Hyvaa joulua! Jutdlime pivdluarit ukiortame pivdluaritlo! Gajan Kristnaskon! Nollaig chridheil huibh!

Merry Fucking Boxing Day!

Merry Christmas From The Headless Ukeman

The Art Of Hate, The Joy Of Despair

When life feels like one long hangover anyway, you tend to stop bothering about how much you drink.

How anyone works in a call centre I will never quite know. It's a brutal, joyless, mindlessly repetitive job that gives no satisfaction whatsoever. For every person who tells you you're a wonderful human being, there are a dozen graceless, hateful bastards calling you a lying, vindictive, unco-operative, incompetent cunt. They aren't interested in the fact the new system is badly implemented, barely tested rubbish. They don't care that garbage in means garbage out. Simply put, it's your fault and you're filth on a stick.

Not that I know from personal experience, and not that I work as a call centre agent, but God help me, working in an environment of constantly raised voices creates it's own stress by proxy. I do outbound chaser calls (pussy work!), and going on the off call confidences of my colleagues, I hope it remains that way for as long as I'm trapped on the 4th floor. I need their hell like I need a 2nd arsehole.

Just some of the chancers you have to fend off:

Solicitors who think a 1988 Sharp fax machine will be sufficient to send large amounts of documentation to ANYONE!. Then complain like the retarded public schoolboy tossers they are when ignorant fools such as ourselves cannot accept a legal document that has several pages missing or distorted and the Mortgagor names ommitted. N.B. Solicitors who cannot spell are an interesting sideshow, but are easily humiliated into compliance.

Or how about the modern day Del Boy twats from the branches who tell the customers they will have their funds in five minutes flat, leading to the most almighty clusterfucks at our end, as we chase the ever fading shadows of prior lenders, guarantors, 3rd parties, 3rd party solicitors, Alistair Darling and the Fucking President of Fucking Ethiopia. Some people do need money in insanely tight time limits, but for the most part, I theorise that someone out there just wants to get their monthly bonus in.

Finally we have the customer. The rube, the dupe, the fool, and possibly the hardest to deal with as you do actually feel for them. Being led up the garden path by a solicitor & a business manager can't be much fun, so it's lucky there's a call centre somewhere in Jockoland for them to call up and vent their frustrations at. After all, we're not human beings and it doesn't really matter, does it?

Does it?

Nah, 'course not.......

The Headless Uke-man Rides Again

Play dumb and don't ever give them an excuse to use you.

How I Got Here

Small Worlds

I think you'll find this to be a deeply satisfactory way to waste a spare half hour of your time. A curious, atmospheric little exploration game. Click Here To Play

Enjoy!

Joy!

I have a record player once again! It came out of the blue really, my girlfriend called to tell me she had something for me when she came through on Saturday. I was mildly curious, but didn't push for any info as she seemed to want to keep it a surprise. Anyway, as surprises go, it takes a bit of beating. It belonged to her late father, but had been gathering dust for some time. I'd actually seen it at her house, but thought it was just a radio, so thought nothing else of it until I opened the box on Saturday. Let's just say that the importance of being able to play my Flying Saucer Attack albums again cannot be underplayed, and I was rather overjoyed. It might not be state of the art, it might be a glorified dansette, it might sound a bit tinny, but fuck it! Most of the music I own is 'a bit tinny'. It works and I can hear stuff again that I will never track down on CD without bankrupting myself. The downside of this development is that I now have around twenty albums duplicated on CD. I just hate the thought of paying twice for anything.................. Bah! Anyway, Hallelujah! I can now assault the 2nd hand record shops of Glasgow & Leith Walk with impunity and rejoin the legions of vinyl nerds, leafing & sneezing their way through the racks of grimy dust jackets once more..................

A Short Film About Motorways

Well, nothing at all to do with motorways really, though a fair few shots of the M8 at night do feature. I just liked the title.

Jings!

Beautiful. Just Beautiful.............

Now this is how you do violence. No running about like a fanny, arms flailing, kicking wildly at anything that moves.

Just get the guy turned then knee the fucker in the back before decking his fat pal.

This is the wonderful, heartwarming story of two two aggro merchants in a busy town centre getting the pasting of their lives from a pair of dragged up cage fighters.

It should really happen more often than it does.......

Crawling Out Of A Hole

"I am angry I am ill and I'm As Ugly As Sin"

A month of shit. A month of not being able to move with fatigue, a month of pustulent throat infections, 80-a-day coughing fits and vile 'dockers omelettes' first thing in the morning. A month I want to leave behind me in a ditch to rot.

In this time, mother has been filling with green cancerous fluid at every opportunity and receiving chemotherapy. Her wig scares me and I prefer her to wear the turban thingy.

This could be the last stand. Not that you'd know from talking to her..............

Well, It Made Me Laugh Anyway....

superpoop.com

Oops! I Seem To Have Mis-Judged The Mood Of The Nation With That Last Post

What was I thinking? I mean, holiday snaps when I should have been addressing the hot issues of the day? Issues like "SNP Scum Unfit To Govern", "Well, That's Our Holiday In Scotchland Cancelled Dear" and "Is There Really Any Difference Between Justice and Vengeance, and Does It Ultimately Matter A Fuck?"

I ask these questions simply because my week of peace, quiet and beer quaffing in Fife was rudely fucked over by the whole Megrahi-gate fandango. (Ha! Am I the first to use that one? I do hope so). Could I outrun the shower of bullshit on this one? Could I fuck! It was easier to avoid the intermittent pissing rain that infested the east of Scotland last week. Every time I opened a paper or turned on the radio, it was there, nagging away like an itch in yr sinuses.

I'm actually quite happy they released him. Now we get to see if our tourist industry can survive without the Yank influx. Maybe we could concentrate on the Europeans and Japanese instead. Unless of course we've become a true pariah state and our name is now mud all over the planet.

Maybe we should form a pact with North Korea and Iran, eh?

For me, the most amusing thing about this has been the reaction from opposition MSP's. What a bunch of craven, cowardly fucks! Had the positions been reversed, each of the three remaining parties would have released Megrahi. As sure as Jim Murphy is the creepiest man alive.

Labour, of course, would have had special assistance from London in all this and would have been able to see to it that the guy was squeezed out of the country with minimal fuss. In fact, I'm willing to bet the warders at Greenock clink would only just now be discovering the balloon head and pillows under the sheets in the cell of Mr 'L. Bomber'. Fact. Wouldn't want the fucker holding out long enough to see through his appeal now, would we?

For all their pious posturing, both Lib Dem and Tory parties know that this is one of those situations when they really do not fucking want to be in power. They know that had they been in a position to do so, they'd have made the same decision as the SNP, a decision based upon Scots law, Mr Al Megrahi's impending mortality and other rather dry, un-emotional fact based issues. Still, it's always nice to stick the boot in, especially once the media, Westminster and White House have softened up your target. Add to that square headed yank military types with all scrambled egg on their tunics, the 'political commentators' and thousands of foaming mouthed internet masturbators waiting in the wings

I tell what though, you really know you're on to plums when a fool like Jack McConnell feels brave enough to stick his head above the parapet and take pot-shots at you.

Holiday Photos

God Bless These People!

There's nothing quite so heart-warming as humourless, paranoid, xenophobic, gun rubbing Yank Conservatives. All I need is the liberal leftie equivelent and I have the set! Oh yeah, I forgot, they're all on my FUCKING FACEBOOK FUCKING PAGE POSTING SHIT UP EVERY FIVE MINUTES!!! Get a blog you cunts! Update: If you thought that blog was mental.....

Has It Really Been A Year?

It is now almost a year since we pitched up at what was to become our Townhead Guerrilla Gardening site and with the aid of Richard Reynolds, Gail Porter, some cameras from Sky TV and a gaggle of now suspiciously absent volunteers, we set about hacking down the undergrowth outside St Mungos primary school. Over the past year we have somewhat transformed this patch in our own under-funded and slightly ad-hoc manner. In spite of the sneerings of 'proper gardeners' and the usual tourists who thought we were going to supply them with stuff to plant like it was some kind of nursery school playtime activity, we've done rather well. The upper section looks after itself, the top part of the lower section is well on its way and the veg patch is taking off far better than we had dared hope. All that remains is to do a mass bulb bombing of the lower section heading towards the bus stop and the main road. With this done, we can concentrate on under-planting and various other projects in the upper sections which can be handled well within our budgetary constraints. May I also thank those readers who contributed to my last 'Ten Thousand Bulb Appeal' appeal. Here are our totals so far........ Well, we need a few more tenners people! Clairwil has banged a fair wedge of her own cash into this, and I'll be putting in what I can each month. If you haven't had a look and fancy giving a few quid to this project, simply read on: So, what do you get for your tenner? Ok, let me break it down (in a very rough manner) 10p buys a single bulb £1 buys ten bulbs £10 buys one hundred bulbs £100 buys one thousand bulbs £955 buys the full ten thousand There! Not so daunting now............ "~ What I'm getting at is that your standard ten pound donation (via paypal on this site) will make a sizeable impact upon the site. Even a fiver, if funds are low, will do a world of good. As I said, Clairwil has already invested, and I intend to push what I can each month towards the bulb fund, as I'm somewhat ashamedly a bit behind in this respect, not to mention just as broke as the rest of ya ;) A full update of the bulb planting we intend to do, as well as some extensive photography when they come through in the Spring will be forthcoming and you'll get to see exactly what your contributions have gone towards creating.

Thanks

Ewen

Lurgy

On the top ten leaderboard of minor illnesses and afflictions, throat infections have to be pretty damn near the top. Raw and inflamed throat? Check! Discomfort when eating anything with that doesn't have the consistency of porridge? Check! Can't have a drink because it makes it ten times worse? Check! Temperature thru the roof? Check! Fucksticks!! Then you get the ulcers on your uvula, that really is a special joy to behold, along with when you wake up and feel like you have a half brick lodged in yr throat. In other news, I gave my old, long suffering pc it's Viking burial recently and have a shiny now piece of kit, complete with the rather snazzy, yet slightly frustrating 'Windows Vista'. The Youtube vids still takes ages to buffer though............ >:(

It's weird though. Using my dads laptop used to be the very definition of luxury. Now it feels like a 48k Sinclair Spectrum with half its rubber keys missing and no added RAM. Still, there's loads of stuff on the old pc that I lost and I'm not sure if I'll be able to get it back. No, I'm not referring to my Frankie Vaughn collection................

Photos I've taken over the past two years or so look to be irretrievable. Speedway stuff, vid clips, various other bits and bobs I used to rely on. I sometimes wonder what I got an external drive for in the first place, other than to rest my feet upon.........

The Headless Ukeman Patrt2

Another silly song. Wonder how long I can keep this going.............

The Headless Uke-Man

Not long ago, I reported that I'd bought a ukelele and some of you (ok, it was 'Some Chilean Woman' ;D ) asked me to give you a tune. So here it is! It's not very good, but it's just something I put together with some words I had kicking about. Took about half an hour.

There's another one coming up, so brace yrselves....=D

God Bless David O'Reilly

Please Say Something - Full Length from David OReilly on Vimeo.

A dream-like tale in which a cat and mouse co-habit with mixed results in a distant future world. A startling and touching piece of animation that's only let down by a slightly corny ending. But then, we all love corny endings, so that's ok....... =D

Enjoy!

Ten Thousand Bulb Appeal

Ten thousand bulbs! Just think about that for a minute. A wave of colour amongst the concrete and tarmac, defying the fag butts and crisp packets and making a rather drab corner of the city look so much better. This is what we're trying to achieve at our Townhead garden site currently tended to by Clairwil, Michael and Myself. Ten thousand bulbs don't come cheap though, so we're looking for donations to help us on our way. How can you help? Ah, well there are many ways....... First of all, if you're feeling flush and a wee bit beneficent, you can make donations via Paypal at this site. We will be utterly grateful for any monies received. At the other end of the scale, the very act of visiting this 'Squidoo' website will help pay a dividend towards our funds.

Alternatively, if you live in the Glasgow area, you can always donate bulbs to us. If you plant bulbs and are likely to have anything spare, we'd happily give a home to any of the following... Mixed Daffodils Mixed Tulips Snakeshead Fritillary Snowdrops Mixed Crocuses Bluebells (native only please) Grape Hyacinths Winter Aconites Mixed Alluims Wood Anenome

Let me know in the comments section and we can take it from there.

Even if you just know something the rest of us don't and can let us in on where to get the most for our money, we'd be happy to hear from you. ;)

Let's brighten this place up!!

Cheers!

I'll have A Chicken Tikka Something-Or-Other Please...

Ok, I know, it's just one of those daft stories that crops up every so often and one shouldn't put too much credence in it's veracity, but even the notion of it makes me borederline homicidal. Birmingham City Council have decided that they would like to help local restaurants by ensuring the term 'balti' can only be used by Brummie proprieters, much like the whole Champagne racket. Close reading of the piece indicates that this may be a local media construct, as the council make no strong declaration, other than to say they would look into the idea, but you know what councils are like, and how these things have a habit of spiralling out of control. Next thing you know, Glasgow will be telling everyone to think of another name for the Tikka Masala........ Do we need this parochialism? Do we need insane protectionism? Do we all need air vents in our skulls? It won't happen (just try telling Mr Adeel to stop using the fucking term on his menu, I dare you...), but it does give you a depressing insight into the mental workings of yr average local authority decision maker and the craven, arse-licking local press who justify them on a daily basis. Below are a couple of segments from a film made in the late seventies about Irish motorcycle road racing. In Ireland, they take road racing literally, in that public roads, often no wider than driveways in some places, are closed to the public and turned into raceways on selected weekends throughout the spring and summer. This is a wee tribute to Joey Dunlop, who died in a racing accident in Estonia nine years ago on Thursady last. It's a fine portrait of him as a young man, as well as a great snapshot of Irish road racing at the time (1977), which some would contend hasn't changed all that much in the intervening thirty years. Part 1 Part 2

Beer Of The Week

Let me see........ "Official Beer of England" "Definitely Not For Aussies" Then a back label blurb that gurgles "Sit back and enjoy the Ashes series in style with this easy drinking pale ale, crafted using the finest English hops and barley with passion and desire to beat the Aussies & cheer England to victory." Does that make sense? Do the finest English hops and barley have the passion and desire to beat the Aussies, or is it referring to the drinker? If so, how does one sit back and enjoy something with passion and desire? Is it a cricket thing? Does the Australian equivalent have a slogan along the lines of "You've No Chance Ya Pommy Bastards!"? It matters not to be honest, it's £1.19 a bottle and tastes rather nice. Thankfully, in Scotland we're far too civilised to get too excited by a silly game like cricket. We prefer proper sports like high tig, thumb wrestling and chap-door-runaway .

Give Me Pound Shops Or Give Me Death

The next whingeing whelp who writes into the Evening Times to gurn about the proliferation of shops that aren't M&S, Boots or Sainsbury's in Glasgow city centre is gonna get a turd through their letterbox. Fucking hell, to hear them bleat on you'd think every second shop on Sauchiehall Street & Argyll Street was a twenty bob stop of some sort. Even if it was, so fucking what? Those streets have always had their tat shops and glorified sport-sock retailers. You want posh? Go to fucking Edinburgh! Or maybe the lower end of Buchanan Street............. Then there was the girl at work who had never eaten a scone. Is that possible? Reports that she passed out with excitement when someone tried to describe pancake to her are as yet unsubstantiated.............. Everyone on the planet has had a scone at some time in their life, whether they wanted one or not. Visits to your aunt's house on a sunday afternoon were always fraught with the dangers of being left with the cake-stand outcasts. All it took was a poorly timed toilet break and all the Taxi's, Breakaways and Jammy Dodgers would be nestling in your brothers trouser pockets, leaving you with the odious fruit slice, the foul lemon fingers and and those dry, scabby looking, but ultimately edible scones. Right, I'm off to a branch of "Everythings A Fucking Quid" to buy a pack of 100 half empty AA batteries, some place-mats with Labradors on and a screwdriver kit and I'll still have enough left from a tenner to get the messages in at Lidl! To quote Joe Fagin, "That's Livin' Alright"

Swells

As if last week's Michael Jackson/Farah Fawcett '2 for 1' deal wasn't fascinating enough for a rubber-necking scumbag like me, the news comes through that SHOUTY MUSIC JOURNO Steven Wells has also relocated to a quieter suburb. I don't really remember much of his writing in the NME, though his by-line meant you'd get a few laughs if nothing else. I was more of an Melody Maker chick to be honest. In the intervening years since I gave up reading the weekly music comics, it seems he'd relocated across the Atlantic and was plying his scabrous, contrarian trade over there when he fell ill with cancer. Och! Anyway, just a thought God, but any chance of a similar run this week, but on slightly more deserving targets? I'm watching the Glastonbury coverage on BBC just now, and I can think of at least three of the presenters.........Or possibly the whole of Blur. That would be nice. As I said, just a thought...

Ladies Sitting Between Parked Cars

Take our leave of the city It's manic temper and sweating walls Screaming brakes and rigid forms Out of the subway and into the heat To ladies sitting between parked cars Bare feet, cigarettes and bottles to hand Rust on the railings Weeds in the gutter Sunlight reflects on chrome Sound of the river Under the traffic hum We're almost home.

Bury Me Standing, I've Been On My Knees My Whole Life

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STOP.

Is That The Time?

Jesus! It feels like an eternity since I last posted. I'm getting a bit fed up of writing these entries like periodic postcards to the outside world, but until I get mind, soul and body in order, it'll have to do. The truth is that I've been a little too tired to think about anything other than the most rudimentary blog input. Alas, I'm off until Tuesday and I'm taking myself away for most of that time. Where? Ha! I'm not telling, someone might find me. Work has been the biggest fucker. Two of our number were made redundant and we've moved to another office. The days go by quicker but the work is a few degrees more intense. Having to account for 90% of your working day was the first big shock. I shit ye not, every single thing we do in a day has to be logged and timed. For some jobs it's not a problem, but when you do half a dozen different things, it's a fucking nightmare. I spend about an hour of my day just filling the bastard fucking spreadsheet in, complete with the case numbers of everything that's crossed my desk. I keep looking for the column in the spreadsheet that says "Time spent filling in this useless piece of shit because some over-paid retard at the top of the company gets a fucking hard-on from reading statistics".

Bah! It doesn't help when one of the folk to survive the cull is contributing to the deterioration of my mental hygiene. We all know the concept of the 'man-child'. This is the 'woman-child'. I haven't had to deal with her much before, but she's starting to drive me to distraction. Job-wise, she does one thing. All day. She has done for the past four or five years. This wasn't a problem when we had high volumes of work and everyone was assigned a duty. Now we all need to be able to do each others jobs and while this is no problem for most sentient beings, fat arse has done nothing but wheedle and whine like an irritating five year old. Fuck! If I hear her simpering on about how she misses our much loathed old boss, or how she's fed up of getting emails from the team leader updating us on our new roles, or how she doesn't like the new office, I'll end up snapping and cramming one of her filthy cheese spread white bread sandwiches down her craw with a rolled up Land Certificate!! At the very least I might ask her to experiment with eating with her fucking mouth closed. All I hope is that management and HR realise they got it wrong when they decided to jettison the smartest cookie in the pack and keep this stammering, simple minded fucktard. There, all gone. A little weight off my chest.................. Feels better already. So, that's the state of play in my world. Borderline psychosis, fatigue, anger management issues etc............... What about the rest of you? Has the very notion of going to work made you physically ill in recent weeks? Are you having a wonderful time in a land of milk and honey where nobody cares when you come and go and free gym membership and prostitutes? Are you constantly justifying yourself to an off-hand, shit thick time server who looks at you like you've just vomitted on their lap? Do you get to watch YouTube and I-Player on your company's internet connection and spend your days emailing clips of swearing hamsters and old Rainbow episiodes to workmates? Are you a smug comfort-zoner or are you a down-trodden prole? Answers on the back of the usual beermat. Behold! U2 Are Shit! as are Coldplay, Metallica

A Considered Response

What did you do with your BNP leaflet? Maybe you made it into a paper aeroplane to entertain the kids. Emergency toilet paper perhaps? Saves using the carboard tube. Perhaps you turned it into a birthday card for someone you really fucking despise.

I used mine to light the oven......................

Braw!

p.s. Please note that instructions on what to do when a Labour or Conservative leaflet falls through your door will follow in due course.

Have I Just Got One Of Those Faces?

A bluebell wood by the motorway. The council must be planting waves of them along the M8. The next dignity free mouth breather that asks me if I'm the 'Real Radio Renegade' is gonna get a fucking kick up the arse, so help me God! What is that about? Have people nothing better to do than approach innocent pedestrians making their weary way home from work with their headphones on, in the vaguest of hopes that they might be an employee from some tin-pot local radio station, just waiting to make them rich? No, of course they haven't. There must have been something going down in the area, as I was accosted twice in the space of a minute. Various others gesticulated at me from their cars or stared at me like I was from another planet. I mean, what's a 'Real Radio Renegade' supposed to look like anyway? Probably not half as gormless as those who fall for this naff gimmick. Wankers! They'd set fire to their houses and eat their own shit if someone offered them a fiver and a chance to be on telly. Is it the warm weather that brings them out? Ah, so many questions and so few answers.............. On another, utterly unrelated topic...... The little boy next door shouts. A lot. In fact, he's louder than you'd think possible for a four year old. It's not just when he's excited or agitated though, it seems to be a permanant setting. My bet is that everyone in the family communicates in this way, so he needs to turn up the volume to be heard, but he can't turn it off when he's out of that environment. What he's like at school, I'd hate to speculate.............. If nothing else, his throat lining will be in shreds by the time he's ten. The tulip at my back door. It finally disintegrated during the week there, but I took this one last weekend, with all raindrops and stuff on it. The sunflowers are coming through, against the odds, and the nasturtiums are thriving. Gives you something to look at in the mornings as you make your coffee and contemplate throwing a sickie.

Friends, Forgive My Absence, I've Been Away Making Snuff Movies In Belize

Of course I haven't!! It was Guatemala............. Anyway, talking of copping yer whack, it looks like I'm up for possible redundancy at the end of the month. It's hard to say how I feel about all of this. On one hand, I need to work to pay my way, but on the other, if they got shot of me, I doubt I'd give much of a fuck. Jobs are hard to find this weather, but I think if I lowered my sights just a notch, I'd find something. I don't think I'm for the chop though. Don't ask why, but going on the selection criteria, I think there are a couple in the queue before me. Sadly, one of my colleagues has taken to chewing the furniture and getting in a bit of a tizzy. She's easily the most competent person in the section, but she's driving herself mad, to the point where she's convinced HR have it in for her and will take this opportunity to ditch her. She's an awkward sod for sure, but if they ditch her I might as well get out a too. It's a ship of fools as it is, so if they do make redundant the only person in the department who knows their arse from their elbow, I doubt I'll be able to take any of it remotely seriously. So, what's everyone else been up to?

How about Cocktails?

Cocktails has been mulling over the question of one's earliest memory and the effect in has on who or what you become in later life. As stated in the comments section of her original post, my earliest memory was probably on a beach on the Isle of Man, playing with an orange & black football. Somehow it ended up in the sea and floated off into the wide blue yonder. The effect it had upon me at the time was not documented, but I can say with some certainty that I'd rather have had the football to play with than not. I have wondered on the odd occassion, just where a cheap plastic football kicked into the Irish Sea by a bent-footed three year old would end up. Did it deflate and sink? Did it wash up on a faraway shore? Did it circumnavigate the globe and return to it's point of origin? I don't remember if my parents bought me another one. Why would I? I was only three........ Other good stuff I've read and seen recently, but forgot about. Ed Milliband Robert Louis Stevenson The Cockenspiel (apologies in advance) Didier Drogba Finally, a snippet from a current YouTube favourite that seemed to get consigned to the backwater of BBC3 some years ago, sandwiched between their interminable "Two Pints of Lager & A Packet of Crisps" marathons. Snuff Box - Boyfriend sketches (1-5)

Smell

Like burning, but no fire...........

It's like the smell you got when you played Scalextric for eight hours solid on Christmas day as a child.

I think my computer might be about to die on me. A Viking burial might be in order.

Ten More Things To Make You Paranoid And Insecure.

Having read this interesting little piece on MSN, I was curious as whether or not these were things women really liked in their men, or if it was simply the twee fantasies of a pair of middle class media types out to make a bob or thousand in the shit book market. Being currently long-term single, I decided to ask my good friend Barry from down the pub to run his rule over their slightly specious looking list of rules.

10 things you didn’t realise she liked about you by Penny Isaacs and Sarah Lockett 1. Your baked seabass. Eating out is hugely enjoyable and you both love a delicious hot curry on a Friday night after work. But, what she really likes is when you go to the trouble of making her your special foil-wrapped sea bass baked with teriyaki sauce and fresh ginger. Women love being cooked for because it shows you are capable and sophisticated. We also appreciate it when some thought has gone into choosing a tasty dish which will appeal to the calorie conscious. If you are a beginner in the kitchen, get a good quality ready-prepared fish dish and follow the instructions. Plus a pillow pack of salad. You know she hankers for fantastic fresh cream chocs for dessert though!

Barry - I did have a look at doing the Sea Bass, or some other fancy dish, like steak pie & chips. Since all I have is a calor gas stove and a three bar fire, I decided it was best to splash out on a tin of Heinz baked beans & sausages for tea. I put some pepper and dried parsley in it to tart it up, with a few slices of toast on the side. This was washed down with a bottle of Lambrusco from Lidl and followed by a couple of those nasty, gelatinous individual trifles. Audrey's making those "Go to bed" eyes at me, but I have bowel rupturing gas and have to make my excuses. Not a good start. 2. You bought her a DVD of Casino Royale. You were neither threatened by, nor made fun of the fact that she ogled Daniel Craig and openly declared her undying devotion to him when Casino Royale came out. In fact, you rather like him too! Well, you would like to be him yourself, so you bought her the DVD the day it went on sale and you have watched it together about 100 times already.

Barry - Well, I didn't have the money to rent, never mind buy Casino Royale. That said, my mate Nasty Dan did get me a copy of Bukkake Royale for the price of a blank disc. I very much identify with the male lead in this film, and see him as a role model worthy of emulation. Sadly, Audrey thinks he's a hairy fat bastard with a curiously deformed penis. She claims that shagging him would be only slightly less pleasant than sharing a bed with me. A qualified success.

3. You get somebody in! She enjoyed watching you gamely try to help her dad jump-start his car but she admired the fact that after 5 mins you got out your mobile and called the AA. She finds your candour about being unable to replace a wheel, fix a drain or do anything handy about the house quite refreshing. Changing a fuse/lightbulb/battery is about as useful as you get but you don’t pretend to be Ray Mears and have the telephone number of an all purpose Mr Fixit pinned to the fridge.

Barry - Not a good round. Me and her old man hate each others guts. Honestly, if the old prick was trying to jump-start his car, I'd be busy trying to cut his brake cables. This is where I have to take exception to Penny & Sarah. I'm no handy man, but have you seen what tradesmen charge these days? Fucking crooks the lot of them! This is why I take care of these things myself. That I currently have no running water, no gas and half the lights in the house don't work is neither here nor there. 4. You never flirt with other women in front of her. You sensibly keep your opinions about other women to yourself. Women do not like their date to flirt with another female. They particularly dislike it when another woman plants herself at their boyfriend’s feet, kitten style, peering upwards, all doe-eyed. Nor do they like you to compliment someone enthusiastically on their appearance/success. It is bad form to bring this up with your girlfriend even once you have got home.

Barry - I have to say, I fall flat on this one. After eight pints of wife beater, three V&C's and only a packet of KP dry roasted to line the stomach, I find it hard not to let my crotch do the talking, and more often than not I can be found in the snug, on the way back from the bogs, sticking my tongue in the ear of some old dear that's done up like a christmas tree. I must say though, I do take Audrey's feelings into consideration my doing any drunken fumbling well out of her sight. 5. You let her hog the bathroom. She appreciates the fact that you shower and change in ten minutes flat so that she can spend hours doing her toilette before you head out for the evening.

Barry - My bog's fucked. You don't stay in it any longer than you need to unless you fancy catching cholera. 6. You never go clothes shopping with her. You understand that men and women have different ideas about the shopping experience. Men know what they want and buy it. Then go home. Women regard shopping as a leisure activity and can spend hours trying on every item of clothing in the shop. You let her get on with it.

Barry - Well, I once made the mistake of going to Primark with Audrey to buy her summer wardrobe. The security guard wouldn't leave us alone and rudely interrupted us as we were stuffing a five pound blouse into her bag in the changing room. Our protestations that we were simply putting it there until we got to the check-out fell on deaf ears and we spent a night in the cells. We used to end up in Littlewoods or What Everyone Wants, but now they're gone, the only other option is the charity shop circuit. It's not too bad though, she looks for dead peoples shoes and stone-washed denims, I check out the records and tapes section for the latest Suzi Quattro and Shakin' Stevens releases. 7. You are charming to her parents. According to the old saying, ‘my daughter is my daughter for all of her life; my son is my son until he gets a wife’. She loves the way you engage with her mum and dad. You treat them to the theatre, offer them lifts to the garden centre, buy her dad books on famous dictators and you haven’t yet complained that he has repeated the same lame joke about stamp collecting - ‘be like a nun- get in the habit!’– six times now.

Barry - I have a restraining order keeping me away from her parents. They failed to see the funny side of things when I pissed through their letterbox one Christmas eve on the way home from the pub. I mean, take a fuckin' joke!! 8. You take her to the sun. A girl likes to get into a bikini and worship the sun god for at least two weeks every year. She has also told you a hundred times that Mama Mia has made her lust after life on a Greek island. You realise that sun and sea are essential to her mental well-being. A fortnight under campus in rain-sodden Devon is not what she really hankers after in July, so even if it is going to be Torremolinos you make sure that she gets her annual beach fix.

Barry - Sadly, Audrey has been banned from every Spanish beach we've ever been to. Let's just say she makes Donatella Versace seem alluring. For this reason, we end up at Pontins, getting minced on cheap wine and spirits and entering Lambada contests with couples from Larkhall with matching King Billy tattoos and 'UVF' Indian inked across their knuckles. 9. You bring her coffee and toast in the morning. Women can be slow starters in the morning, especially after a big night. Once we are fully alert we can beaver away like dynamos until late at night but those initial waking minutes are painful. How fantastic then to rouse to the aroma of a strong cup of coffee and hot buttered toast! It is one of those small but significant gestures of affection and appreciation which makes her love you! Ditto bringing her a cup of tea when she looks exhausted.

Barry - Due mainly to the lumpy mattress, soggy quilt, rising damp and the lack of heating, Audrey tends not hang about in the mornings. I do remember once bringing her breakfast in bed, but I tripped on a pile of Exchange & Marts, sending her bowl of cornflakes all over the shop. Just as well I suppose, the milk was on the turn if I remember right. 10. You indulge her interest in chick lit and chick flicks. There are few things more irritating than having a partner expressing patronising views about our choice of light entertainment. We do not want to have our ‘cultural’ preferences ridiculed particularly if our partner’s tastes run to more esoteric and heavyweight intellectual literature and film. But, to your credit, you do not smirk when she goes to see the latest ‘bonnets’ film or slushy rom-com. Nor have you been sniffy about all the self-help/chick lit/cookery/horoscope books she devours.

Barry - Audrey's not one for Chick Flicks, and all she reads is TV Quick & the Star. As long as a film has Jean Claude Van Damme, Steven Segal or Vin Diesel in it, she's happy as larry and randy as a goat. No complaints here.........

So, there you have it. The verdict on the ten things men didn't realise their women liked about them. Barry knows exactly what Audrey likes about him.

Fuck all.

Three cheers for Penny & Sarah!

Piss & Vinegar

You know your day's off to a rollicking start when you find yourself offending Dr Who fans.

Look, all I said was that Dr Who was "Camp as Christmas". No great shock there, surely?

I must confess I enjoyed the old Timelords adventures as a kid. I still retain a spot for the Peter Davidson incarnation in particular, but the return of the series failed to excite much in me. One grows old and bored I suppose............

Christopher Ecclestone is a fine actor, but his take was rather stiff, like a PE teacher with constipation. Likewise, David Tennent is a good actor, but he seemed to become possessed by the evil spirit of Dick Van Dyke and spent most of his time mugging and hooting like a loon. The two extremes never sat well with me and I switched off. It was enough to make me to hanker after the days of Sylvester McCoy quite frankly. Add to the equation the fact that I'm allergic to both Billie Piper and Catherine Tate, and you end up with something guaranteed to rub me up the wrong way. Anyway, I digress.............

Ok, so I say "Dr Who is camp". At this point, I'm accused of not knowing what the word camp means. Lets be honest, does anyone know what that particular use of the word truly means? It's a bit of a floating definition. To some it means limp wrists and Larry Grayson, to others it means anything that's flamboyant, outrageous and OTT. It's a subjective term. One mans camp is another mans serious drama. To me, Dr Who is ridiculously melodramatic, over-written, over-acted, cliche ridden and ultimately annoying. Maybe it always was, and maybe these are good things, the show undoubtedly still tells good enough yarns to make for entertaining mass appeal TV. I'm just non-plussed as to why someone got all worked up because I thought the show was a wee bit silly.

I was then accused of saying I didn't like things that were popular to make myself look 'intellectual', but that's another story........................

Me? Intellectual?

Then I got verbally accosted by a tramp on the way home. Nice job!! It wasn't even proper abuse. It was that "yeah, just you wait until it happens to you" bullshit. Fucker! Reminds me of the old Bill Hicks gambit about bums.

"Definitely wasn't your personality that put you on the street".

Isn't that the script with begging? Some folk give and some folk don't. I didn't, and in return I get a po-faced lecture. Heres's the thing, I don't think he was a real tramp. No gent of the road worth his half bottle of Frosty Jacky would bother to abuse someone for not giving in such an erudite fashion. I have no proof, but if you see some prick begging at Charing Cross in Glasgow and he gives you any shite for not contribuing, feel free to piss on him, he's probably an undercover Guardian journalist.

Albino Burns Victim

The Easter egg lies to one side, ignored. The last stubborn gesture of a doomed man. Under his tenure, the department was cut off, not just by time and space, but by a belligerent autonomy that that led to it's current isolation. Nothing worked, least of all us. This was where you ended up if you annoyed someone or fucked something up. This was the Dead Letter Office. We hadn't received Easter eggs from the company for a few years. No big deal, just a box of cheap chocolate, but it told you everything you needed to know. We were the Damned United. The wee man though, he won't be suckered with this tawdry gift. The gaudy carboard box sits on his desk and gathers dust. A bit like he did, truth be told...... He's letting us all know what he thinks of the company who gave him the boot, as he winds down his last few days before finding himself a job more suitable to his talents. Like a shelf stacker. Or a toilet attendant. Who'd have thought he was once one of Sir Fred's little devil spawn? I tell you this though, I envy him. Next month he'll be at home watching Jeremy Kyle, Bargain Hunt and Fuck Truck Vol IIV while I grind through spreadsheets and write letters to the sort of wankers who remortgage seven times a year. What's fair about that? Brough Park, Newcastle Easter Monday is usually a hellish drag of a day. It's like a 2nd Sunday, except without the speedway. That's why this year I accepted the offer of Ashfield aquaintance Paulco and took a berth on the Glasgow supporters bus down to the north east of England to watch the Tigers take on Newcastle Diamonds. Glad I did. The journey down went by in a flash, as did the return, due mainly to good company and constant banter. Brough Park, being a night track based at a greyhound stadium, is a very different prospect to Ashfield. On the up-side there's no dust and the floodlighting provides a great atmosphere. The hospitality and facilities are also top notch and on the night we visited, they had sorted the track to provide maximum entertainment. The rubbish elements included limited viewing (only the home straight, about thirty feet from the track), and the sense that photography is a bit of a no-no (I could be wrong on that though) Anyway, a great night out and better than spending the day sleeping and watching fucking Bond flims and religious epics.

Easter Wanderings

You sir, are a fud!

Bunnies!

More Here!

Sorry there hasn't been much in the way of anything to read out of me recently, I'm kind of tied up with various other things. I'll pop back on Friday with some random musings, just for old times sake............

Choolup

Spring has sprang (sic) and I've been shooting away like a man possessed. My latest efforts are now up on Gasoline Rainbows. Gasoline Rainbows is also now in my sidebar, as I realise I've been hiding it away for some reason known only unto myself.

Anarchy In The UK(ulele)

I love my Uke! I've only had it a week and already I can play Smoke On The Water........... Actually, that's a total lie, and you all know it. I haven't even managed 'Bobby Shaftoe' or 'Michael Row The Boat Ashore' yet, but it's a lovely thing to be able to pick it up, fiddle about with the tunings and find new chords that one day I might be able to mangle together into a song. It's also performed the function of getting me interested in playing again. Believe me, after the ukulele, my acoustic guitar no longer seems like such a chore, and the electric is a breeze to play. As one who takes nothing to do with barre chords, the uke is a bit of a bitch to play, but I've spent half of tonight figuring out some really nice sounding open chords that even the most club fisted struggler with 'stupid fingers' can play with ease. Can I also just say "Ha! Ha! Fuck You Barry Ferguson!! Ya over-rated wee tadger! I bet the guys who went and backed you up to keep you in the squad are wishing they hadn't bothered now............. The Monster Munch Committee is now adjourned.................. One final football mention. Rafa Benitez, manager of Liverpool gets the phrase 'squeaky bum time' thrown at him by some dinlow hack. Poor guy, he probably thought it was a new pole dancing bar that had opened up in Liverpool, and was expecting to hear that several of his players had been to see what was on offer................ Ok, Johnny Thunders & The Heartbreakers now............. Born To Lose

Punkrock101 No1:MC5

Domestique

In all my years living with my folks, I don't think I ever heard the people in the flat above having a row. Possibly something to do with the previous occupant of the flat being an elderly woman of the devout Catholic persuasion. Even when her hubby was alive and she had family staying, they remained obstinately neighbourly, quiet and, of course, devout.

It is, therefore, rather disconcerting to come into my parents house and feel almost a part of the raging torment that was going on above my head. I was up at the folks place to water the plants while they were on holiday, an operation that should have taken about five minutes. Instead, I was there for about half an hour, wandering with morbid fascination from room to room, as the acrimony raged back and forth.

Actually, I only heard one person. A slightly shrill male voice, beseeching his beloved to believe that he had no control over who called, texted or emailed him, and that it 'wasn't his fault'. The female voice was either inaudible or just barely distinguishable. The chap, on the other hand raged like a man pleading for his life. I came to the conclusion that he was either dicking his ex, or his girlfriend was a paranoid loon.

Much as it entertained me, I'm glad the folks weren't about, as the old fella would probably have gone up and offered to hand the guy his balls if he didn't shut his fucking noise.

Blood is a right bitch to get out of a nice new carpet.

Lighten Up Morrissey!

Thank the Lord Russ & Ron are back to save humanity from taking themselves too seriously.

Can't wait for their next single, "Why Don't You Kill Yourelf Chris Martin, You Tedious, Self Regarding Toss Bag"

Sounds quite catchy...........

The Dark Hearted Soul Of the Average Office Drone

Our line manager got made redundant. We celebrated. It was wrong on too many levels to count, but somehow none of us could help it. Like spiteful school children, we quietly sneered, jeered and mocked amongst each other. I am not proud. That said, I won't miss his foul breath, arrogant offhand manner, contradictory bullshit and creepy wee shell-games. So, first day of summer or what? Today had that 'feel', that scent that says summer is just around the corner, with it's mandatory six days of nice weather and endless days of humid, damp misery. I feel better already! Unlike my old Grandpa. He's 94 you know!! He's also in hospital with a sore foot. They want to get antibiotics into him via a drip, then see how he does. Mum mentioned something about MRSA, which obviously raised an eyebrow on my part. If 'Iron Baws' Jimmy Morrison can contract that sort of thing, then nobody is safe.............. Tonight's visit was fairly entertaining though, just as long as you kept him off his usual conversational trajectory. He does a fairly good Private Fraser impersonation, and it's a constant battle to keep him from getting too bloody morose. Gentle mockery and a hearty dismissal of his ruminations seems to get the best out in him, as he realises you aren't going to wear an hour of his "The world is about to end!" chuntering. We also got his story about how the humble tomato saved him from the draft during the war. He grew them you see, and the government regarded them as an important part of the British diet. So important that the Jimster spent '39 to '45 fighting the jolly hun by providing ripe, juicy toms to the populace. I did point out that had he been conscripted and survived the war, it would have constituted a different reality and different circumstances. It was possible that neither myself or my brother would have been born and we wouldn't be having this particular conversation. My brothers girlfriend asked if Jimmy would still be in hospital with a sore foot on this alternate timeline. I concluded that yes, he would still be in hospital with a sore foot, but nobody would be there to visit him.................... New York Dolls - Trash Beautiful archive footage.............

Chap Of The Week

The first thing I do when I see Andy Neil on Late Night is switch over. I didn't tonight, mainly because I saw Barry McGuigan's ugly mush first. I shant bollock on, but as a fan of sane secular education models (Turkey, France, bend an ear....), I wish the 'Clones Cyclone' all the best as he helps the campaign to balance education in NI , in an attempt to steer teaching away from the self-interested grasp of both Protestant and Catholic churches. There is no 'solution' to sectarian hatred and dis-trust, but at least if there are people out there reducing the odds.....................

As It Should Be

I remember the cold, the inept attempts to close it out I remember the love, words that came too easily, becoming tiresome and meaningless on release I remember you lost and crazy with sadness I remember the moments when everything seemed right We weren't happy We still aren't As it should be I pretend there's something left, in weak moments, when silence aids a wandering mind Or before I fall asleep I find it odd that I never dream of you.

No Future/The Future's Bright etc

May plague and pestilence befall the cunts at Post Office Ltd!! Thank you for the lovely quarterly bill for £112.52 that landed on my floor today you hopeless fucking arseholes! This in spite of the fact that I have a monthly direct debit with them. The woman on the help-line tried to explain it, but I couldn't quite figure out what she was getting at. Nor could she if the truth be told, so I bit my lip and left it. I'm crap in these situations. Hopeless in fact. If only I could hire an army of bitter, snippy middle aged women, or a gang of argumentative Glaswegian navvies to handle my telephone correspondences. I'd be swimming in free stuff and goodwill. I'm currently considering one of two options. Either I accept my financial hosing with good grace, or I call up again and ask a few more pertinent questions, like............ "Why wasn't I warned in writing that my line rental had 'expired'?" "Why has this occurred? Was it something I said or did?" "Why do I have to cough up for a quarterly period instead of just the last two months?" "Do you enjoy ripping off increasingly depressed, poverty stricken oafs like me?" Ok, so the last one's a bit unfair, but I'm not in a mood for equanimity or fairness. The world isn't fair, which is why I'm running out of cash only a week after being paid. That said, it is my fault. I missed the fact that I'd not been debited in January, and only just realised nothing came off last month. Oh, and I hadn't received my monthly bill for a while. It has to be said, I've not been myself of late. Work is chipping away at my soul, a little every day. I'm starting to share the same dark, appalling thoughts about my manager as the weird, borderline sociopath who works in my section and won't talk to me. The house hasn't been hoovered in months, the dishes get done once a week whether they need it or not and I've become obsessed with the passage of hours and minutes, to the extent that I clock-watch relentlessly out of work hours. The fact that just under twenty quid hasn't come out of my account for a few months is of little importance to me right now.

Fucksticks!!