Showing posts with label Animals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Animals. Show all posts
Monday, March 26, 2012
Newbies
On the way home from visiting friends outside Perth yesterday, Mrs Wife, the Jockling and I stopped in Dundee so that I could pick up some new tenants for the Dungroanin' aquarium.
This weekend's additions were three Otocinclus, or Ottos for short, that I have named Optimus, Rodimus and Bumblebee. The photograph above shows Optimus getting straight down to the business of eating brown algae, which was the reason for acquiring them in the first place.
They join an eclectic group that includes seven harlequin rasbora (Quinzel, Cobblepot, Nigma, Bane, Dent, Fries and Joker), three mollies (Laudrup, Gascoigne and Walters) and a guppy (Firestar), as well as five Malaysian trumpet snails (Davis, Gillespie, Armstrong, Flea and Moore).
Laudrup (bottom middle), Gascoigne (upper right) and Walters (upper left) say hello to the camera, while one of the harlequins pops into the frame in the top right.
Monday, January 11, 2010
British Bunnies
More shameless plugging in this post - Mrs Wife has launched her own business.
British Bunnies (http://www.britishbunnies.co.uk/) caters for all your rabbit needs, with advice on your lagomorph's diet, health, training and welfare. It also has a directory of rabbit holiday accommodation and a fantastic forum to discuss all things bunny-related.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Evil
I've seen a lot of pretty disgusting things in my time - a 15-year-old Thai girl, heavily pregnant with her second child, butchering a dog for that night's dinner.
A restuarant described by a tour guide as "the best in Vietnam" crawling with cockroaches.
The carcass of a dead and trampled mouse found underneath a rug after several months lying undiscovered.
A Chinese woman skinning a basket of live frogs.
But today, as I walked from the train station to my office, I was met by the sight of something that I wasn't really prepared for at that time of the morning...
...a massive seagull tucking into a hearty breakfast of dead pigeon.
I'm presuming that the pigeon had been hit by a car, and not that the seagull had hunted its fellow bird down.
However it came upon its meal, the seagull seemed to be making the most of its good fortune, sqwuaking merrily as it ripped into the chest cavity, feathers flying everywhere.
I've said before that I have a phobia of birds, and one less pigeon is a victory for the forces of good in this world.
But being confronted by a seagull dismembering a pigeon on the pavement at 7.45am?
It's almost enough to put me off my Sugarpuffs.
A restuarant described by a tour guide as "the best in Vietnam" crawling with cockroaches.
The carcass of a dead and trampled mouse found underneath a rug after several months lying undiscovered.
A Chinese woman skinning a basket of live frogs.
But today, as I walked from the train station to my office, I was met by the sight of something that I wasn't really prepared for at that time of the morning...
...a massive seagull tucking into a hearty breakfast of dead pigeon.
I'm presuming that the pigeon had been hit by a car, and not that the seagull had hunted its fellow bird down.
However it came upon its meal, the seagull seemed to be making the most of its good fortune, sqwuaking merrily as it ripped into the chest cavity, feathers flying everywhere.
I've said before that I have a phobia of birds, and one less pigeon is a victory for the forces of good in this world.
But being confronted by a seagull dismembering a pigeon on the pavement at 7.45am?
It's almost enough to put me off my Sugarpuffs.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Mr Henderson
Of all the funny things that I saw, heard, read and ate in China (yes, ate: tofu, good God....) the funniest of them all involved no Chinese people, no Chinglish and no chopstick-related mayhem.
It is a curious fact that that funniest thing that happened to me in China involved Mrs Wife and an orang-utang.
Ever since our lives became entwined, it has been a strange custom of ours to visit, when possible, the zoo for her birthday.
As Mrs Wife turned 28 during our Shanghai sojourn, we decided to take a trip out the city's zoo. Truthfully, we weren't sure what to expect - we'd heard rumours that the quality of the enclosures might be someway short of that found in the west, and that we should prepare for the worst.
But in truth, the standards weren't too bad - perhaps not as high as would be expected in Edinburgh or London, but certainly of sufficient size that the animals could move around freely and explore the confines of their cages.
By far the worst aspect of the zoo was the Chinese customers, who ignored the rules forbidding the feeding of animals and merrily threw sweeties in wrappers to bears and attempted to attract the attentions of a red panda with a sandwich.
The zoo is massive, and walking around in the scorching sun was tiring. But, as the end of the day approached, it began to seem as though we had the park to ourselves, most of the Chinese having departed.
And it was near closing time that we found the primates. As ever, the gorillas and chimpanzees were highly entertaining, given how closely related they are to ourselves.
Having spent a good few minutes watching our near cousins, Mrs Wife and I arrived in the deserted orang-utang building, where two of the apes were separated by a wall that split the enclosure.
As Mrs Wife watched the comic antics of a young orang-utang, I wandered to the other side of the enclosure, where I found myself face-to-face with a six-foot plus male.
I don't think I've ever been that close to a fully-grown male orang-utang before, and I expressed my surprise by shouting to Mrs Wife: "Come and see, it's a yeti."
Mrs Wife duly obliged, and spent several minutes in silent awe as the creature checked us out, swung around on a tyre and then climbed a rope.
Finally, the silence was broken when Mrs Wife said: "I don't think I've ever seen a yeti before."
It is a curious fact that that funniest thing that happened to me in China involved Mrs Wife and an orang-utang.
Ever since our lives became entwined, it has been a strange custom of ours to visit, when possible, the zoo for her birthday.
As Mrs Wife turned 28 during our Shanghai sojourn, we decided to take a trip out the city's zoo. Truthfully, we weren't sure what to expect - we'd heard rumours that the quality of the enclosures might be someway short of that found in the west, and that we should prepare for the worst.
But in truth, the standards weren't too bad - perhaps not as high as would be expected in Edinburgh or London, but certainly of sufficient size that the animals could move around freely and explore the confines of their cages.
By far the worst aspect of the zoo was the Chinese customers, who ignored the rules forbidding the feeding of animals and merrily threw sweeties in wrappers to bears and attempted to attract the attentions of a red panda with a sandwich.
The zoo is massive, and walking around in the scorching sun was tiring. But, as the end of the day approached, it began to seem as though we had the park to ourselves, most of the Chinese having departed.
And it was near closing time that we found the primates. As ever, the gorillas and chimpanzees were highly entertaining, given how closely related they are to ourselves.
Having spent a good few minutes watching our near cousins, Mrs Wife and I arrived in the deserted orang-utang building, where two of the apes were separated by a wall that split the enclosure.
As Mrs Wife watched the comic antics of a young orang-utang, I wandered to the other side of the enclosure, where I found myself face-to-face with a six-foot plus male.
I don't think I've ever been that close to a fully-grown male orang-utang before, and I expressed my surprise by shouting to Mrs Wife: "Come and see, it's a yeti."
Mrs Wife duly obliged, and spent several minutes in silent awe as the creature checked us out, swung around on a tyre and then climbed a rope.
Finally, the silence was broken when Mrs Wife said: "I don't think I've ever seen a yeti before."
Friday, June 13, 2008
Croaked It
I've spent most of my life in Scotland, and as a result, I'm always keen to see a new part of the planet - broadening the mind, I think it's called.
Mrs Wife and I have trekked through the jungles of northern Thailand; stood halfway up what, at that time, was the world's tallest building and looked out onto the minarets of Kuala Lumpur and onwards to the haze-shrouded hills on the horizon; snorkelled at the Great Barrier Reef; swum in the warm Pacific waters around Fiji; and drunk cheap Mexican beer in a Hollywood garden until the early hours of the morning.
But despite all our previous globe-trotting, there were some things we encountered in Shanghai that we've never seen anywhere else.
For example, on a day trip to Qibao, we spent an hour or so wandering the tightly-packed streets, where we were told we were experiencing "real China".
Many of the shops on these streets were traditional Chinese eateries, where passers-by can grab a quick snack as they head onwards towards their next engagement.
And the food on offer was a tad different to that found in your average greasy spoon cafe.
We saw whole birds impaled on skewers and deep fried, beak, eyes and all. Meats of in an arresting array of unusual colours that we didn't even want to know what animal had met its maker during the butchering process.
Most alarmingly of all (and something that still gives Mrs Wife a severe case of the heebie-jeebies) was a woman sitting on a doorstep skinning a bucket of live frogs and transferring them to a second bucket. The second bucket was a writhing mass of slithering, blood-soaked limbs.
Eating habits aside, the Chinese have an attiutude to many things that, to western eyes, seems strange.
Public spitting and urination is taken for granted. Infants don't wear nappies, but instead have trousers with big holes at the rear. When the child shows signs of needing to relieve itself, it is dangled over the nearest bush/gutter/river and left to get on with things.
Personal space doesn't exist. In a country of 1.3 billion people, perhaps that's understandable. But in the street, people in cars, on motorbikes or on bicycles will cut across your path without warning. On the pavements, pedestrians will do the same, walking diagonally in front of you so that you need to check your pace or stop suddenly to avoid banging into them.
In short, China can, for the first few days, be an infuriating place to visit. But, once you've adjusted to the pace of life in one of the world's most crowded and chaotic cities, it's easier to adapt to the rhythm - knowing that cars don't always stop at red lights, that Chinese people have no interest in anything that is happening directly behind them and that if you really want to buy something in the "fakes" markets, pick a price you'd be willing to pay and stick to it.
Just watch out for the woman with the bucket of skinned frogs.
Mrs Wife and I have trekked through the jungles of northern Thailand; stood halfway up what, at that time, was the world's tallest building and looked out onto the minarets of Kuala Lumpur and onwards to the haze-shrouded hills on the horizon; snorkelled at the Great Barrier Reef; swum in the warm Pacific waters around Fiji; and drunk cheap Mexican beer in a Hollywood garden until the early hours of the morning.
But despite all our previous globe-trotting, there were some things we encountered in Shanghai that we've never seen anywhere else.
For example, on a day trip to Qibao, we spent an hour or so wandering the tightly-packed streets, where we were told we were experiencing "real China".
Many of the shops on these streets were traditional Chinese eateries, where passers-by can grab a quick snack as they head onwards towards their next engagement.
And the food on offer was a tad different to that found in your average greasy spoon cafe.
We saw whole birds impaled on skewers and deep fried, beak, eyes and all. Meats of in an arresting array of unusual colours that we didn't even want to know what animal had met its maker during the butchering process.
Most alarmingly of all (and something that still gives Mrs Wife a severe case of the heebie-jeebies) was a woman sitting on a doorstep skinning a bucket of live frogs and transferring them to a second bucket. The second bucket was a writhing mass of slithering, blood-soaked limbs.
Eating habits aside, the Chinese have an attiutude to many things that, to western eyes, seems strange.
Public spitting and urination is taken for granted. Infants don't wear nappies, but instead have trousers with big holes at the rear. When the child shows signs of needing to relieve itself, it is dangled over the nearest bush/gutter/river and left to get on with things.
Personal space doesn't exist. In a country of 1.3 billion people, perhaps that's understandable. But in the street, people in cars, on motorbikes or on bicycles will cut across your path without warning. On the pavements, pedestrians will do the same, walking diagonally in front of you so that you need to check your pace or stop suddenly to avoid banging into them.
In short, China can, for the first few days, be an infuriating place to visit. But, once you've adjusted to the pace of life in one of the world's most crowded and chaotic cities, it's easier to adapt to the rhythm - knowing that cars don't always stop at red lights, that Chinese people have no interest in anything that is happening directly behind them and that if you really want to buy something in the "fakes" markets, pick a price you'd be willing to pay and stick to it.
Just watch out for the woman with the bucket of skinned frogs.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
A True Story
As Mrs Wife will happily tell almost anyone, I frequently talk and wander about in my sleep.
Usually, or so I am told, these midnight disturbances are no more than a few muttered words before I turn over and fall back into a snore-filled slumber.
But occasionally, and usually when I am especially tired, I have been known to set off on mini expeditions, to engage Mrs Wife in lurid conversations or to imagine that I am in an unusual place or that there are unusual things in the bedroom.
For example, I once sat bolt upright in bed and informed Mrs Wife (then known as Miss Girlfriend) that there was a mouse in the room. Having delivered this unwelcome piece of news in a darkened room at 1am, I promptly lay back down and fell back into a deep sleep. From the report Mrs Wife gave me the next morning, it seems she was unable to do likewise for quite some time.
This animal fascination has reared its head again recently, as I now frequently wake in the middle of the night under the impression that Mrs Wife's rabbits, Dylan and Pepper, are scampering about in our bedroom.
At least this nocturnal intermission is based somewhat on facts - Dylan escaped from his cage a couple of weeks ago and feasted merrily on the tangle of wires and cables that lives behind our television. He was not a popular critter the morning that his handiwork was discovered.
But my finest hour in the exciting world of sleepwalking occurred while I was at university in 2002.
Myself and four others shared a five-bedroom flat on Edinburgh's Morningside Road, in a block in which the same person owned the two flats directly across the landing from each other. When we had been in our new home for several months, the owner announced that he would be refurbishing both, and that we would have to move across the hall for a few weeks while work took place in our flat.
For a week or so at the end of the renovations, we retained keys for both properties while we moved back into our own residence. And it is at this point that our story takes place.
After a night out in Edinburgh, I returned to the original flat and headed to bed.
Several hours later, I stirred, and found that I was feeling unusually cold. Opening my eyes, I discovered that I was in the bedroom in the other flat that I had lived in briefly during the renovations. I was lying on top of the brand new mattress on the brand new bed in that room, wrapped only in a plastic protective cover from the mattress and wearing only a pair of boxer shorts.
With my confusion rapidly accelerating, I investigated further. I found that I was, not surprisingly, in the flat on my own, but that more surprisingly, all of the lights were on.
And so, having switched all the lights off, I shut the door behind me and padded across the cold hallway to our own flat. Where I found that the door was locked.
Unfortunately, I had also shut the door behind me as I left flat number two, locking me out of both properties.
I was cold. I was tired. I was confused. I was drunk.
And so, I took the only action left open to me and started banging furiously on the door to the flat, knowing that my four flatmates were inside.
Thankfully, I managed to wake one of my sleeping flatmates before any of the neighbours could call the police.
Bleary-eyed and, like me, wearing only boxers, my friend opened the door and stared in wonder at this vision before him.
"Mate, what are you doing?" he asked.
"I have no idea," was all I could say in response, "I'm going to bed."
And I did.
The next morning, I awoke with a pounding headache. Turning over, I could hear the sound of conversation coming from the sitting room.
"WHAT?!"
"Aye, standing on the doorstep waering just a pair of boxers!"
Not wishing to disappoint my audience, I ventured into the sitting room, where I was greeted with applause, laughter and a barrage of questions.
None of which I have ever been able to answer.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Of Hiccups, Monster Bobs and Visas
The dust is finally settling on a fairly hectic weekend and I'm almost able to keep my eyes open long enough to post, so I'll try to collect my thoughts.
Friday's working day culminated in a leaving night for a fellow employee, and the drink was flowing freely at the start of the evening. My recollections of events are hazy, but I'm told that my Elvis impersonation kept my colleagues amused.
Thankfully, I had the sense to bail out before things got too messy, and instead subjected the passengers on the Aberdeen to Montrose train to a spectacular bout of hiccups that lasted for the duration of the journey. These hiccups were more like sonic booms, and were so loud that I could hear them above Definitely Maybe cranked up full blast on the Magic Tune Box.
Having arrived in Montrose, I decided that food was required, and treated myself to a pizza. The first bite removed removed several layers off the interior lining of my mouth, and in shock I managed to spill molten cheese on both my hands. All in all, a fairly eventful post-pub meal.
After staggering from the pizza shop to Dungroanin', I managed to scare Pepper, Mrs Wife's rabbit, half to death, then retreated to bed.
Unfortunately, Saturday dawned for me at the early hour of 7.30am. Unable to get back to sleep, I settled on the couch, wrapped in a fake fur throw, and allowed my hangover to build up a head of steam.
What I found out later in the day was that a combination of hail, snow, horizontal rain and howling winds, mixed with the standard of football offered up in an end-of-season Angus derby, is enough to shift even the most stubborn of hangovers.
Though the match wasn't dire, the standard of refereeing, in a league renowned for atrocious officials, was honking, and the man in black's performance was enough in itself to deny Montrose a confirmed play-off spot. For a week at least.
And so Saturday night started with me shivering, attempting to restore my core body temperature to something above freezing and preparing for a second consecutive night on the lash.
I believe a good time was had by all, with most of the assembled crowd enjoying their first visit to Roo's Leap. This vast amount of food was washed down with a few civilised drinks....
....Which doesn't really explain how I ended up finally going to bed at 6am, having woken the whole house with an impromptu didgeridoo solo.
My body clock must still be on British Winter Time, because I awoke at 8.30am, unable to do anything but doze fitfully until my lift to Dundee arrived. Why Dundee? To take in the Dundee United v Rangers SPL match, one of the more entertaining games I've been to this season, albeit one in which the final result left a lot to be desired. But no team can expect to go behind three times and still win a match.
A long day at work on Monday was followed by a trip north to Ellon, where Mrs Wife acquired her second rabbit, a bouncing boy now known as Dylan (in tribute to Robert Zimmerman, not The Magic Roundabout).
Introducing Dylan and Pepper has been a high-tension affair. Pepper is no longer in possession of her womanly organs, but Dylan still has a full set of boy bits, and he's eager to use them. So far, as Pepper has investigated this newcomer, she's smacked him around the nose a few times and attempted to give him a warning nibble on the nose. But Dylan seems to take this as foreplay, so there may be testing times ahead.
Yesterday, the 28th anniversary of my arrival on this planet, saw Mrs Wife and I venture south to Edinburgh, with the intention of collecting our Chinese visas. Unfortunately, the Chinese Consulate is an awkward beast, and no amount of discussion or offers of cash would tempt them to process the application in a single day. Which means that I'll have to make a return journey next week.
So, a busy weekend means I'm pretty shattered and looking forward to a few evenings of realxing on the sofa to recuperate.
I must be getting old.
Friday's working day culminated in a leaving night for a fellow employee, and the drink was flowing freely at the start of the evening. My recollections of events are hazy, but I'm told that my Elvis impersonation kept my colleagues amused.
Thankfully, I had the sense to bail out before things got too messy, and instead subjected the passengers on the Aberdeen to Montrose train to a spectacular bout of hiccups that lasted for the duration of the journey. These hiccups were more like sonic booms, and were so loud that I could hear them above Definitely Maybe cranked up full blast on the Magic Tune Box.
Having arrived in Montrose, I decided that food was required, and treated myself to a pizza. The first bite removed removed several layers off the interior lining of my mouth, and in shock I managed to spill molten cheese on both my hands. All in all, a fairly eventful post-pub meal.
After staggering from the pizza shop to Dungroanin', I managed to scare Pepper, Mrs Wife's rabbit, half to death, then retreated to bed.
Unfortunately, Saturday dawned for me at the early hour of 7.30am. Unable to get back to sleep, I settled on the couch, wrapped in a fake fur throw, and allowed my hangover to build up a head of steam.
What I found out later in the day was that a combination of hail, snow, horizontal rain and howling winds, mixed with the standard of football offered up in an end-of-season Angus derby, is enough to shift even the most stubborn of hangovers.
Though the match wasn't dire, the standard of refereeing, in a league renowned for atrocious officials, was honking, and the man in black's performance was enough in itself to deny Montrose a confirmed play-off spot. For a week at least.
And so Saturday night started with me shivering, attempting to restore my core body temperature to something above freezing and preparing for a second consecutive night on the lash.
I believe a good time was had by all, with most of the assembled crowd enjoying their first visit to Roo's Leap. This vast amount of food was washed down with a few civilised drinks....
....Which doesn't really explain how I ended up finally going to bed at 6am, having woken the whole house with an impromptu didgeridoo solo.
My body clock must still be on British Winter Time, because I awoke at 8.30am, unable to do anything but doze fitfully until my lift to Dundee arrived. Why Dundee? To take in the Dundee United v Rangers SPL match, one of the more entertaining games I've been to this season, albeit one in which the final result left a lot to be desired. But no team can expect to go behind three times and still win a match.
A long day at work on Monday was followed by a trip north to Ellon, where Mrs Wife acquired her second rabbit, a bouncing boy now known as Dylan (in tribute to Robert Zimmerman, not The Magic Roundabout).
Introducing Dylan and Pepper has been a high-tension affair. Pepper is no longer in possession of her womanly organs, but Dylan still has a full set of boy bits, and he's eager to use them. So far, as Pepper has investigated this newcomer, she's smacked him around the nose a few times and attempted to give him a warning nibble on the nose. But Dylan seems to take this as foreplay, so there may be testing times ahead.
Yesterday, the 28th anniversary of my arrival on this planet, saw Mrs Wife and I venture south to Edinburgh, with the intention of collecting our Chinese visas. Unfortunately, the Chinese Consulate is an awkward beast, and no amount of discussion or offers of cash would tempt them to process the application in a single day. Which means that I'll have to make a return journey next week.
So, a busy weekend means I'm pretty shattered and looking forward to a few evenings of realxing on the sofa to recuperate.
I must be getting old.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
May Your Pussy Never Be Bald
As seen a few minutes ago on Graham Norton's TV show - Kitty Wigs.
We're all going to hell in a handcart.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Cold Days and Classic Movies
There's a nasty nip in the air today (no Pearl Harbour jokes please) here on the east coast of Scotland, and it's clear that winter is most definitely either here or on the way.
When Mrs Wife and I made the decision almost a year ago to move east, we did so knowing full well that the weather would be drier, but most certainly colder. But I'd forgotten just how bitterly cold it can be over on this side of the country.
The heating in my office didn't seem to be working too effectively this morning, and hopefully this won't be an indication of things to come, as the days will certainly get colder as we reach mid winter.
And this evening, I am left to my own devices, rabbit-sitting duties aside, as Mrs Wife is in Edinburgh for training. Last night, faced with the prospect of a free evening, I decided to watch the The Shawshank Redemption for the first time.
I don't know how I'd managed not to see the movie before, but I'd heard a lot about it - with several friends placing it amongst the greatest movies ever.
And my verdict - yeah, it's good, but I don't think it's quite deserving of the legendary status bestowed on it by some people.
Certainly not a patch on Star Wars.....
When Mrs Wife and I made the decision almost a year ago to move east, we did so knowing full well that the weather would be drier, but most certainly colder. But I'd forgotten just how bitterly cold it can be over on this side of the country.
The heating in my office didn't seem to be working too effectively this morning, and hopefully this won't be an indication of things to come, as the days will certainly get colder as we reach mid winter.
And this evening, I am left to my own devices, rabbit-sitting duties aside, as Mrs Wife is in Edinburgh for training. Last night, faced with the prospect of a free evening, I decided to watch the The Shawshank Redemption for the first time.
I don't know how I'd managed not to see the movie before, but I'd heard a lot about it - with several friends placing it amongst the greatest movies ever.
And my verdict - yeah, it's good, but I don't think it's quite deserving of the legendary status bestowed on it by some people.
Certainly not a patch on Star Wars.....
Monday, August 13, 2007
Weird and Wonderful
Working as a reporter for a small local newspaper is an ideal way to meet strange people.
I don't mean psychopaths or really dangerous people, although I did meet one or two of them as well, but just unusual folks with their own strange way of going about their business in the world at large.
One of the most memorable was a middle-aged man who appeared in the office in which I worked almost as soon as we opened the doors one morning.
He told me that he had a story, but I'd have to come outside to find out more.
I don't mean psychopaths or really dangerous people, although I did meet one or two of them as well, but just unusual folks with their own strange way of going about their business in the world at large.
One of the most memorable was a middle-aged man who appeared in the office in which I worked almost as soon as we opened the doors one morning.
He told me that he had a story, but I'd have to come outside to find out more.
So, heading out into the rain, I followed the strange man. (My Mither always told me that I shouldn't do that, but I was curious. I should have followed her advice).
We crossed the road and arrived at his large estate car, parked in a busy shopping street.
The man unlocked the doors and told me to sit in the passenger seat.
Taking further leave of my already distant senses I followed his instructions. As I eased my way into the vehicle, my nose was met by a pungent stench.
Having grown up in the countryside, I'm used to the smells associated with animals. Faither, a gamekeeper when I was a boy, kept dogs and ferrets, and we also had chickens, ducks and guinea fowl over the years.
Sitting in that car, the smell reminded of that you would get from a ferret's cage, the musky odour of rodents that don't care too much about their bathing habits.
The strange man, sitting in the driver's seat, began to tell me his story. He liked to watch swans. He liked to feed swans. But, for the most part, he felt that wild swans should be left to get on with their affairs untroubled by the machinations of mankind.
He was most upset that, the night before, when he had ventured along the Crinan Canal to watch the swans bobbing on the water, he had encountered a dead swan lying on the towpath.
It was at this point in his tale that the strange gentleman removed a black binliner from the back of the car, revealing the stinking corpse of a two-day dead swan.
Those of you familiar with this far-flung outpost of the worldwide interweb will be aware that I have a phobia of birds. Admittedly, this swan was dead, but it was still only a few inches from me.
Nonetheless, I managed to maintain my composed demeanour, and asked the strange man why he thought I should know about a dead swan. As I succinctly put it, animals die every day, and those passings generally don't make the pages of the press. (Which headline sounds least exciting - "Dog bites man" or "Swan dies"?)
The strange man said that he believed that this swan, if not callously murdered, had been unintentionally killed by someone who had moved it from the open sea to the Crinan Canal. He explained his theory that, as swans need a good 20 metres in which to land when they've been flying, this unfortunate swan had become entangled in overhead power lines and had met its sorry fate.
It was the strange man's belief that this swan didn't normally spend its days on the canal, but had been transported there by someone who thought it would make a nice addition to the view from their sitting room window.
I gently explained that, without proof, there was little I could do - the local press isn't in the business of slandering suspected swan slayers. The strange man continued, stating that a dead swan was newsworthy regardless of the circumstances of its demise.
After much to-ing and fro-ing as we debated the media ethics behind the story, I finally relented. Keen to be free from the man's pungent swan hearse, I agreed that we should get a photograph of the swan. The strange man then drove us (myself and my ex-swan travelling companion) up to the bank of the canal, where he happily posed for photographs holding the lifeless bird's neck up so that its beak faced the lens.
Satisfied that he had done his bit for swankind, the man left, taking the body with him. We did eventually decide to run the story, primarily because we feared that if we didn't, the strange man might return with further dead animals.
There are very few aspects of my work with the local press that I miss - the hours were long, free time was scarce and the money very poor. But occasionally, I think of the strange people I encountered and wish that, just once, someone would turn up in the oil industry carrying the carcass of a dead bird. You know, just to liven things up a bit.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Eight Things About Me
As seen over at Blog d'Elisson and at Blissful Bedlam - Eight Random Facts About Me.
The useless knowledge is listed below, but first we'd better keep things proper by explaining the rools:
Write a post enumerating eight facts/habits about yourself. Include the rules at the beginning of the post.
Tag eight people, posting their names and links to their sites. (I'm not going to do that - if anyone wants to play, feel free. If you don't, don't.)
Leave comments at the sites you’ve tagged, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
So here we go - eight things you didn't need (or want) to know about me:
1. I've never had an operation under general anaesthetic. In fact, I can count my hospital visits on the fingers of one hand: the first was to get a piece of grit removed from my eye as a teenager, the second was to see how badly I'd damaged my ankle playing football (it turned out to be a strained ligament), the third was to see whether I'd broken my nose playing football (notice a theme here? I hadn't, just burst it open quite spectacularly), the fourth was to see if I'd broken my ribs playing football (I hadn't, they were just bruised) and the fifth was when I had my toenail removed by a doctor who gave me a single local anaesthetic injection. Please note that I was touching wood and crossing my fingers whilst I wrote that answer.
2. The longest I've lived in one house is seven years, when my parents and I (and for three of those years Baby Brother) lived in a small cottage in the countryside near Montrose. I took a drive down there on the way home from work a couple of weeks ago and it hasn't changed at all in the intervening 20 years.
3. The most keepie-uppies I have ever done with a football without it bouncing on the ground is 120. At the end of the session, my legs were exhausted and I'd moved about 10 metres in the time it took, which was probably about five minutes. So I can't begin to fathom how Martinho Eduardo Orige managed to keep a ball in the air for 19-and-a-half hours.
4. I've visited seven of the eight Australian States and Territories, including the Australian Capital Territory and Tasmania. Mrs Wife (then known as Miss Girlfriend) and I didn't make it to the Northern Territory because of an unfortunate incident with an exploding car engine that cost us $2,500 to fix.
5. I can lick my nose and wiggle my ears. But not at the same time.
6. Whilst at university I worked as a security guard, a kitchen porter and as a journalist for a Premier League football team.
7. My favourite alcoholic drink is Cointreau, lime and lemonade. Which is probably the least masculine drink that one can order at any bar in Scotland.
8. I'm allergic to cats and have a phobia of birds. Apart from that, I like animals.
The useless knowledge is listed below, but first we'd better keep things proper by explaining the rools:
Write a post enumerating eight facts/habits about yourself. Include the rules at the beginning of the post.
Tag eight people, posting their names and links to their sites. (I'm not going to do that - if anyone wants to play, feel free. If you don't, don't.)
Leave comments at the sites you’ve tagged, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
So here we go - eight things you didn't need (or want) to know about me:
1. I've never had an operation under general anaesthetic. In fact, I can count my hospital visits on the fingers of one hand: the first was to get a piece of grit removed from my eye as a teenager, the second was to see how badly I'd damaged my ankle playing football (it turned out to be a strained ligament), the third was to see whether I'd broken my nose playing football (notice a theme here? I hadn't, just burst it open quite spectacularly), the fourth was to see if I'd broken my ribs playing football (I hadn't, they were just bruised) and the fifth was when I had my toenail removed by a doctor who gave me a single local anaesthetic injection. Please note that I was touching wood and crossing my fingers whilst I wrote that answer.
2. The longest I've lived in one house is seven years, when my parents and I (and for three of those years Baby Brother) lived in a small cottage in the countryside near Montrose. I took a drive down there on the way home from work a couple of weeks ago and it hasn't changed at all in the intervening 20 years.
3. The most keepie-uppies I have ever done with a football without it bouncing on the ground is 120. At the end of the session, my legs were exhausted and I'd moved about 10 metres in the time it took, which was probably about five minutes. So I can't begin to fathom how Martinho Eduardo Orige managed to keep a ball in the air for 19-and-a-half hours.
4. I've visited seven of the eight Australian States and Territories, including the Australian Capital Territory and Tasmania. Mrs Wife (then known as Miss Girlfriend) and I didn't make it to the Northern Territory because of an unfortunate incident with an exploding car engine that cost us $2,500 to fix.
5. I can lick my nose and wiggle my ears. But not at the same time.
6. Whilst at university I worked as a security guard, a kitchen porter and as a journalist for a Premier League football team.
7. My favourite alcoholic drink is Cointreau, lime and lemonade. Which is probably the least masculine drink that one can order at any bar in Scotland.
8. I'm allergic to cats and have a phobia of birds. Apart from that, I like animals.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Sporran Language
Jesus Christ on a bike (apologies if that offended anyone....in fact no, no apologies. This is MY blog - if you don't like a wee bit of blasphemy, just point your browser in another direction).
The British government is giving serious consideration to issuing licences to people who own sporrans.
As regular readers will be aware, I both own an (fairly) regularly don a kilt in an effort to convince people that I am a stylish, well-dressed drunk, rather than a scruffy, looks-like-he-dressed-in-a-charity-shop-with-his-eyes-closed drunk.
I've owned my kilt since shortly before my wedding last year - so therefore my sporran would be subject to the licensing laws.
So how exactly does one go about obtaining a license for a bit of dead seal bought more than a year ago?
What is this country coming to? Are we on a slippery slope to having to apply to the government to own a pair of leather shoes? Will angry mobs storm the streets demanding that the authorities recognise their Right To Wear Wool?
Well, the government can try - but I don't fancy their chances of getting that piece of legislation through.
The British government is giving serious consideration to issuing licences to people who own sporrans.
As regular readers will be aware, I both own an (fairly) regularly don a kilt in an effort to convince people that I am a stylish, well-dressed drunk, rather than a scruffy, looks-like-he-dressed-in-a-charity-shop-with-his-eyes-closed drunk.
I've owned my kilt since shortly before my wedding last year - so therefore my sporran would be subject to the licensing laws.
So how exactly does one go about obtaining a license for a bit of dead seal bought more than a year ago?
What is this country coming to? Are we on a slippery slope to having to apply to the government to own a pair of leather shoes? Will angry mobs storm the streets demanding that the authorities recognise their Right To Wear Wool?
Well, the government can try - but I don't fancy their chances of getting that piece of legislation through.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Acting The Goat
Courtesy of a work colleague and the BBC, a heartwarming tale of romance in Africa.
I heard a story a few years back about a train full of passengers travelling through a London suburb.
Apparently the train normally went rattling through this suburb really fast, but delays on the line meant that it was barely moving one day. All of the passengers on one side of the train who happened to look out the window were "treated" to the sight of a man, trousers and boxers around his ankles, enjoying the company of his pet goat on his allotment.
It seems that local police received around 20 calls from disturbed passengers reporting the man's activity.
I don't know, you head down to your allotment for a bit of peace and quiet and a quick fumble with your goat, and a trainload of strangers report you to the police. What's the world coming to?
I heard a story a few years back about a train full of passengers travelling through a London suburb.
Apparently the train normally went rattling through this suburb really fast, but delays on the line meant that it was barely moving one day. All of the passengers on one side of the train who happened to look out the window were "treated" to the sight of a man, trousers and boxers around his ankles, enjoying the company of his pet goat on his allotment.
It seems that local police received around 20 calls from disturbed passengers reporting the man's activity.
I don't know, you head down to your allotment for a bit of peace and quiet and a quick fumble with your goat, and a trainload of strangers report you to the police. What's the world coming to?
Monday, March 19, 2007
Resurrected as Rex
If the Hindus have got things right and reincarnation exists, I'm coming back as a well-loved family dog.
(I don't really think that the Hindus ARE right, but hey, it's as believable as any of the other religions doing the rounds, so lets just suspend our individual beliefs for the duration of this post.)
Mrs Wife and I have just spent the weekend with her parents and their 18-month old Scotty dog.
It seems to me that if you have the great fortune to live your life as a well-loved family dog, things are pretty good most of the time. You get fed a couple of times a day, have fresh water whenever you want and are free to lie in front of the fire throughout your waking hours.
People will quite happily throw a ball for you to chase, and you can think of no greater entertainment than running after it for hours on end. Learning a small 'trick' like standing on your hind legs is a sure-fire way of winning plaudits from your audience.
In short, dogs have it pretty good. Which is why, if the Hindus ARE right, I'll happily be reborn as a canine companion to any family good enough to have me.
And if none of the religions have it quite right, and the universe is run by an all-seeing individual called Jim, hopefully he will see to it that my wish is granted.
(I don't really think that the Hindus ARE right, but hey, it's as believable as any of the other religions doing the rounds, so lets just suspend our individual beliefs for the duration of this post.)
Mrs Wife and I have just spent the weekend with her parents and their 18-month old Scotty dog.
It seems to me that if you have the great fortune to live your life as a well-loved family dog, things are pretty good most of the time. You get fed a couple of times a day, have fresh water whenever you want and are free to lie in front of the fire throughout your waking hours.
People will quite happily throw a ball for you to chase, and you can think of no greater entertainment than running after it for hours on end. Learning a small 'trick' like standing on your hind legs is a sure-fire way of winning plaudits from your audience.
In short, dogs have it pretty good. Which is why, if the Hindus ARE right, I'll happily be reborn as a canine companion to any family good enough to have me.
And if none of the religions have it quite right, and the universe is run by an all-seeing individual called Jim, hopefully he will see to it that my wish is granted.
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