Bushwrecker!

Every morning, from my breakfast table, I see a little old chinese man in the back green and each day he's busy snapping and hacking away at a small tree/bush thing in the communal. Our window faces out onto the garden, but alas we have no control over what happens in it as our garden is the next one over. Anyway, his actions annoy me. Why? I hear someone ask. Not sure, but whilst I can't argue that the plant is in need of a bit of periodic pruning, I doubt such action involves cack handedly attacking the thing every morning on your way back from the bin shelter. The result of all this is that the shrub now looks a total mess. It's ground cover has also disappeared. It was a common haunt of my deceased and much missed old cat Sam. A perfect place to go and have a doze or take a breather during one of the many heroic scraps he got into with the other cats in the back court. It'll grow back I suppose but it's just one of those instances in which you observe somebody doing something that inexplicably makes you want to go and slap them about and ask them what they're thinking of..... Of course, it could be our old plant vandal hates cats. I reckon he's just a bit mental though. I fully expect him to appear some morning soon with a machete and a maniacal look on his face...................

I Do Apologise

I realise many of you couldn't care less about FIFA and the World Cup. Hell, I lost interest about a fortnight ago. I had promised myself not to bring it up again but somehow I lapsed and, well, there you go............ Anyway, I got pulled in by the department superviser at work yesterday. I had been quite monumentally late(let's just say I took my seat as some people were getting ready for lunch). I don't quite know how the conversation got around to it but he confided in me that sometimes at night after he had been 'doing some research' on the internet, he found it hard to get to sleep. I'll bet.................The guy's a glorified admin monkey. What the hell does he have to 'research' on the net? Apart from the ruddy obvious................ Then I got cornered by the toilet conversationalist. This guy is your worst nightmare if he meets you in the bogs. He feels utterly compelled to start a conversation with you. It wouldn't bother me terribly but he has to be the most boring human being I have ever met. If I find myself cornered again, having to engage in yet another stilted conversation about football or what i'm doing at the weekend(really an excuse for him to tell you what HE did at the weekend) i'll most likely throw myself out of one of the rather generously sized cubicle windows and have done with it. Also, theres nothing this guy doesn't know. Or at least that's the impression he likes to give. Let's just say he's a fan of trivia quizzes and likes to let everyone know as loudly as possible just how much he knows. I should think myself lucky though. The guy who sits next to me is in a band. He had to endure the most contrived and utterly tedious story about how a pal of our erstwhile office bore had to take his £2000 guitar back to the shop to have it retuned. It went on for about ten minutes. seriously. Thank god he doesn't know I play guitar.

The Ladies Of Baden Baden

Good to see the various partners and spouses of the England football team are having a grand old time in Germany. On the whole most people regard it with some amusement, though there seems to be an attitude among the various dullards and the human vegetables that make up your average tv pundit panel that they are bringing the game into disrepute and should have been left at home. Bollocks. Nothing like a bit of pagentry and glam to liven up proceedings. Talking of which, a big shout out to my man Sepp Blatter. What a shit this guy is. He issues orders to refs to book people for just about any foul tackle or infringement going and then slags the refs off for losing control of any game in which the miserable, platitudinous 'Fair Play' bollocks he spouts flies out the window and players start hacking, diving, play acting and spoiling at every opportunity. Usually by this point about half a dozen players have been booked for trifling offences and it's a fair bet someone is going to take an early bath at some point. Not saying the refs are blameless, they aren't, but their job would be infinitely easier if they had absolute control over what is or isn't a yellow or red card offence. I'm assuming most of them have a greater understanding of the game than some fat, bald, crooked Swiss tosser in a blazer. It's one thing to stand and fall by your own mistakes, it's another to suffer the same fate implementing the idiotic edicts of a jumped up bureaucrat. There are ways of improving the game, but they certainly won't come from Mr Blatter's flabby gob. There, I feel better already.................

Time Gentlemen, Please!

It would seem the Western Bar has closed. I could be wrong, the landlord could be on holiday................. Nah, I think it's gone belly up. I was only ever in it once. It was very quiet that night but it was fairly welcoming and comfy. What it was like at half ten on a saturday night was maybe another story................. I always remember it for the scary looking dummy with the waxed raincoat, broad brimmed hat and tankard that sat in one of the windows, the excruciating karaoke that thundered from it's walls and the drunken old jossers staggering home after a good old skinfull. Did the smoking ban kill it? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. More than likely the landlord decided to sell up and move on because he simply couldn't compete with the two bigger pubs a few hundred yards down the road. I await it's next incarnation with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

A Drunk Man Casts About For Something To Blog About.

Yay! I've been rummaging around blogland for the first time in ages and lo, I have found a new favourite blog. 'Over Here' is the journal of an Irish woman living in Canada, working as, I think, a research scientist. Anyone who has a near miss with a bottle of fermenting(not to mention exploding) tomato ketchup and lives to tell the tale has to have something going for them. Oh, and her writing kicks arse. I also found that people will make electro versions of just about anything. I actually rather enjoyed it to be honest..... Here is the site I found the link on. That will be all!

Brothel Wars

Oh lord!! Seedy saunas, 'masseuses' in naughty nurse outfits, sword wielding mad men, Triads, the second coming....................... Ok, maybe not the second coming, but I was just waiting for it to be shoe horned into this rather bizarre little story I found in Glasgow scandal 'zine 'The Digger'. Basically the guy who writes it turns up at trials and court hearings before reporting the gory details in his A5 pamphlet which is sold in various independent newsagents in the city. To cut a long story short, Hugh 'Shug' O'Donnell wants to put a few rival rub-a-tug shops out of business. He appears at one of them brandishing a 'leather double handed sword' and proceeds to 'go completely off his nut', chasing employees and clients out into the street. The place in question is run by the local Triads. This seems not to bother our mentalist chum and he proceeds to threaten the ladies of the establishment with violence unless they come to work for him. Hasn't he heard of PR or Advertising? Or is this his idea of headhunting.............? The madness doesn't end there. In a web of criminality far too byzantine and tedious to cover in any detail here it would seem that 'Shug' who has property in Jersey and The Isle Of Man by the way, was arrested coming off a jet in Dubai for his earlier hooker threatening episode. Add to this accusations of money laundering, naughty knicker smuggling operations at prisons and the obligatory drug dealing and you may well have the next 'ice cream wars' . Sort of. All I can say is that this magazine should have an online counterpart. I simply cannot do justice to the real life lunacy that lies between it's covers.

May The Farce Be With You!

Evening all! First of all, i'd like to recommend the Camera Obscura album. The songs have a happy/sad feel to them that I adore. It also has the most arresting cd cover i've seen in years. Also, thanks to MySpace, you can now hear the music first and then tell me i'm a cloth eared idiot without spending twelve quid on a CD you'll hate. Ok, shameless plug over with, I simply cannot let pass the news that wee Tone Blair wants his own 'Airforce One' style jet. The cunt. If anyone needed to know just how out of touch our PM is this story should fill in the gaps. The last thing this lying creep deserves is a free aeroplane. Then of course his Chancellor and successor Gordon Brown pitches in and tells him such a thing won't be affordable until 2008, by which time Gordo hopes to have his expansive arse occupying a couple of window seats i'm sure.......... Some of you may be wondering why i'm so tickled by this story. The main reason is that the Blair MO is self agrandisment and an obsession with posterity. I don't believe he's bothered about what people think of him, as long as he goes down in history as a figure of significance. The rush to war can have no other explanation. He's a reasonably intelligent man and I believe he realises his Iraq rhetoric is horseshit. He knew people could be just about swayed with the 'smoke and mirrors' spin that had been perfected over his term and a half in office and took the chance of involving himself in a situation that i'm sure he convinced himself would be fully resolved within a year tops. 'Blair-Force One' looks like an attempt at faux presidential splendour and just another sign that the man is desperate to angle the position of PM towards something approaching the regard in which US Presidents are held('My President, right or wrong'). He could of course just be another dead beat world leader on his last legs looking for something to impress chumps like Berlusconi and Bush with before he fucks off to the House Of Lords once and for all.

My Tracker Has A Sex Life I Can Only Dream Of

Slowly but surely my blog has begun to attract the web sex hunters again. Since I ditched the 'Dirty Young Man' name, i've been fairly untroubled by such callers. Not any more. Most of these search engine requests end up in disappointment for the particular person that entered them, but one has to admire their persistance. If they're willing to rumage through my site on the off chance of finding what they want then fair play to them. The most common search engine entry relating to my blog of late has been 'Man Fucking Man'. To be honest, this is probably the homosexual equivelent of entering 'Hardcore Fucking' or 'Blondes With Big Tits' and as such doesn't really merit anything more than a raised eyebrow. Next up we have 'How To Talk Dirty To A Man Giving Head'. You mean they give lessons? Surely the gutter talk would flow quite naturally? If you have to rehearse and remember what to say in such a situation, I think it's probable that you ought to be doing something a little less spontaneous and exciting anyway. Maybe it's better to just say nothing and go with the flow............ Then there's the obligatory bestiality requests. In my case it's 'Man Fucking Animals'. Further down my list is a similar request, this time specifically looking for photos. I couldn't help my curiosity and hit the link. To be honest, I was a tad unimpressed. The search engine page turned up a news story about a man who died after a bit of equine lovin'(the mind boggles), but little else. To be honest, I think they would have more joy with the 'image search' option but it's not really my place to suggest such things. If anyone else has any utterly bizarre search engine requests in their tracker, please feel free to mention them. I could do with a laugh. Cheers!

Obsevations On The Subject Of Wanderlust

The weekend, apart from getting me out and about and away from the city for a few days brought me into contact with a couple of people that have given me reason to marvel at human ingenuity and bloody mindedness. Well, by 'contact', I mean I had brief encounters with them and heard their stories in something of a second hand manner. Both people spend a fair proportion of their lives on the move. I heard one of them described as a 'saddle tramp'. Maybe a little crude, but not without an element of truth. Speedy turns up at motorcycle race meetings on a sporadic basis. He volunteers to marshall, which put's him a league above the ringpieces that freeload in with rider entrants and spend the weekend doing fuck all. Cheers! Speedy's a strange sort, a quiet chap with a nervous laugh and something of an independent nature. As a result he's not really acknowledged as race marshall material but that's not what interests me about him. From what I know, he lives in Campbeltown on the Mull of Kintyre, on the west coast and the only race tracks in Scotland are situated in Fife and East Lothian, in the east. Getting to his 'local' circuit is an enormous journey undertaken via hitchhiking and public transport and he can often be seen standing at one of the rural bus stops near the circuit waiting on an early evening bus or the kindness of a passing motorist to get him part of the way home. I'd hate to think what the round journey is. I would salute his indefatigability, but he probably thinks nothing of it. The only thing that makes him strange is that he comes and goes on his own I suppose, just to stand by the track and watch motorcycles going round in circles. This of course is all put into perspective by the the French woman who turned up at the meeting this weekend. She appeared at the same weekend last year. She rides a tiny Motobecane moped that does about 30mph flat out. Maybe 40 on a downhill slope with a tailwind. It would seem that she travels Europe on it, going to bike meets and setting up camp wherever takes her fancy. Where she stores her camping gear on such a tiny machine I have no idea. The other thing that staggers me is how she makes her progress. She can't take her bike onto any motorway, so she basically has to take her fair share of back roads, though I doubt this fazes her at all. If you've resolved to see the world at thirty mph, I doubt very much if a bit of map reading and the odd scenic route is going to bother you terribly. The road miles show on her face, which is bronzed and weather beaten. Though i'm not entirely sure how old she is, she looks both child like and older than the hills. Quite disconcerting, especially when she appears next to you and starts babbling in her rather good Frenglish. So, there I am thinking i'm the bees knees because I go on the odd Gyp. Compared to these two wanderers i'm just a 'stay at home' nancy boy who wouldn't know the world at large if it bit me on the arse. Then again, you all knew that anyway. Cheers!

A Request

Hello Would the three people who visited my blog on saturday please come forward so I can thank you personally for your patronage. No, really.............. Ok, I was away for the weekend, but THREE? MY hit rate is modest, certainly, but that's ridiculous. I will admit to being a slave to my tracker and this is deeply unhealthy. Definitely anal-retentive behaviour. Hope you all had at least a bearable weekend. For the record, I spent two days in a field in East Lothian again, helping to ensure that a few hundred mental cases on motorcycles were able to 'safely' ride like lunatics. Don't ask.... For my part it involved getting wet and covered in a thin layer of grime and sweat that I'll still feel for the next few days no matter how many times I shower. Anyway, all I want to be doing right now is sitting in bed watching Futurama DVD's. So there...........

Wake Me Up When It's Time To Go Home - Dark Scooby Doo Ending For Rob

I had been walking along the verge of the high coastal road for about an hour when I saw in the distance a man standing in the middle of the road. As I got closer I realised that he was in some distress. He was clenching and unclenching his fists rapidly, walking back and forth across the narrow road and generally looking like he'd had better days. As I got to within about twenty metres of him I realised all was not right with his particular world. There was to my right what at one stage had been a rather flashy looking convertible car lying upside down in the gorse. A blood soaked arm lay flopped out from the wreckage at an impossible angle. The car looked like it had rolled a fair few times going by the hundred or so yards of flattened shrubbery going back to a set of skid marks on the road ahead. This was where my eyes met with what looked like some sort of oversized roadkill. The man pacing about on the road was, at a guess, in his mid twenties. He seemed not to notice me as I came to the scene. I looked at him and asked if he needed any help. He stopped and looked in my general direction but not at me. He went back to pacing. He was talking to himself but I couldn't hear what he was saying. I shouted this time. 'Hello, what's happened? Are you alright?' Again he looked up and towards me, but no eye contact, just a look of fear and bewilderment. I'm no lip reader, but i'm sure he mouthed the words 'Help Me, They're Dead'. I wandered past the man, towards the body on the road. It was female, as far as I could tell and yes, very very dead. Just as one ought to be after being smashed to bits by a speeding car. The whole scene was becoming too surreal for me and I simply wandered off. I kept looking back. The man, the car and the body remained until the road curved right and out of sight of the strange scene I had just witnessed. I put it down to the hallucinagenic properties of the sea air and too much ecitement for one day and put my head down to make the next town by dusk. The hope that the land ladies of my next port of call couldn't be any less pleasant than those of the place I had just left kept my spirits up and my mind and body from calling it a day there and then in the alluringly soft and tranquil moorland.

Some Things I Found

Hello. Just a brief post tonight. I'm rather tired and a bit frazzled from a weekend of glorious sunshine, extensive drinking and too much televised football. First of all, if anyone has any idea how to set up a music player in myspace I will be forever in your debt. The last statement covers a fairly broad remit but falls short of sexual favours............... Next, I would like to introduce you all to some new things I found on the internets. TV Cream - Arcane Tv listings The Rockall Times - The Heather Mills piece is especially amusing The Random Surrealist Insult/Compliment Generator - Exactly what it says on the tin. Learning How To Throw Yourself At The Ground And Miss - A wonderful, wonderful blog. One of my favourites. Theres some new stuff in my link list too. Cheers.

Warning! Some World Cup Content

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Fuck Off Blogger

Really very pissed off right now. Is it just me or is there never a night goes by when there isnt something fucking well wrong with this thing? The most common complaint is that Blogger won't upload my photo's. Another pet hate is when you have to reload the posting page as the full version with all those handy little icons has obviously decided not to make an appearance and sends it's rather ugly and unhelpfull sibbling to do the job for you. Tonight has been a nightmare. Slow loading for all blogger sites and an absolute bastard when it comes to making a post. I can't believe i'm getting angry at a website....... Anyway, due to 'tecnical difficulties' there are no pictures tonight. To be honest i've not a lot to say either.................but then, you all knew that anyway.

Wake Me Up When It's Time To Go Home pt 7

The sound of the cell door awoke me from my shallow slumber with a start. I stared incomprehensibly at the large figure in the doorway, trying to regain my bearings and remember where I was and what I was doing there. "Ok pal, yer free to go" said the figure in the doorway. He had come some way into the cell and I could now identify him as the police officer who had manhandled me into the police station. I could prove nothing, but I felt sure it was he who had administered the blow to the side of my head too. "I couldn't have a cup of tea could I?" I rasped, my tongue still stuck to the roof of my mouth. "That will be bloody right son, you think this is the fuckin' Hilton or somethin'?" He looked at me like I was vermin. I suppose I was in a way. I had certainly looked better in my time, though not much. "I only asked..........." "Lucky not to be up in front of the magistrate mate" he continued warming to his theme somewhat. "I had you in here on an act of public indecency. Playin' with yerself on a park bench........" "I was asleep, I had no idea....." I butted in, not liking where this was going. "Yeah, heard it", he snapped. "Thing is, I don't make the decisions around here. You can go now." He looked wistfully at the light fitting, a little smile coming to his lips for a moment, probably imagining for a few seconds a world in which the cracking of strangers over the head with his truncheon was the kind of thing that got you promoted. "You said I could go?" I ventured. The officer snapped out of his little bloodsoaked reverie and directed me to the door and down the hallway to the desk sergeant to collect my belongings. An hour later I was sitting on the prom with a bag of chips. They tasted slightly strange, the vinegar wasn't right. I put it down to the bump on the head scrambling my taste buds and breathing the musty air of the jail cell for three hours couldn't have helped either. The town looked altogether more welcoming in the mid afternoon, with it's citizens and tourists milling about in the streets and on the beach. A holiday postcard scene if ever there was one. What a pity it had taken me six long, traumatic, lonely hours hours to find it. Scrunching the chip bag up I got to my feet and wandered towards the nearest bin. Several scabby looking local strays demonstrated more than just a passing interest in the chip wrapper as I went to dispose of it. "I wouldn't bother if I were you chaps" I said as I dropped it in the bin "I think someone pissed in the vinegar bottle in the chippy, tasted bloody awful" Understandably they ignored me and continued to paw and slavver at the bin entrance in the vain hope of getting at the greasy piece of newspaper. I considered my situation for a few moments as I walked along the seafront. I had heard the next stop along the coast was nice. I would leave that night. The world seemed still to regard me as easy prey here. This place and it's people didn't seem to want me and I decided that I had to leave before I got too familiar with any more of it's denizens.

Well Hello..........

A bit of a weekend all told. Went to Stirling on saturday with Clairwil, the account of which can be read here. Along the way I picked up a bit of a slow burning hangover. Still feeling a bit crap so i'll make tonights post short and sweet. I got an invitation from the very nice people at The Aftertime to possibly contribute something to their magazine. Not sure what it'll be yet. I have until the 25th of this month to decide. Oh goody, a mission........... Anyway, I'll be back tomorrow, hopefully with the last episode of Wake Me Up....... Yes, I know i'm all promises...............

World Cup Hell

Been watching ITV's stab at World Cup build up over the past week or so(ITV 11-12pm weekday nights). It's called World Cup Heaven And Hell. A fine title as watching it is as close as you get to simultaneous misery and joy as i've experienced in a tv show. I'm a glutton for old World Cup footage to be honest but the 'talking head' element of the programme left me cold. Very Cold. Top prize goes to the guy with the comedy coker knee accent(Miff something-or-other) He has to be the biggest arsehole I have never met. What a goon. You absolute fucking travesty. You complete cunt. You London media whore 'just discovered football half an hour ago and went to see West Ham once' prickbag. I hope you die quite soon. The rest were the usual array of failed comedians(Ricky Fucking Grover, Jesus!!!) and poor quality hacks using funny voices, heavy handed sarcasm and scripted wisecracks to make late bids for media icon status and half hearted attempts at resurrecting their flagging careers as 'amusement engineers' . The sad fucking bastards. A comedy Kraut was even flown in to accentuate the Germanophobia(is that a fucking word or what?) of which there was copious amounts. Fuck me!! Us sweaty socks are being told by the racial equality people not to use the World Cup as an excuse to exercise anti English sentiments and then you watch shite like that...........................I ask you? 'Oh, but it's all in fun' they say, 'we don't really mean it' Neither do we............................not much.... Wouldn't mind if the gags were funny but they weren't. After every painfully laboured joke I half expected the 'boom-tish' sound of the bored house band drummer to underline each meagre excuse for a punchline. It was so bad that the funniest line of tonight's show fell to rubbish Scottish comic Andy Cameron with a gag about a shop in Dundee selling copies of his 1978 World Cup record after the finals for 1p with a free hammer to smash the thing. In an ideal world, the airing of this show should see to it that very few of these pricks will ever work in the media again. Instead I fear we may be in for another series of 'Orrible' and the proliferation of mouthy barrow boy wannabees in the sports pages of our daily papers. There were a few exceptions. Bob Mills, despite his heavy handed sarcasm chipped in with something approaching genuine insight from time to time. Paul Tonkinson likewise. The star of the show was the chap with the giant quiff and the blazer. Cohen I think his name was. Made a few spurious deductions throughout, but at least seemed to be on talking terms with rational thought. Small mercies and all that. That leaves the real star of the show, the footage............ The amazing goals, the abysmal tackles, the cheats, the scandals, the pictures of Ally McLeod having a nervous breakdown....................... Who needs the 'wry and comedic insights' when you have the bare and sometimes rather lunatic facts to speak for themselves.