Quick Everyone, Pretend We're Not At Home.........

It's the night every urban attention seeker looks forward to all year. That chance, so rudely denied in everyday life and seized this once with feverish enthusiasm, to dress up (and act like) a twat.

This evening I'm round at my folks house to hide from the local wildlife and their take on 'trick or treat'. Not sure what they get up to in Woodside, but I'm not really into finding out.

Do kids still go guising? Maybe they don't bother. Maybe it's the same routine of getting up to no good as any other night, but with a cheap plastic horror mask on as a concession to Halloween. Or are they busy playing with fireworks? Sounds far more fun than trying to threaten pennies out of students and OAP's.

I won't bang on about the evils of 'Trick or Treat', if only because it seems so Pavlovian and predictable to do so. Needless to say, a fair amount of kids are escorted around neighbourhoods by adults and shout the term without any intent, satisfied with a few pennies and a handful of Mini Heroes. It's when they're five foot five with bumfluff 'taches and broken voices that you need to be mindful.

For my own part, I recall Halloween with a mixture of fondness and embarrassment. The dressing up bit was always something to look forward to, but having to remember jokes that weren't too rude to tell the old dear upstairs was something of a chore. Costumes? The year I went in drag sticks in my mind for obvious reasons. I could only have been about nine or ten...............I doubt there are any parents who would allow such a thing now. Such parental 'misguidance' in this day and age would be deeply frowned upon, no doubt leading to them being put on the sex offenders register or some such nonsense.

It's funny really, that's the kind of leap of logic you would make when faced with having nothing to wear. Every other kid in the street had something worked up, but coming home from school in a town ten miles away meant that sometimes I had nothing planned out and if you were in any way intending on boosting that weekends pocket money, then you damn well better find something to wear.

Sure as hell beats going as a Blues Brother or Franken Furter or Elvis or sticking on an afro wig and pretending to be from an obscure tv sitcom.

Tonight I'm going out as Phil Collins, circa 'Face Value'/'Something In The Air Tonight'

Now, where are my portable sine drums..............

A Quick One..........

..........Before the off-licence shuts.

As you may have guessed, I'm still broadbandless, thanks to Virgin and their utter, utter cack-handedness. Fuck you and the grinning buck-toothed cunt you rode in on!!!

Understandably I just cancelled it and I'm looking at other options. Any thoughts?

Youtube is Hole. Just after they were unlistenable and just before they thought they were Fleetwood Mac. Absolute Bliss.

You Can Do What With Your Breasts?

Maybe it's just me, but somehow this all sounds like something of an over-reaction. Ok, so it's not exactly becoming of a lady to crush beer cans with her cleavage, and yes, you can see how some patrons might get a little uptight about it, but for fucks sake! 1000 dollar fines all round? Mind you, we seem, as a race to have a bit of a problem with breasts, be it hang-ups or fixations, so until we stop wetting ourselves over a bit of bare flesh I doubt very much if you'll see this sort of thing down yr local.............

Blue Peter For Grown-Ups

I HATE The One Show!

Yes, in letters that big. I'm not the only one either.........

Unlike the soaps, which are on just late enough for me to be able to sit at the PC in peace, The One Show is invariably on when I pop round to the folks to use the PC. So it's on in the background, and like most pointless froth, it seems to have the aggravating effect of not allowing me to concentrate on other things. Put something on involving wildlife, science or archeology and I'll merrily ignore it for it's duration. On the other hand, any flavour of mental chewing gum and it's like toothache, you simply cannot ignore it and you're left with no option but to prod it a bit and make it worse. One could argue, I suppose, that what early evening television has been screaming out for for years is a sort of update on the old Nationwide format, though this isn't it. Of course, what I really mean by 'update' is to cross Pebble Mill at One, with Watchdog to get a sort of Blue Peter for grown-ups. The tone is distinctly 'daytime' and it's all very mimsy, with an unhealthy fixation on lifestyle and pointless scare stories. In fact, if one word could be used to sum the whole thing up, it would be 'facile'. The reports seem to be based on half-baked theories or non-stories about various tedious Daily Mail style issues. Then there are the wacky presenters with their wacky props cajoling the human contents of some God-forsaken concrete shopping trench into saying or doing something amusing. It used to work, but these days we're all a little too smart to make too much of an arse of ourselves on the telly. Worry not though, there are plenty of pro-am attention seekers available to cover that quota adequately.

Quite what professional Brummie Adrian Chiles is doing on it is unclear, though he does actually anchor it reasonably well. The presenting style in the studio is very much similar to his Match Of The Day approach, i.e. slightly less obvious than your average TV host. But only slightly. His replacement this week is a small bald chap with a gruff cockney accent. He's fine doing 'to camera' stuff, but he doesn't quite have Chiles' amiable banter and iron grip on the conversation (which stops dull guests prattling on too long)

There are little islands of hope to be found in this river of toss though. They did a pretty good feature on Cloud Spotting a while back, and tonight there was a slightly disturbing chap on who seemed to revel in prodding freshly laid piles of cow shit (it was about Dung Beetles) It's this combination of whimsy and a little bit of wonder at the world around us that maybe gives the show an escape hatch to a better place. Then again, why not just do a programme about Dung Beetles and Cloud Spotting?

Still, it'll run forever, just as long as there's a never ending supply of arse-clenchingly dull semi-celeb guests (Penny Lancaster anyone?) , alleged experts on rubbish topics ('How to pose in clothing', 'prevent your cat from killing birds') and pointless vox-pop surveys and features (I remember one hideously ill-advised week-long feature about inter-town rivalries that reached it's nadir with an array of Channel Island yokels acting like pricks on St Hellier seafront. Or was it St Peter Port? Who cares.......)

As I said, I wish I could hide from it, but I can't. Virgin!! Get yer fucking arses in gear and bring me my ruddy broadband!!!

A Plea For Understanding

A little message to people who send those chain e-mails with jokes and 'hilarious' pictures from the internet.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE STOP!!!

Seriously, I can just about hack them at work, if only because they divert my attention momentarily from the sound of my teeth grinding to dust. However, I do not want them filling up my inbox at home. You give people your email address for the purposes of communication and other practicalities, not so you can learn the '50 things that make women better than men', or lose your appetite over pictures of grisly road accidents with jokey captions under them.

Think on and ask my permission first. Ta!

Sickener

Life ain't fair sometimes, just ask David McAllan....

This year, he's visited the crash barriers and medical facilities of British speedway venues just a little too often, sometimes through no fault of his own. He even got a black eye off an opposition riders father in Newport and was then fined for 'starting' the rammy that ensued. See? Not his year. He's been pretty good when his bike has been on song and he's recovered from his various knocks, but last Sunday was to prove a rather grim reminder of the dangers of the sport. He wasn't the only one, a Stoke rider took to the air at one point and almost landed in the stadium bar for a premature pint, and another Tigers rider lost control and almost ended up in the crowd as well. In David's case, he was bashing it out with Birmingham rider Phil Morris for a minor place when he got punted unceremoniously into the chain-link fencing and suffered a horrible back injury. Nerve damage seems to be the diagnosis and he has no sensation in his legs at the moment. Fingers crossed his recovery is swift, but I have a feeling he'll be laid up for a wee while. I hope he's back next year and even faster than before. He's too young to hang up the gear just yet.


Get well soon David

This is for..................


People whose favourite colour is gold.

White House Zen

Hola!

Top prize this week for getting up the right peoples noses goes to the USA for awarding the Dalai Lama a gong and sending the Chinese purple with rage. I can see where they're coming from. I mean, the man is obviously scum and mustn't be encouraged!!, what with his benign smiling, and his NHS glasses and pacifism and that...

Let's be honest, a "Universal symbol of peace and tolerence" accepting such a prize from a warpig fuck like Bush is a clear indication to me that someone is pulling Beijings chain.

Maybe I'm being cynical here. Maybe George has seen the light and converted. Wouldn't that be lovely? Maybe he'll tell us he was a Bhuddist all along, just not a very good one............

Whatever it is, it made me smile anyway.

Will This Do?

It'll need to. No time to write anything. None at all. Sorry, will rectify this soon.

Cheers!

Picking At The Edges Until They Fray A Bit

Due to being unable to blog with much frequency, I've been reduced to doing a sort of round-up of stuff that's taken my interest. Very dull and a bit 'rote', but until I get my arse in gear, it's all you'll get.

First up, I found this awe-inspiring message board. Let loose on the object of your loathing in the workplace and have readers rate your rage. Please visit the rest of the site too. My favourite was the chap whose wife "looks like Lorraine Kelly, but ten years younger"

Beautiful!

Next up Kelvin McKenzie. Ok, who's first to kick the fat faced cunt in the arse? I must say, rising to the bait is never a good idea, as the outraged complaints to the BBC illustrate. People were falling over themselves to call him a nasty racist so & so without realising that the words dribbling from pudgy lips are the utterings of a total simpleton, and the alleged racism was probably the least risible thing to emanate from him (I found him quite amusing in a 'panto villain' kind of way). Kelvin, poor soul that he is, still thinks the streets of London are lined with gold and that on every corner there lurk a dozen wide-boys and spivs, just waiting to turn a buck and rocket the economy into the stratosphere.

Mr McKenzie reckons we 'sweaty socks' just aren't 'entrepreneurial enough'. If you say so Kelvin. I wouldn't know of course, having spent the past thirty years suckling on the teat of the state and piggy-backing off hard working 'Del Boys' and used car salesmen in the south of England with my miserable tax paying existence. Oh yes..........

In his mind it's still 1987, and maybe it always will be.

Finally, a requiem for Berti. Whatever you say about Berti Vogts, he did one thing that neither of his successors would have had the stomach to do had they become national coach after Craig Browns departure. He put youth first, he gave young, talented Scots footballers a chance in the national side and encouraged the development of youth already underway at club level. Unfortunately, he got enough wrong to justify his eventual sacking (too many friendlies, not a great tactician, especially with relatively limited talent, maybe a wee language barrier, especially with the more bullish elements of the Scottish sporting press corps and wee fuds like Barry Ferguson).

According to this wonderful piece of populist revisionism, Berti left the national side (and by implication the game itself) at it's lowest ebb. Scottish footballs lowest ebb was actually prior to the entry of herr Vogts, not after it. I mean, the fact that Scotland almost made it to the 2004 Euro Championships under Vogts, only bowing out in a play off against the Dutch (another example of received history for another day) has nothing to do with anything, and you'd be a liar and an SFA lackey if you were to suggest otherwise.

Alas, it was beyond Vogts to build on this, but what he bequeathed to Walter Smith was the basis of the team that seems to be firing on all cylinders (touch wood) at this moment in time. What Alex Mcleish inherited from Smith when he smelled the prospect of a return to Rangers was phase two of the rebuild. If this is a work in progress, then I have no worries for the future.

Phase three begins after the next Euro championships, regardless of whether Scotland qualify or not.............

Ok. Zep time. This is for Flying Rodent




Ok, so the sound is horrible and the audience look Keith Moon's got to them with the elephant tranks, but it does rock like nobodies business.

A Moment Of Your Time Please

As some of you know, I have a bit of a love affair with Speedway. It's gonna be a long winter without it, but the news I learnt last week regarding the future of Ashfield Stadium, home of the Glasgow Tigers, has meant that the long-term viability of the sport in Glasgow could be under threat. Essentially the stadium is zoned as 'Greenspace', so any developer wanting to build on it must also provide an alternative venue for the displaced football team/speedway promotion. This is of course a pain in the arse for any would-be developer. It would seem though that the planning application being submitted will be to use the area currently occupied by the car park and the Ashfield Club. This spares the stadium itself, but as it's a combined office/residential proposal, the chances of Speedway continuing at Ashfield for any length of time would be distinctly remote. There are enough issues regarding noise as it is and this would simply make things worse. It would also make entry to the ground a logistical nightmare as the proposed construction area would obstruct entry to and from the ground. Essentially, the developer has found a way around the 'Greenspace' legislation and should the planning dept allow the construction to go ahead, it would essentially make the original designation of 'Greenspace' for Ashfield Stadium utterly pointless.

The good news is that we can object, preferably via individual e-mails sent to the DRS. For the letter format and a better idea of what seems to be going down, click HERE.

I realise this is a bit of a long shot, but if anyone reading this happens to find this all a little objectionable, or if you don't like to see any local attraction/ammenity/source of community cohesion & pride being marginalised or snuffed out, I would be most grateful if you could take ten minutes or so to send an email to the DRS, quoting the reference in the above link (take some time to read the link, it'll give you all the info you need) and stating why you feel that the application is unsuitable.

Ok, normal service will be resumed soon.

Cheers!

My Boss Is A Ninja

He is!! I swear! I never see him come into the office and never see him leave it. When he is in the office, I need eyes on the back of my head to detect his movements. If I find him clinging to the underside of my desk on Monday morning, I won't be the least bit surprised. His other trick is to wait until you've left your desk before he passes on instructions to you. On returning, a small yellow post-it with a semi-legible spidery scrawl on it is found on your desk stating your new mission in the exciting world of Title Deeds.

He reminds me a bit of Major Major from Catch 22. Does anyone else work with a similarly strange team leader/cog in the wheel type? I'd say every office has to have at least two or three of them.

On another subject, did anyone see 'You Can't Fire Me I'm Famous' the other night? Maybe it's because I've moved into the new place and I have no PC to otherwise distract me, but I've begun to watch a bit more television. I hope it isn't catching..............

I'm sure you all know the format of Piers 'Cunt' Morgans new vehicle. He basically sits and interviews celebs of varying talent and interest, all of whom have been dumped on their arses by the fickle nature of fate and fame. Quite why they believe they need to resorted to being interviewed by the worlds least sincere man is beyond me, though I imagine it could merely be an attempt to justify themselves or remind us again exactly why they no longer get the oxygen of publicity they so obviously crave and don't deserve. You doubt me? Consider names like Jade Goody, Naomi Campbell, Abi Titmuss, Richard Bacon..........

It all sounds like perfect car crash telly. There are a couple of problems though. Watching all of the above is likely to produce the square root of fuck all as far as sympathy goes in any reasonably sentient human being. What if the interviewee seems to be genuine and likable? Like Donny Osmond. Self deprecating to a fault, honest and, as a performing monkey since the age of about three, someone who has a genuine claim to have ridden the tip of the showbiz wave, as well as having been wiped out more times than he cares to remember. He didn't see 'penny one' of the fortune his family amassed and found that when he tried to grow out of his 'Osmonds' persona, nobody would listen to him. Cos he was Donny Fuckin' Osmond. Anyway, he plugged away, it came good again and he's made his fortune on Broadway. Good stuff.

Wheres Piers in all this? Or 'Pearce' as Donny kept calling him. 'Pearce' was busy nudging and guiding him along, often barely asking the question before Osmond came leaping in with a date or a time in which the incident happened, and so the anecdotes flooded out. Then it happened. Morgan had found something juicy. Something about a childhood letter Osmond had written whilst on tour in Sweden. Homesick and wanting to be back in Utah playing with his friends like a normal seven year old, he committed his his frustration to paper, only for his father to find it and tear a strip off him. This sparks off a genuinely uncomfortable piece of TV, in which 'Morgan The Merciless' ignores Osmonds plea to let it lie and continues to prod what still seems to be a bit of an open wound. Repeatedly. Until he cries. Tasteful? Only just. I saw no malice in Morgans eyes, but nor did I see much mercy.

Whilst Osmond never truly hit rock bottom, his story is full of humiliation and pathos. Being a Mormon helps. When you can't even go on a 24 hr tea & coffee bender, it's that little bit easier to focus on getting things back on track. No booze/coke/crack/smack/elephant tranquilisers etc to deflect you from returning to the top.

Just a horrifically unhip reputation that denied him any work (so much so that a pre-loony Michael Jackson urged him to change his name) and the bitterness that will eternally accompany anyone who spent their entire childhood performing for the financial pleasure of others, only to find that their dues were in someone elses bank account.
Anyway, I'm glad he's doing musicals. His singing brings me out in a rash............



This ones for Clairwil...............

Toast

Was Hippocrates a season ticket holder at Cathkin? Stone memorial hidden away at the back of the terracing.

It's always nice to get aquainted with the appliances in ones new home. The Hoover, the washing machine, the cooker and the central heating. Oh, and the smoke alarm............

It was Sunday morning (ok, it was 1pm, but that's still the morning as far as I'm concerned.) and I'dstuck some toast on. I absently wandered through to the living room and stuck the tv on, only to become slightly transfixed by the hypnotic drone of the F1 car racing. God! I miss Murray Walker. The only man in the world that could make watching paint dry sound exciting. Instead we have a couple of inane public schoolboys to add to the tedium of watching 24 men driving round in circles for an hour and a half.

.........but I digress. It was around this point the bloody smoke alarm went off and I realised I'd burnt me toast. Thankfully nothing was on fire, but what to do about the infernal racket the alarm was making. I opened doors/windows to let the smoke out, but to no avail. I then tried holding the button on the alarm casing. Still nothing. next I unscrewed the casing and tried to wrench the battery out, only to find it was connected to the mains and any further tampering could see me doing a rather entertaining 'St Vitus Dance' atop a set of wobbly metal ladders. The next few hours are too tedious to go into, but by the time I'd asked the chap upstairs to give me a hand getting the battery out (I'm such a gurl!) and the girl next door had stuck her head in and wished me luck and little else, my nerves (and hearing) were more than a little frayed.

Anyway, my knowledge of household systems is a little clearer now I suppose, but I haven't made another slice of toast since............

Taking the nets down. All part of yr duty as a Thirds player.

Ok. Some links. Third Lanark AC have a wee site up. It's not too flash but it does tell you when they're playing. It's free, you get to watch the game from the terracing of what was once known as Hampden Park (back in the mists of time), and more recently was the home of the last club to go out of business in Scotland, the original Third Lanark AC . It is just amateur football that gets played at Cathkin Park today, but the last time I went to see them, I came away wondering why I bothered going to Firhill at all. The video of the game can be found here. Mud, meaty tackles, loads of goals and some nice football, just ignore the naff Star Wars theme they've tacked onto the video in post production. Furthermore, if you watch between 7.31 and 7.46 you'll see my lanky frame descending the terrace steps behind the player being interviewed. Yes, I am an old buffer..........

Acrobatics in the penalty area
Panoramic view of Cathkin Park