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

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.

Body Language Was Never My Strong Suit

'The Bedouin' gets a lick of paint. I wanted him to hire me as his cabin boy, but he just gave me a funny look and threatened to call the police.

You know that moment? The one where you suddenly realise the person you're talking to has glazed over and is no longer listening to a word you're saying.........

I do that a dozen times a day. Maybe it's because I'm not interested in what anyones got to say. That could be it. I could just be a rude and supercillious cunt. I don't know, people are fucking boring, they bang on relentlessly, humourlessly, they talk unbidden about things you couldn't possibly care about, and they do it at gratuitous fucking length. Do I do it? Hell, sure I do, but you see, I have this awesome weapon in my armoury which makes me superior. heavens, you dear reader might have this ability too, for it is by no means unique to me. It's called self awareness. I know when I've gone off the deep end, when I'm heading into those dark woods of incoherence, I see the dimming of the lights, the barely visible nods as my victim tries to make it obvious they'd rather eat their own entrails than hear any more, but at the same time trying not to make it too obvious so they don't offend me. I see the signs and I stop. In fact, if you completely fucking ignore me, I stop even quicker , I check myself and realise that yes, nobody gives a damn. You get good at it after a while and learn the art of keeping it short and sweet.

Sadly, the two people I sit with have no such ability. The guy opposite me, whilst he's a nice enough chap, and sometimes quite funny, seems to think I'm interested in what the increasingly paranoid mouth breathers on the Follow Follow Rangers Fan Forum have to say. I couldn't give a flying fuck for the opinions of the average Partick Thistle fan, so why in the name of all that's Holy does he think I care about the delusional, petty rantings of Big Shuggy McPopehater from Larkhall? Answers on a postcard.

The other menace sits next to me, and again she's actually alright in many ways, but fuck me!, once she warms to her subject, there is absolutely no fucking stopping her. Just when you think it's come to an end, she starts up again. Finally, you think you've ridden it out, but no, theres more. Sometimes it feels like you have to physically leave the desk to stop her in her tracks. I deserve all I get I suppose, I engage her in conversation sometimes and nobody should have any sympathy for me in those situations............It's not always like that though and many's the time it's taken me the best part of two minutes to escape the gravitational pull of my desk, just so I don't have to listen to her prattling, usually in an exaggerated fashion that resembles someone doing a very laboured and not terribly funny stand up routine.

The thing I wonder is why they don't read the signals. Is it just that they have no knowledge of what a very bored man looks like? Is it deliberate? Are they just trying to drive me mad? If so, then that's alright, because I'm a man half way to fucking delirium anyway, one more little shove won't do any harm. It's the other option that scares me.. If neither of them know that zero eye contact, grunted responses and veiled hints that they might be talking about something I couldn't give two fucks about don't work, then frankly, I might as well run bollock naked through the office, photocopy my balls and staple the results to the department managers forehead for all the difference it'll make.

Sorry, you were saying..................?

Welcome To My Grotto

In a moment of delusional madness, I have dubbed myself the Santa Claus of Blogland, dispensing joy and happiness to all.

Leave your requests below please.

Requests for Hard-Core Porn will be considered.

Requests for World Peace will be passed on to someone who deals with that sort of thing................

I must go now, I'm off to beat up some fucking elves.

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

Surfs Up!

Apparently this was roughly around about the time Brian Wilson lost the plot and decided to go and live on another planet, in a constellation known to him and him alone. It seems the trauma of having to explain the lyrics of Van Dyke Parks and the weird new music he was making to the rest of the Beach Boys was taking it's toll. Still, lovely stuff at the old Joanna.........