Whiskers On Kittens

A few more of my favourite things.

The bridge/coda from Razorlight's "In The Morning" (from about 3:05 in the video below)

The smell of newly-cut grass on a hot, still, summer's day.

John Frusciante's backing vocals on "Can't Stop":

Baby Girl's giggle

The rumble from my surround sound system at the start of an action movie.

Extra large hoodies.

Raindrops On Roses

These are a few of my favourite things:

Walking around barefoot both indoors and outdoors.

Wearing a new pair of jeans for the first time.

Listening to someone who can really play a harmonica.

The smell of freshly tumble dried clothes.

Waking up on a sunny Saturday morning when I have no plans.

Ginger Baker's drum fills on "The White Room".

Family movies from the 1980s.

The fizz of excitement when the house lights are turned off just before a gig starts.

Scotland scoring a goal in a competitive international football match.

Colds, classic albums and The Fab Four

It looks as though my near-fatal bout of Man Flu has abated slightly, so I feel rejuvenated enough to turn my attentions once again to the Blogosphere.

I was going to post about Elbow's latest album, The Seldom Seen Kid, and how it's looking like a shoo-in for my album of the year already, but I don't feel I'd be able to do it justice in my Lemsip and Strepsil-addled state. Needless to say, I thoroughly recommend everyone go and buy it RIGHT NOW - it's a work of subtle and understated beauty from a band every bit the equal of Radiohead and the Super Furry Animals.

In an attempt to recover from the dreaded lurgy, I spent most of yesterday parked on the sofa at Dungroanin', making my way through The Beatles Anthology DVD box set. Ten hours of Fabs Fabness really drummed home that, from 1965 until 1969, they were the coolest looking creatures ever to walk the face of this planet. I've posted the I Am The Walrus video before, in which they were probably at the peak both of their creative powers and sartorial elegance, but this picture, taken mere days before they closed the book on the greatest musical story ever, shows they were still looking good right up until the end:

The weekend now stretches before me and I'm looking forward to doing nothing more taxing than catching up with a backlog of recorded TV programmes within the warm confines of Dungroanin'.

Bliss.

Dressed To Impress

In the course of my day-to-day work, I frequently have to look at websites relating to international oil and gas developments.

Doing a bit of research into a project in Angola, I found the wonderful photograph above, taken at a "blessing ceremony" for the project.

If this photograph is supposed to encourage investment in Angola, I'm pretty sure it sails fairly wide of the mark.

Between the five cheery wee souls seen here, not one of them could be arsed to crack a smile. Maybe that's unfair - we've all been caught out by the photographer pressing the button at the wrong time, making us look like we've struggling with a troublesome case of constipation when, in fact, we're merely "between smiles".

But even if these guys were caught unawares, their dress sense is astonishing. Before anyone points it out, I know downtown Luanda isn't exactly Paris, New York or London.
But none of these guys is dressed like any of the others.

Take the guy on the left - blue boiler suit, and pencil tucked into his breast pocket. So he's probably an engineer, and dressed in an appropriate fashion.

But the next guy along obviously thinks he's a gangster. Unfortunately, his look is let down bu the fact that he's wearing plastic sunglasses and an un-ironed shirt.

Next to him, we have Patrick Trueman from Eastenders. Times have obviously been hard in the Trueman household since he was robbed and left for dead, but he's determined to keep going, even with a battered hat, ill-matching shirt and tie combo and trousers pulled up to his nipples.

Then we've got former Leeds United defender Michael Duberry. He may have been an England international at one point, but now he's slumming it in Angola, wearing a shirt fashioned out of a pair of curtains. THAT's how far Leeds have fallen.

But the award for best dressed nutter at the blessing ceremony goes to the attractive gentleman on the far right of the shot. Given that this is a blessing ceremony, I'm guessing he's some kind of witch doctor or holy man. Back in the glory days of his profession, he'd have been wearing a loin cloth fashioned from rhino hide, a necklace of peacock feathers and a hat made from a human skull.

However, in these more modern and civil times, he's reduced to wearing a charity shop polo shirt, a hideous blue tablecloth and a fake Man Utd tammy, worn in an inventive "Wee Willy Winky" style.

It's rare that I can consider myself well-dressed, but I think a visit to Angola would probably just about swing it.

What's Wally Wearing?

This morning, shortly after 4.30am, someone from Australia arrived at this website having searched on Google for "What colour socks does Where's Wally wear?".

Aside from being a semi-tongue twister, it's a good question - why don't we know what colour socks the world's best hide-and-seek player wears? Red and white tammy, Hamilton Accies jersey, blue drainpipes, brown shoes, bulging backpack and walking stick - but what of Wally's underwear situation?

I demand answers....

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.

What's Worn Under The Kilt?

Disturbing results from my latest batch of Google referrers.

In the past three days, the search terms that have brought people my way from the world's favourite search engine have included "anal gerbilling", "she pulled my testicles" and "colour underwear with kilt".

Of the three, it's the last that is most disturbing.

If you need to ask what colour of underwear you should be wearing beneath your kilt, you shouldn't be wearing one.

Looking Good?

So, how are my socks looking in this photograph?

Considerably better than I am, I would say....

Socks Appeal

Dublin is a strange city. The city centre, with its Georgian townhouses and the landscaped beauty of St Stephen's Green, seems fairly affluent, albeit not in an overly ostentatious way. But the bus ride into the city from the airport takes you through suburbs as run down as any I've seen in western Europe. I suppose that all the EU money that the Republic of Ireland has pulled in over the past decade or so only stretches so far.

Mrs Wife and I were in Dublin this weekend to attend a party celebrating the marriage of a good friend of mine from my university days. Having decided to wed on a beach in Thailand, they then invited their family and friends to a low-key soiree in Dublin.

It was the third time I'd visited the Irish capital - the first was with the friend whose wedding party we were attending, way back in the days before I knew Mrs Wife and he knew his new bride. Six of us spent a week touring Ireland, a tour which involved spending more time in licensed premises than in tourist attractions.

My second visit was in 2003, when I took the then Miss Girlfriend to Dublin to see Justin Timberlake touring his debut album. At some point in the future, I may write about that trip, but for now, I will concentrate on this weekend.

Although I'd visited Dublin twice previously, this was the first time I'd flown into its airport, having arrived by train from Belfast on my previous trips. This trip was also different in that we knew that our sight-seeing time was to be limited, as we were partying on both the Saturday night and the Sunday night, the main event taking place on the Sunday.

When we were first invited to the party, I tried to book a hotel as close to the venue as possible. Mrs Wife and I have decided that, on reflection, selecting a hotel that "boasts" a nightclub which remains open until 3am was probably not a great idea. It would seem that the hotel in question makes most of its money from the nigthclub. Our room was easily the worst we have stayed in whilst travelling in Europe, and was worse than most of those we endured during three months in South East Asia.

Two enjoyable nights on the town aside, and discounting the grottiness of our room, the defining factor of our trip was my wardrobe. Deciding to exude a little Scottish class, I took my kilt across the Irish Sea. As I was awaiting our bags at the carousel in Dublin airport, it suddenly dawned on me that I had neglected to pack a shirt to go with the kilt. Whilst an inconvenience, this wasn't an insurmountable problem - I would simply buy a plain white shirt, which would be a passable replacement for the real thing.

Having found a suitable stand-in shirt, I was hanging up my outfit in the hotel and checking that I had all of the other constituent parts of the kilt. Sporran - check. Shoes - check. Bow tie - check. Socks. Socks. Socks? SOCKS?

Damn. I'd forgotten the socks. This may not sound like a big deal - socks are socks. Except when the outfit in question is a kilt. Because the kilt extends to knee length, and the shoes lace up around the calf and shin, the socks are vital to the overall look.

Mrs Wife was, of course, suitably impressed with this revelation. As Dublin's shops had closed for the evening, it meant that Sunday, the day of the party, was spent roaming the city's streets in search of socks for an outfit from a foreign country.

We tried many different outlets, including one chain that rents kilts out, but in vain - Dublin is not the best place in the world to buy kilt socks. Finally, with our hangovers reaching the "fatally dehydrated" stage, our patience wearing thin and our feet aching, we were directed to a store called House of Ireland.

They didn't stock kilt socks. But they did have thick, knee-length, woollen socks, which would stand as passable replacements for one evening. I almost baulked at the pricetag - ELEVEN POUNDS for a pair of socks (I am a man who normally buys underwear in packs of three and always for less than five pounds - eleven pounds for a pair of socks is a bit steep).

And the moral of the tale? Listen to your mother's advice - ALWAYS pack clean underwear.

(As a post script to this strangely lengthy tale of socks, most of the other guests at the party were wearing jeans and casual shirts. But hey, a man in a kilt in a roomful of Irish people wearing jeans is ALWAYS going to stand out.)