million! Hard to fathom, really, and suggestive that the only antiques that are actually worth a million are the ones that patently aren't.