Once again, I'm concerned at my recent music buying, and I'm becoming increasingly aware that I'm buying less and less new music.
The last ten albums I bought were:
The Black Keys - Attack & Release
Fleetwood Mac - Then Play On
Ultrasound - Everything Picture
The Highwaymen - The Highwayman Collection
John Mayall & The Blues Breakers - Blues Breakers With Eric Clapton
The Who - Who Are You
The Who - The Who By Numbers
Fairport Convention - Unhalfbricking
Gram Parsons - GP/Grievous Angel
Lee "Scratch" Perry - Soul Fire
Not one of them released this year. Only The Black Keys album was even released this century.
Am I losing my touch or spreading my roots further into classic blues, country, folk and reggae?
Showing posts with label Growing Up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Growing Up. Show all posts
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Thursday, April 08, 2010
It Was Thirty Years Ago Today....
....That I took my first lungfuls of air in Ninewells Hospital, Dundee.This photograph was taken a bit later when I was Christened.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
I Suddenly Feel Very Old
It came as a shock today when I found out that I'm older than Chelsea captain John Terry.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Up In The Sky
I'm a tad weary today, as last night saw me turn back the years by visiting the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre to watch Oasis.
Oasis at the AECC was the first concert I attended (discounting festivals) back in 1997, shortly after the release of Be Here Now.
Since then, I've seen the band a further three or four times (unlike my friend Billy, who accompanied me last night, who has seen them 20 times). Since the last time I saw them, they've released two albums and seen the emergence of Liam Gallagher as a songwriting force to match his brother in quantity if not quality.
There's an atmosphere surrounding Oasis gigs that's unlike any other. For a start, it seems more Neds come out to watch the Gallagher touring circus than attend other gigs - it's not always entirely pleasant, but it's unique.
Furthermore, the number of people considerably younger than me who attended was quite surprising - we spotted countless youngsters who weren't even born when Definitely Maybe was released - and that's not an entirely pleasant thought either, given that it soundtracked my teenage years.
We opted against watching the support act, arriving in the concrete and steel shell of the AECC around fifteen minutes before the lights dipped to signal the imminent arrival of the band on stage. The taped intro of Fuckin' In The Bushes blasted out of the speakers and Billy and I launched ourselves into the crowd in a manner not befitting our combined 55 years walking the Earth.
The setlist was a curious one - Live Forever and Acquiesce, both of which would be regarded as amongst Oasis' best work, were omitted, while The Meaning of Soul and Slide Away were both given rare run-outs. The Masterplan and an acoustic guitar version of Don't Look Back In Anger were highlights, as were the furious blasts through Supersonic and Morning Glory.
The Shock of The Lightning suffered from a false start, the band stopping halfway through in an attempt to stop people being crushed against the barrier at the front of the arena (Noel: "Hey, hey, hey, hey, don't start booing. Everyone take one step back. We can't have the people down the front dying before they've bought a t-shirt.")
Champagne Supernova, as always, was a highlight, before the encore closed with the now-traditional cover of The Beatles' I Am The Walrus.
There was little banter between the band and the crowd, and at times it looked as though they were going through the motions - but how easy can it be to motivate yourself for a gig on a cold Sunday night in Aberdeen?
Nonetheless, Oasis and their singalong anthems are still a big part of British life. They won't be going anywhere anytime soon.
(I may post video footage if I can work out whether it's possible to rotate videos recorded on my phone.)
Oasis at the AECC was the first concert I attended (discounting festivals) back in 1997, shortly after the release of Be Here Now.
Since then, I've seen the band a further three or four times (unlike my friend Billy, who accompanied me last night, who has seen them 20 times). Since the last time I saw them, they've released two albums and seen the emergence of Liam Gallagher as a songwriting force to match his brother in quantity if not quality.
There's an atmosphere surrounding Oasis gigs that's unlike any other. For a start, it seems more Neds come out to watch the Gallagher touring circus than attend other gigs - it's not always entirely pleasant, but it's unique.
Furthermore, the number of people considerably younger than me who attended was quite surprising - we spotted countless youngsters who weren't even born when Definitely Maybe was released - and that's not an entirely pleasant thought either, given that it soundtracked my teenage years.
We opted against watching the support act, arriving in the concrete and steel shell of the AECC around fifteen minutes before the lights dipped to signal the imminent arrival of the band on stage. The taped intro of Fuckin' In The Bushes blasted out of the speakers and Billy and I launched ourselves into the crowd in a manner not befitting our combined 55 years walking the Earth.
The setlist was a curious one - Live Forever and Acquiesce, both of which would be regarded as amongst Oasis' best work, were omitted, while The Meaning of Soul and Slide Away were both given rare run-outs. The Masterplan and an acoustic guitar version of Don't Look Back In Anger were highlights, as were the furious blasts through Supersonic and Morning Glory.
The Shock of The Lightning suffered from a false start, the band stopping halfway through in an attempt to stop people being crushed against the barrier at the front of the arena (Noel: "Hey, hey, hey, hey, don't start booing. Everyone take one step back. We can't have the people down the front dying before they've bought a t-shirt.")
Champagne Supernova, as always, was a highlight, before the encore closed with the now-traditional cover of The Beatles' I Am The Walrus.
There was little banter between the band and the crowd, and at times it looked as though they were going through the motions - but how easy can it be to motivate yourself for a gig on a cold Sunday night in Aberdeen?
Nonetheless, Oasis and their singalong anthems are still a big part of British life. They won't be going anywhere anytime soon.
(I may post video footage if I can work out whether it's possible to rotate videos recorded on my phone.)
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Just 17
A friend from my university days came to visit last week, providing us with the first opportunity to catch up with each other since his stag do last year.
While he and his wife were here, we watched Motherwell playing in Europe, a match in which it was brought to our attention that it is 17 years since Motherwell last won a trophy.
I remember the Scottish Cup final of 1991, as I think it was the first in which I'd taken a real interest. The fact that it was an extra time seven-goal thriller helped, as did Ally Maxwell's heroics in goal despite having suffered a broken rib during the match.
But it wasn't the football reminiscing that struck me - it was the idea that the match was more than 17 years ago.
Initially, it seemed impossible that 17 years had passed. But I'm torn between that fact and the fact that ONLY 17 years have passed, given how much has happened in the interim.
Since a Motherwell team containing Davie Cooper, Tom Boyd and Phil O'Donnell lifted the cup, I've finished primary school and been through both high school and university. Britain has had three new Prime Ministers, four if you include Thatcher, whose reign ended in 1991.
I've moved house at least 10 times. Mrs Wife and I have been around the world. Mrs Wife has become Mrs Wife. My grampa has died. My parents have split up. I've endured more hangovers than I care to remember. Princess Diana, George Harrison, the Queen Mother, the Pope and George Best have all died. Dunblane, Columbine, two Iraq wars, the complete collapse of the Soviet Union and September 11 have all come and gone. So too have Euro 92, USA 94, Euro 96, France 98, Euro 2000, Japan & South Korea 2002, Euro 2004, Germany 2006 and Euro 2008.
But I can still remember watching that Scottish Cup final, and recreating its key moments with a seven-year-old Baby Brother in the park afterwards. I remember the excitement at receiving a signed photograph of Ally Maxwell from the SFA. I remember Davie Cooper humiliating Dundee United despite being in his late 30s.
So, has it been 17 long years since Motherwell won a trophy? Or only 17 years? I can't decide.
While he and his wife were here, we watched Motherwell playing in Europe, a match in which it was brought to our attention that it is 17 years since Motherwell last won a trophy.
I remember the Scottish Cup final of 1991, as I think it was the first in which I'd taken a real interest. The fact that it was an extra time seven-goal thriller helped, as did Ally Maxwell's heroics in goal despite having suffered a broken rib during the match.
But it wasn't the football reminiscing that struck me - it was the idea that the match was more than 17 years ago.
Initially, it seemed impossible that 17 years had passed. But I'm torn between that fact and the fact that ONLY 17 years have passed, given how much has happened in the interim.
Since a Motherwell team containing Davie Cooper, Tom Boyd and Phil O'Donnell lifted the cup, I've finished primary school and been through both high school and university. Britain has had three new Prime Ministers, four if you include Thatcher, whose reign ended in 1991.
I've moved house at least 10 times. Mrs Wife and I have been around the world. Mrs Wife has become Mrs Wife. My grampa has died. My parents have split up. I've endured more hangovers than I care to remember. Princess Diana, George Harrison, the Queen Mother, the Pope and George Best have all died. Dunblane, Columbine, two Iraq wars, the complete collapse of the Soviet Union and September 11 have all come and gone. So too have Euro 92, USA 94, Euro 96, France 98, Euro 2000, Japan & South Korea 2002, Euro 2004, Germany 2006 and Euro 2008.
But I can still remember watching that Scottish Cup final, and recreating its key moments with a seven-year-old Baby Brother in the park afterwards. I remember the excitement at receiving a signed photograph of Ally Maxwell from the SFA. I remember Davie Cooper humiliating Dundee United despite being in his late 30s.
So, has it been 17 long years since Motherwell won a trophy? Or only 17 years? I can't decide.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
My Favourite Albums: Number 2: Nirvana - Nevermind
In the 17 years since its release, I'd imagine more has been written about Nirvana, Nevermind and Kurt Cobain than any other combination of band, album and songwriter from the 1990s.
Many of these pieces focus on Cobain himself - his misery, his inability to deal with fame, and his suicide at the age of 27.
What is often overlooked is the music - a tragically small collection of just three studio albums, two live recordings and a rarities compilation.
As a teenage Britpop fan, I was fairly dismissive of Nirvana and their music, and the Grunge v Britpop debate, at least at my school, was akin to a modern retelling of the Mods v Rockers wars of the 1960s, albeit without the scooters, violence and Sting.
I only really gave Nirvana a chance in the few months between leaving school and starting university. And I was immediately enamoured.
As I'm sure is the case with many, perhaps even most, Nirvana fans, my introduction to the band was Nevermind. And the introduction to Nevermind is Smells Like Teen Spirit.
Again, many words have been used to describe the album's lead single - bombastic, thunderous, vitriolic.
But, above all else, Smells Like Teen Spirit is an extraordinary pop song.
Kurt Cobain was an exceptional writer of pop songs and pop hooks, and Nevermind is dripping in them. Smells Like Teen Spirit may be the best known - thanks also to Cobain's nihilistic roar and buzzsaw guitar and Dave Grohl's furious double drum detonations - but the opening half of the record would stand the test of time alongside any other single side of vinyl ever pressed.
In Bloom continues with the thunderous drums and dark imagery, before making way for the more sedate Come As You Are.
Though Nevermind is defined by the growl of its louder tracks, it is on the quieter songs that the other side of Kurt Cobain, as a crafter of mature and thought-provoking lyrics and melodies, shows itself. Polly, narrated by a kidnapper/torturer is a glimpse into its writer's dark side, while closing track Something In The Way puts into music the life of a heroin addict.
Metal, rock, pop - whatever Nevermind is, it stands as one of, if not THE defining album of the 1990s.
Many of these pieces focus on Cobain himself - his misery, his inability to deal with fame, and his suicide at the age of 27.
What is often overlooked is the music - a tragically small collection of just three studio albums, two live recordings and a rarities compilation.
As a teenage Britpop fan, I was fairly dismissive of Nirvana and their music, and the Grunge v Britpop debate, at least at my school, was akin to a modern retelling of the Mods v Rockers wars of the 1960s, albeit without the scooters, violence and Sting.
I only really gave Nirvana a chance in the few months between leaving school and starting university. And I was immediately enamoured.
As I'm sure is the case with many, perhaps even most, Nirvana fans, my introduction to the band was Nevermind. And the introduction to Nevermind is Smells Like Teen Spirit.
Again, many words have been used to describe the album's lead single - bombastic, thunderous, vitriolic.
But, above all else, Smells Like Teen Spirit is an extraordinary pop song.
Kurt Cobain was an exceptional writer of pop songs and pop hooks, and Nevermind is dripping in them. Smells Like Teen Spirit may be the best known - thanks also to Cobain's nihilistic roar and buzzsaw guitar and Dave Grohl's furious double drum detonations - but the opening half of the record would stand the test of time alongside any other single side of vinyl ever pressed.
In Bloom continues with the thunderous drums and dark imagery, before making way for the more sedate Come As You Are.
Though Nevermind is defined by the growl of its louder tracks, it is on the quieter songs that the other side of Kurt Cobain, as a crafter of mature and thought-provoking lyrics and melodies, shows itself. Polly, narrated by a kidnapper/torturer is a glimpse into its writer's dark side, while closing track Something In The Way puts into music the life of a heroin addict.
Metal, rock, pop - whatever Nevermind is, it stands as one of, if not THE defining album of the 1990s.
Rather than leave you with the obvious Smells Like Teen Spirit, here's the video for In Bloom:
Friday, August 15, 2008
My Favourite Albums: Number 1: The Stone Roses - The Stone Roses
There are some records that define certain years for me - Oasis' Definitely Maybe was the soundtrack to 1996 for me, despite being two years old at that point.There are records that I heard early on in my musical development, and which acted as stepping stones into new worlds - an appreciation of Paul Weller's solo work acted as a starting point for my forays into punk, soul and r&b.
And there are records that have had such a cultural impact that they are inescapable, and are as much a part of living in Britain as the Queen, Coronation Street and Tetley's tea.
But my favourite album is none of these. It doesn't define any specific point in my life, having remained a constant source of joy since the first time I heard it. It never encouraged me to find out more about any other bands, primarily because I was already well versed in the works of The Beatles, The Jam and The Rolling Stones by the time I came to The Stone Roses.
And while The Stone Roses is most definitely a British album - and Her Majesty is the inspiration for Elizabeth My Dear - the Roses never reached the heights scaled by Oasis and Blur in their wake.
But, since the age of 18, I've been unmoved in my assertion that The Stone Roses' debut album is the greatest ever made. Given that I regard The Beatles as the greatest band ever, it's a bold statement.
I was only nine when the album was released in 1989, and I didn't really discover it until it was almost 10 years old. It was actually the third Roses album I acquired, having received a copy of the compilation The Complete Stone Roses as a birthday present and purchased a second-hand copy of Second Coming from the magnificent Dundee institution that is Groucho's.
The Stone Roses grabbed me immediately. The opening bass rumble and nimble finger-picking of I Wanna Be Adored's intro sets the scene, and even Ian Brown's foghorn voice can't impact on vintage pre-Britpop psychedelia.
I could attempt to explain why each of the songs on the album is a classic (with the possible exception of Don't Stop - just Waterfall played backwards with new lyrics whispered over the top), or why the whole package transcends the sum of its parts.
But I can't, and I won't attempt to. All I can really do is urge you all to buy a copy of the album and give it a listen. And I'll leave you with the album's final track, the euphoric, climactic eight-minute burst that is I Am The Resurrection.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Universal
Mrs Wife and I watched the movie Cocoon last night.
It's the first time I'd seen the movie in what must be at least 10 years, but is probably considerably more.
There's something about family-friendly American movies from the 1980s that I just can't get enough of, and I've never quite been able to place my finger on it.
Maybe its the cheesy 80s pop that blares from every car stereo - a curious blend of pop hooks, synths and watered-down faux hip-hop beats.
Perhaps its the fashions that taste forgot, brought back into our sitting rooms as though from another world.
But most of all, I think it's the simplicity of the sets and the action. No CGI-assisted action; no computer animation; just wholesome family fun in a world before Pixar.
The list of those films is, I think, nearly inexhaustible. In addition to Cocoon, the films I'm thinking of are Batteries Not Included, Jaws, TeenWolf, Ferris Bueller's Day Off (perhaps not quite so family friendly), Home Alone, The Goonies, Weird Science, The Karate Kid and Back To TheFuture.
I was born in 1980 and therefore didn't hit my teenage years until the mid-1990s. So I grew up with those family films. And they showed a different world, which although broadly similar to mid-1980s Scotland, still looked alien to me eyes. America was a land where it never seemed to rain, where the toys and sweeties were different from those available on this side of the Atlantic and where aliens could feasibly be found living in your garage.
I doubt we'll ever see their simple likes again.
It's the first time I'd seen the movie in what must be at least 10 years, but is probably considerably more.
There's something about family-friendly American movies from the 1980s that I just can't get enough of, and I've never quite been able to place my finger on it.
Maybe its the cheesy 80s pop that blares from every car stereo - a curious blend of pop hooks, synths and watered-down faux hip-hop beats.
Perhaps its the fashions that taste forgot, brought back into our sitting rooms as though from another world.
But most of all, I think it's the simplicity of the sets and the action. No CGI-assisted action; no computer animation; just wholesome family fun in a world before Pixar.
The list of those films is, I think, nearly inexhaustible. In addition to Cocoon, the films I'm thinking of are Batteries Not Included, Jaws, TeenWolf, Ferris Bueller's Day Off (perhaps not quite so family friendly), Home Alone, The Goonies, Weird Science, The Karate Kid and Back To TheFuture.
I was born in 1980 and therefore didn't hit my teenage years until the mid-1990s. So I grew up with those family films. And they showed a different world, which although broadly similar to mid-1980s Scotland, still looked alien to me eyes. America was a land where it never seemed to rain, where the toys and sweeties were different from those available on this side of the Atlantic and where aliens could feasibly be found living in your garage.
I doubt we'll ever see their simple likes again.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Hell For Leather, Lathered, Drunk, I'm Soused, I'm Pissed, I'm Sunk
I'm four days short of completing my 28th journey around the sun, and to commemorate this inauspicious occasion, a great part of this weekend will be spent in a drunken stupor.
It seems curious that, as I've progressed in age and in weight, my capacity to handle alcohol has dimished almost in direct proportion.
As 17-year-olds, my friends and I would think nothing of drinking a half bottle of vodka each BEFORE going out to the pubs. And then feeling full, fit and mad for it again on Sunday morning, right and ready enough to tackle a game of football.
But, as a 28-year-old weighing two stone more than I did at my fighting weight, it takes substantially less alcohol to send me on the slippery slope to drunkenness and hangover hell.
I'm at a loss as to the reasons for this. I can't now imagine starting a night out with a couple of beers, finishing the best part of a half bottle of vodka and then spending four hours in the pub drinking more vodka. But surely, as I age, my body should be more tolerant of the punishment I inflict upon it?
Anyway, the amount of drink I can handle is beside the point. This weekend, a sociable meal at Roo's Leap in Montrose will be followed by several hours of carnage in Montrose's pubs, with several members of the party new to the excitement of drinking in the town of Gable Enders.
I may report back. If I'm able to write and able to remember what happened.
It seems curious that, as I've progressed in age and in weight, my capacity to handle alcohol has dimished almost in direct proportion.
As 17-year-olds, my friends and I would think nothing of drinking a half bottle of vodka each BEFORE going out to the pubs. And then feeling full, fit and mad for it again on Sunday morning, right and ready enough to tackle a game of football.
But, as a 28-year-old weighing two stone more than I did at my fighting weight, it takes substantially less alcohol to send me on the slippery slope to drunkenness and hangover hell.
I'm at a loss as to the reasons for this. I can't now imagine starting a night out with a couple of beers, finishing the best part of a half bottle of vodka and then spending four hours in the pub drinking more vodka. But surely, as I age, my body should be more tolerant of the punishment I inflict upon it?
Anyway, the amount of drink I can handle is beside the point. This weekend, a sociable meal at Roo's Leap in Montrose will be followed by several hours of carnage in Montrose's pubs, with several members of the party new to the excitement of drinking in the town of Gable Enders.
I may report back. If I'm able to write and able to remember what happened.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Play Time
I'd imagine some of you will already have seen this video that Mrs Wife sent me a couple of days agao, but it was the first time I'd had the pleasure.
I think I was probably around three years old when I first got into StarWars. I had loads of toys, presumably from the Return of the Jedi series, as the third instalment was released when I was three.
Loads of them are still squirreled away in my garage, awaiting their rediscovery to fight more intergalactic wars on my sitting room and bedroom floors.
Many of them have seen better days - I've got a Gamorrean Guard with only one arm, Darth Vader's lightsaber was lost many many years ago and the C3P0 toy that had removable limbs was never reunited with his arms and legs after an outdoor play session sometime before my seventh birthday.
My StarWars toys are amongst the few surviving figures from my childhood days - my Thundercats and He-Man toys were torched in a bonfire in the mid 1990s shortly before we moved into a much smaller house.
(Incidentally, you've never seen a toxic cloud of smoke like the one generated by a bonfire of plastic toys from the 1980s. I'm surprised that Faither wasn't made to sign the Kyoto Protocol after that incident.)
But, as ever, Ebay comes to the rescue. There are hundreds of people selling vintage Thundercats and He-Man toys.
I wonder what Mrs Wife will think when the postman starts delivering 20-year-old toys to Dungroanin'?
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Come Again?
Occasionally, it still surprises me to learn that I'm (much) closer to my 30th birthday than I am to my 18th. But, for the most part, days filled with work, mortgages, petrol prices and the like are a sure-fire way to remind all young adults that they are no longer children (or students).
However, in some ways, I just can't grow up. Should I happen to find myself walking across a tiled or laminate floor in only my socks (as in I only have socks on my feet, not that socks are the only thing I'm wearing), I can't resist sliding or attempting my own interpretation of Michael Jackson's dancing.
Another wonderful facet of my childhood that won't be quelled by any number of grey hairs or pension contributions is my inability to eat properly.
Today, whilst sitting at my desk eating yoghurt, I managed, in the short journey from the pot to my mouth, to spill some on my trousers.
White yoghurt. Black trousers.
Despite a flurried spell of activity that involved various methods of attack, including wiping, dabbing and rubbing, my crotch now sports a lively white stain.
Suddenly, people I work with, none of whom has ever gazed at my crotch before, seem to be drawn almost without fail to glimpsing at this stain. This situation then prompts one of two responses:
A) Ignore the fact that the people I spend eight hours a day with are looking at my nethers and continue conversations regardless.
or
B) State, in a manner-of-fact fashion: "It's yoghurt, honest".
Maybe I need to bite the bullet and invest in one of these.
However, in some ways, I just can't grow up. Should I happen to find myself walking across a tiled or laminate floor in only my socks (as in I only have socks on my feet, not that socks are the only thing I'm wearing), I can't resist sliding or attempting my own interpretation of Michael Jackson's dancing.
Another wonderful facet of my childhood that won't be quelled by any number of grey hairs or pension contributions is my inability to eat properly.
Today, whilst sitting at my desk eating yoghurt, I managed, in the short journey from the pot to my mouth, to spill some on my trousers.
White yoghurt. Black trousers.
Despite a flurried spell of activity that involved various methods of attack, including wiping, dabbing and rubbing, my crotch now sports a lively white stain.
Suddenly, people I work with, none of whom has ever gazed at my crotch before, seem to be drawn almost without fail to glimpsing at this stain. This situation then prompts one of two responses:
A) Ignore the fact that the people I spend eight hours a day with are looking at my nethers and continue conversations regardless.
or
B) State, in a manner-of-fact fashion: "It's yoghurt, honest".
Maybe I need to bite the bullet and invest in one of these.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Eight More Things About Me
My favourite Fred Astaire-loving wiseass Jooette has tagged me with the Eight Fascinating Facts meme.
I've actually done this one before, but what's another eight facts between friends? So here are facts nine to 16:
1: The first football match I ever attended was a friendly between Brechin City and Rangers in 1990 or 1991 for Dougie Scott's testimonial. I think the score was 6-4 to Brechin. Ian Durrant scored a penalty and Mark Walters, Terry Hurlock and Colin Scott all played for Rangers.
2: I have eight Standard Grades, seven Highers, two Certificates of Sixth Year Studies and a Bachelor's degree in Journalism. Oh, and National Certificates in Art, Music and Keyboard Skills.
3: I've scored two goals in the Aberdeen Oil League this season. Our team hasn't won a match yet.
4: I collect Hurricane cocktail glasses from Hard Rock Cafes around the world. So far, my collection covers Rome, Sydney, Edinburgh, Madrid, Melbourne, Singapore, New York, Cancun, Paris, Kuala Sumper, Surfer's Paradise and Hollywood.
5: Wales is the only country in the British Isles that I've never been to. For some reason, it just doesn't appeal.
6: The first dance at my wedding was Here, There and Everywhere by The Beatles.
7: This year, I'm spending Xmas with Mrs Wife's parents for the first time before jetting off to Brussels for New Year.
8: I attended four different Primary Schools and one High School as a boy. My first school had several hundred pupils, my second had nine when I started and seven when I left, my third had three when I started and five when I left, and my fourth had 13 when I started and 11 when I left.
So, weren't those facts just scintillatingly exciting? I'm meant to tag eight more bloggers to play along, but I think everyone should play if they want to and ignore it if they don't.
I've actually done this one before, but what's another eight facts between friends? So here are facts nine to 16:
1: The first football match I ever attended was a friendly between Brechin City and Rangers in 1990 or 1991 for Dougie Scott's testimonial. I think the score was 6-4 to Brechin. Ian Durrant scored a penalty and Mark Walters, Terry Hurlock and Colin Scott all played for Rangers.
2: I have eight Standard Grades, seven Highers, two Certificates of Sixth Year Studies and a Bachelor's degree in Journalism. Oh, and National Certificates in Art, Music and Keyboard Skills.
3: I've scored two goals in the Aberdeen Oil League this season. Our team hasn't won a match yet.
4: I collect Hurricane cocktail glasses from Hard Rock Cafes around the world. So far, my collection covers Rome, Sydney, Edinburgh, Madrid, Melbourne, Singapore, New York, Cancun, Paris, Kuala Sumper, Surfer's Paradise and Hollywood.
5: Wales is the only country in the British Isles that I've never been to. For some reason, it just doesn't appeal.
6: The first dance at my wedding was Here, There and Everywhere by The Beatles.
7: This year, I'm spending Xmas with Mrs Wife's parents for the first time before jetting off to Brussels for New Year.
8: I attended four different Primary Schools and one High School as a boy. My first school had several hundred pupils, my second had nine when I started and seven when I left, my third had three when I started and five when I left, and my fourth had 13 when I started and 11 when I left.
So, weren't those facts just scintillatingly exciting? I'm meant to tag eight more bloggers to play along, but I think everyone should play if they want to and ignore it if they don't.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Quizzical Education
Tonight, in an effort to forge bonds between co-workers where there were no bonds before, our company is holding a quiz night.
My team of four, which includes Mrs Wife, one of my colleagues and his own Mrs Wife, will be up against everyone else from the office as we attempt to prove we're the brainiest of the lot. (In fact, all we should be aiming for is to avoid finishing last).
A quick spell of random questions this morning between myself and my colleague proved one thing - I don't know half as much as I thought I did, and I know considerably less than I did when I was a kid.
As a teenager, I represented the whole of the Brechin area in the Masterkid of Angus competition. And whilst at high school, I appeared on Radio Tay several times as a member of our school's quiz team. (Good God, why didn't anyone tell me to STOP BEING A GEEK!)
Back then, I think I had a pretty good grasp of 'general knowledge' - ie, loads of useless crap that somehow lodged itself in my brain.
But I'm finding that nowadays, that crap doesn't stick as well as it used to. Maybe it's because I have to work for a living and remember relevant facts about the oil industry, not to mention deadlines, which reports I should be working on, which databases I need to update and the like. Or maybe I just don't have the time to sit and read newspapers and magazines the way I used to, devouring information for information's sake.
These days, when I get home from work, I'm quite content to sit in front of the television or play computer games. And no-one ever won a general knowledge quiz through their ability to recall the plotlines from Lost, or the best players in Football Manager 2007.
Or perhaps I'm just getting stupider. Brain cells die and are never replaced - that's a fact of life. And as my head fills with new knowledge, such as information about mortgage rates, the price of fuel and the ins and outs of squirrel sex, maybe there's just no room in my head to remember which is the most common element on Earth (it's hydrogen) or what the Rolling Stones' first single was (I Wanna Be Your Man).
I'm sure we'll found out this evening.
My team of four, which includes Mrs Wife, one of my colleagues and his own Mrs Wife, will be up against everyone else from the office as we attempt to prove we're the brainiest of the lot. (In fact, all we should be aiming for is to avoid finishing last).
A quick spell of random questions this morning between myself and my colleague proved one thing - I don't know half as much as I thought I did, and I know considerably less than I did when I was a kid.
As a teenager, I represented the whole of the Brechin area in the Masterkid of Angus competition. And whilst at high school, I appeared on Radio Tay several times as a member of our school's quiz team. (Good God, why didn't anyone tell me to STOP BEING A GEEK!)
Back then, I think I had a pretty good grasp of 'general knowledge' - ie, loads of useless crap that somehow lodged itself in my brain.
But I'm finding that nowadays, that crap doesn't stick as well as it used to. Maybe it's because I have to work for a living and remember relevant facts about the oil industry, not to mention deadlines, which reports I should be working on, which databases I need to update and the like. Or maybe I just don't have the time to sit and read newspapers and magazines the way I used to, devouring information for information's sake.
These days, when I get home from work, I'm quite content to sit in front of the television or play computer games. And no-one ever won a general knowledge quiz through their ability to recall the plotlines from Lost, or the best players in Football Manager 2007.
Or perhaps I'm just getting stupider. Brain cells die and are never replaced - that's a fact of life. And as my head fills with new knowledge, such as information about mortgage rates, the price of fuel and the ins and outs of squirrel sex, maybe there's just no room in my head to remember which is the most common element on Earth (it's hydrogen) or what the Rolling Stones' first single was (I Wanna Be Your Man).
I'm sure we'll found out this evening.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Soundtrack of My Life
Each month, Mojo magazine interviews three celebrities or musicians for its All Back To My Place page, asking the same questions each month. I figured I'd prepare my answers just in case they ask me for the next issue.
What music are you currently grooving to?
I don't know if it can be classed as "grooving", but I'm listening to The Enemy's debut album We'll Live and Die In These Towns a lot. It reminds me of The Jam, in a kind of vitriolic, call-to-arms, sound of the suburbs sort of way. Nowadays, I listen to music most when I'm driving to and from work, but I have a car share, so I tend not to subject her to anything too outrageous or loud. I'm also waiting for my copy of Hard Fi's Once Upon A Time In The West to be delivered.
What, if push comes to shove, is your all-time favourite album?
The Stone Roses' debut album has been my favourite album since I was about 18. I can't really put into words what it is that makes it so important: the whole package transcends the individual songs and the individual players. But the opening rumble of I Wanna Be Adored, the psychedelic punk of Made of Stone and the epic closer I Am The Resurrection are enough in themselves to make it the greatest record of all time.
What was the first record you ever bought? And where did you buy it?
It was the soundtrack to the movie Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on cassette from John Menzies in Dundee (now replaced by a Tesco Metro) in 1990 or 1991. I'm always surprised when rock stars are interviewed and asked what their first record was, and they say The Jam, or The Beatles, or The Sex Pistols. I went through a long phase of liking shite pop music, a phase I call "being a kid". Kids don't buy Sex Pistols records - they buy novelty records, movie soundtracks and pop. Anyway, the soundtrack to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles included the awesome T-U-R-T-L-E Power by Partners In Kryme, This Is What We Do by MC Hammer and 9.95 by Spunkadelic, all of which I have recently downloaded from the internet. I think I might still have the original tape hidden away in either Mither's or Faither's loft.
Which musician have you ever wanted to be?
Anyone who can play an instrument. I envy people who can pick up an acoustic guitar and rattle off five or six songs faultlessly to entertain a roomful of people. I'd love to be able to play drums like Dave Grohl, bass like Flea or guitar like John Squire.
What do you sing in the shower?
I always used to sing in the shower, but nowadays I get up at 6.15am, which means that I tend not to, for two reasons:
a) 6.15am is not a "singing in the shower" time of day
b) The bathroom at Dungroanin' is en suite, and Mrs Wife would probably not care too much for being woken up at 6.15am by me running through a medley of Super Furry Animals songs.
On the occasions when I do sing, I find that Elvis songs sound great in the shower, as the cubicle makes my voice, which is quite deep (especially when I'm tired), echo. So I'm quite partial to belting out Devil In Disguise and Suspicious Minds. I also like singing Reef's Naked, for someone reason that I haven't been able to fathom, but which may well be Freudian.
What is your favourite Saturday night record?
If it's one record that I'll put on before going out, it's The Stone Roses' debut album, cranked right up so that the bass rattles the windows. I have to listen to the whole thing, finishing with the instrumental at the end of I Am The Resurrection. However, in this age of CD burners and MP3 players, it's all too easy to make up a playlist especially for Saturday nights. When I was at university, my flatmate and I made a going out CD that included Primal Scream's Kill All Hippies, Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit, The White Room by Cream and White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane, amongst others. No-one else liked it, but we thought it was ace.
And your Sunday morning record?
I tend not to listen to music on Sunday mornings, but when I do, it can be almost anything. A bit of Motown can start the day nicely, as can The Beatles. Probably not Metallica, Motorhead or Probot though.
I know many of you can't stand memes, but if you want to play along, feel free. I'd be especially interested to hear how The Tomahawk Kid and Erica would answer.
What music are you currently grooving to?
I don't know if it can be classed as "grooving", but I'm listening to The Enemy's debut album We'll Live and Die In These Towns a lot. It reminds me of The Jam, in a kind of vitriolic, call-to-arms, sound of the suburbs sort of way. Nowadays, I listen to music most when I'm driving to and from work, but I have a car share, so I tend not to subject her to anything too outrageous or loud. I'm also waiting for my copy of Hard Fi's Once Upon A Time In The West to be delivered.
What, if push comes to shove, is your all-time favourite album?
The Stone Roses' debut album has been my favourite album since I was about 18. I can't really put into words what it is that makes it so important: the whole package transcends the individual songs and the individual players. But the opening rumble of I Wanna Be Adored, the psychedelic punk of Made of Stone and the epic closer I Am The Resurrection are enough in themselves to make it the greatest record of all time.
What was the first record you ever bought? And where did you buy it?
It was the soundtrack to the movie Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on cassette from John Menzies in Dundee (now replaced by a Tesco Metro) in 1990 or 1991. I'm always surprised when rock stars are interviewed and asked what their first record was, and they say The Jam, or The Beatles, or The Sex Pistols. I went through a long phase of liking shite pop music, a phase I call "being a kid". Kids don't buy Sex Pistols records - they buy novelty records, movie soundtracks and pop. Anyway, the soundtrack to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles included the awesome T-U-R-T-L-E Power by Partners In Kryme, This Is What We Do by MC Hammer and 9.95 by Spunkadelic, all of which I have recently downloaded from the internet. I think I might still have the original tape hidden away in either Mither's or Faither's loft.
Which musician have you ever wanted to be?
Anyone who can play an instrument. I envy people who can pick up an acoustic guitar and rattle off five or six songs faultlessly to entertain a roomful of people. I'd love to be able to play drums like Dave Grohl, bass like Flea or guitar like John Squire.
What do you sing in the shower?
I always used to sing in the shower, but nowadays I get up at 6.15am, which means that I tend not to, for two reasons:
a) 6.15am is not a "singing in the shower" time of day
b) The bathroom at Dungroanin' is en suite, and Mrs Wife would probably not care too much for being woken up at 6.15am by me running through a medley of Super Furry Animals songs.
On the occasions when I do sing, I find that Elvis songs sound great in the shower, as the cubicle makes my voice, which is quite deep (especially when I'm tired), echo. So I'm quite partial to belting out Devil In Disguise and Suspicious Minds. I also like singing Reef's Naked, for someone reason that I haven't been able to fathom, but which may well be Freudian.
What is your favourite Saturday night record?
If it's one record that I'll put on before going out, it's The Stone Roses' debut album, cranked right up so that the bass rattles the windows. I have to listen to the whole thing, finishing with the instrumental at the end of I Am The Resurrection. However, in this age of CD burners and MP3 players, it's all too easy to make up a playlist especially for Saturday nights. When I was at university, my flatmate and I made a going out CD that included Primal Scream's Kill All Hippies, Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit, The White Room by Cream and White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane, amongst others. No-one else liked it, but we thought it was ace.
And your Sunday morning record?
I tend not to listen to music on Sunday mornings, but when I do, it can be almost anything. A bit of Motown can start the day nicely, as can The Beatles. Probably not Metallica, Motorhead or Probot though.
I know many of you can't stand memes, but if you want to play along, feel free. I'd be especially interested to hear how The Tomahawk Kid and Erica would answer.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Kidding On
Sometimes, I think I'm 27 going on seven.
Take last night for example. I get home to find Montrose basking in warm sunshine, a condition which I believe was known as summer in days gone by.
Joining Mrs Wife in the garden, the conversation goes something like this:
Mrs Wife: "Perfect weather to cut the grass"
Groanin' Jock: "Yep"
MW: "Are you going to cut the grass then?"
GJ: "Nope"
MW: "Why not?"
GJ: "I'm playing Football Manager and reading a magazine."
This is a fairly common conversational thread at Dungroanin'. Typically, Mrs Wife will suggest I partake of a thrilling activity such as cleaning the bathroom, washing the car or picking my clean clothes up off the floor and putting them in the wardrobe.
I will then usually explain that I am already engaged in an activity, such as filing my CDs in alphabetical order, scanning photographs to put on Bebo, attempting to download Laurie Anderson's O Superman from the internet or kicking some serious dinosaur ass on Final Fantasy X2.
Is it normal for a fully-grown adult male to spend whole days and weeks engaged in such infantile pursuits? In the past few days, for example, I have spent a couple of hours dicking about on Ebay looking at Transformers toys and comics and researching the history of the Autobots on Wikipedia. I have easily devoted more hours to thinking about the way forward for my Everton side on Football Manager than I have on mortgage repayments and car insurance, and I've been more absorbed in repeats of The Simpsons than in the day's news headlines.
And if, in the next few years, Mrs Wife decides to pop out a Jockling or two, will this situation improve or worsen? Would the sleepless nights, nappy changes and feedings adultify me, or would the easy access to toys and Teletubbies send me closer towards the point of no return, when I quit my job so that I can devote more time to my more favoured pursuits?
Take last night for example. I get home to find Montrose basking in warm sunshine, a condition which I believe was known as summer in days gone by.
Joining Mrs Wife in the garden, the conversation goes something like this:
Mrs Wife: "Perfect weather to cut the grass"
Groanin' Jock: "Yep"
MW: "Are you going to cut the grass then?"
GJ: "Nope"
MW: "Why not?"
GJ: "I'm playing Football Manager and reading a magazine."
This is a fairly common conversational thread at Dungroanin'. Typically, Mrs Wife will suggest I partake of a thrilling activity such as cleaning the bathroom, washing the car or picking my clean clothes up off the floor and putting them in the wardrobe.
I will then usually explain that I am already engaged in an activity, such as filing my CDs in alphabetical order, scanning photographs to put on Bebo, attempting to download Laurie Anderson's O Superman from the internet or kicking some serious dinosaur ass on Final Fantasy X2.
Is it normal for a fully-grown adult male to spend whole days and weeks engaged in such infantile pursuits? In the past few days, for example, I have spent a couple of hours dicking about on Ebay looking at Transformers toys and comics and researching the history of the Autobots on Wikipedia. I have easily devoted more hours to thinking about the way forward for my Everton side on Football Manager than I have on mortgage repayments and car insurance, and I've been more absorbed in repeats of The Simpsons than in the day's news headlines.
And if, in the next few years, Mrs Wife decides to pop out a Jockling or two, will this situation improve or worsen? Would the sleepless nights, nappy changes and feedings adultify me, or would the easy access to toys and Teletubbies send me closer towards the point of no return, when I quit my job so that I can devote more time to my more favoured pursuits?
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.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Time Of The (Close) Season
Many football fans despise the close season - the six week gap between the cup finals and the start of pre-season friendlies.
But it's a part of the footballing calendar that I've always enjoyed, ever since I was a wee boy first becoming interested in the Beautiful Game. (As an aside, Pele obviously never sat through the Hibernian v Dundee Utd match that I reported on in 2002, which could never have been described as beautiful. In fact, there have been occasions in my life where I have been more entertained by examining the contents of my navel.)
To me, the close season, with its daily transfer rumours, new signings and players leaving in the hope of greener grass elsewhere, is as exciting as the seasons that precede and follow it. Every new signing gives fans the hope of exciting times ahead, hope that for many is dashed almost immediately once balls are kicked in earnest.
I remember as a teenager hearing that Rangers had signed Basile Boli and Brian Laudrup. Boli, a European Cup-winning centre back, seemed like the kind of exciting and exotic signing that Rangers needed to take them to European glory. Sadly, he wasn't, but for those brief weeks between his signing and his first slip-shod appearances in Royal Blue, the propsect of seeing him in action kept my appetite whetted.
Rangers' close season signings may no longer be defenders with such rich pedigrees (Kirk Broadfoot and Alan Gow are unlikely ever to hold the Champions League trophy aloft) but the close season is still a time to revel in the world of football, where essentially meaningless activity is laden with the hopes and dreams of millions.
But it's a part of the footballing calendar that I've always enjoyed, ever since I was a wee boy first becoming interested in the Beautiful Game. (As an aside, Pele obviously never sat through the Hibernian v Dundee Utd match that I reported on in 2002, which could never have been described as beautiful. In fact, there have been occasions in my life where I have been more entertained by examining the contents of my navel.)
To me, the close season, with its daily transfer rumours, new signings and players leaving in the hope of greener grass elsewhere, is as exciting as the seasons that precede and follow it. Every new signing gives fans the hope of exciting times ahead, hope that for many is dashed almost immediately once balls are kicked in earnest.
I remember as a teenager hearing that Rangers had signed Basile Boli and Brian Laudrup. Boli, a European Cup-winning centre back, seemed like the kind of exciting and exotic signing that Rangers needed to take them to European glory. Sadly, he wasn't, but for those brief weeks between his signing and his first slip-shod appearances in Royal Blue, the propsect of seeing him in action kept my appetite whetted.
Rangers' close season signings may no longer be defenders with such rich pedigrees (Kirk Broadfoot and Alan Gow are unlikely ever to hold the Champions League trophy aloft) but the close season is still a time to revel in the world of football, where essentially meaningless activity is laden with the hopes and dreams of millions.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Foaming At The Mouth
Many aspects of my childhood years are gone forever - cartoons I enjoyed as a boy have long since been cancelled, the computer systems I grew up playing have long been rendered obselete and friends with whom I enjoyed countless games of football, hide and seek and manhunt have grown up and we've lost touch.
Food and drinks that I gorged on to satisfy my healthy childhood appetite have also changed, most of them not for the better. Curly Wurlys, once a half-hour of solid chewing on a slab of toffee half an inch think, are now thin, chocolate-coated slivers of caramel providing a far smaller task to finish. King Size Mars Bars were, to my recollection, once the equivalent of one-and-a-half regular Mars Bars, not slightly bigger, as they are today.
But one hallowed foodstuff from my formative years has gone forever. Creamola Foam, a soft drink made by mixing a flavoured powder with water, has long since disappeared from our shelves.
In Scotland, we revel in our unhealthy diet. If something can be consumed, it must have sugar added or be deep-fried. Creamola Foam, I am sure, can't have been healthy. It tasted unnaturally sweet and came in a variety of lurid colours.
Although I did enjoy partaking of a glass of Creamola Foam as a child, my fondest memories of it are from my teenage years, when a group of us found that it made the ideal mixer for vodka. It was common for us to mix a litre of vodka and a whole tub of Creamola Foam (which made around four pints of the soft drink) in a basin. Even with so much vodka swilling around this mix, no taste of alcohol could be discerned, making it the ideal concoction for teenage drinkers finding their feet in the world of illicit activities.
But alas it is no more. Which is why some of my nostalgic countrymen have begun a campaign to bring back Creamola Foam.
Gentlemen, whoever you are, I wish you every success. We may be living in a world at war, where children die every day due to poverty and where the very future of our planet is questionable. But I, for one, sincerely hope that your quest to bring back this vivid brew is a success.
Food and drinks that I gorged on to satisfy my healthy childhood appetite have also changed, most of them not for the better. Curly Wurlys, once a half-hour of solid chewing on a slab of toffee half an inch think, are now thin, chocolate-coated slivers of caramel providing a far smaller task to finish. King Size Mars Bars were, to my recollection, once the equivalent of one-and-a-half regular Mars Bars, not slightly bigger, as they are today.
But one hallowed foodstuff from my formative years has gone forever. Creamola Foam, a soft drink made by mixing a flavoured powder with water, has long since disappeared from our shelves.
In Scotland, we revel in our unhealthy diet. If something can be consumed, it must have sugar added or be deep-fried. Creamola Foam, I am sure, can't have been healthy. It tasted unnaturally sweet and came in a variety of lurid colours.
Although I did enjoy partaking of a glass of Creamola Foam as a child, my fondest memories of it are from my teenage years, when a group of us found that it made the ideal mixer for vodka. It was common for us to mix a litre of vodka and a whole tub of Creamola Foam (which made around four pints of the soft drink) in a basin. Even with so much vodka swilling around this mix, no taste of alcohol could be discerned, making it the ideal concoction for teenage drinkers finding their feet in the world of illicit activities.
But alas it is no more. Which is why some of my nostalgic countrymen have begun a campaign to bring back Creamola Foam.
Gentlemen, whoever you are, I wish you every success. We may be living in a world at war, where children die every day due to poverty and where the very future of our planet is questionable. But I, for one, sincerely hope that your quest to bring back this vivid brew is a success.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Back To School
Until very recently, I believed that I was still too young to be invited to a school reunion. After all, it's only been nine years since I left secondary school, and only five since I graduated from university.
But despite still being a metaphorical spring chicken, I was recently invited to attend a reunion of all those fortunate past pupils of Tarfside Primary School who are still alive.
So, despite both suffering from chronic hangovers, Baby Brother and I headed back to the school for the first time in many years on Saturday.
Actually, that's a lie. Mither dropped us off at the school on Saturday. Which is pretty lame - a combined age of 50 and we're still getting driven to school by our mum.
It was an unusual gathering. Though many had travelled considerable distances to attend the event, many hadn't made it for one reason or another. So we were left with a strange spectrum of ages, ranging from the school's current pupils, all aged between five and twelve years, up to a handful of alumni now within grasping distance of their 80th birthdays.
(What is the correct collective name for a group of elderly folk? A wrinkle? A moan? A zimmer?)
The present, but soon to be retired, teacher at the school has retained self-made yearbooks for each of her years at the helm of the school, and it was equally intriguing and mortifying to flick through the pages chronicling my brief period as a pupil.
Parents in the early 1990s must have cruel, colourblind or both. Amongst the natty costumes I was sporting in the photos were a faded Rangers shellsuit, the jacket bleached a pastel shade closer to lilac than to the more proper Royal Blue; a Rangers strip (notice a trend here?) which I wore in its entirety, the shorts hiked up to somewhere around my armpits; and a pair of Bermuda-patterned Speedo swimming trunks, which at least provided some distraction from my lurid white pigeon chest.
Thankfully, this catalogue of what not to wear was shared equally amongst those of us who attended school around the same time, so the burden of shame wasn't mine to bear alone.
Even more toe-curling were the videos of school plays showing on a constant loop in a back room, showcasing to full effect the incendiary thespian skills of Scottish primary school children, starring yours truly affecting some god-awful English accent for recurring roles as a butler.
All in all, it was a great weekend, offering the opportunity to catch up with old friends who have been strangers for too long, drink to excess in the unique surroundings of Tarfside Masonic Hall and spend Sunday eating freshly barbecued hamburgers whilst playing football on the school playing field for the first time in nigh-on 15 years.
Needless to say, I had lost none of the magic.....
But despite still being a metaphorical spring chicken, I was recently invited to attend a reunion of all those fortunate past pupils of Tarfside Primary School who are still alive.
So, despite both suffering from chronic hangovers, Baby Brother and I headed back to the school for the first time in many years on Saturday.
Actually, that's a lie. Mither dropped us off at the school on Saturday. Which is pretty lame - a combined age of 50 and we're still getting driven to school by our mum.
It was an unusual gathering. Though many had travelled considerable distances to attend the event, many hadn't made it for one reason or another. So we were left with a strange spectrum of ages, ranging from the school's current pupils, all aged between five and twelve years, up to a handful of alumni now within grasping distance of their 80th birthdays.
(What is the correct collective name for a group of elderly folk? A wrinkle? A moan? A zimmer?)
The present, but soon to be retired, teacher at the school has retained self-made yearbooks for each of her years at the helm of the school, and it was equally intriguing and mortifying to flick through the pages chronicling my brief period as a pupil.
Parents in the early 1990s must have cruel, colourblind or both. Amongst the natty costumes I was sporting in the photos were a faded Rangers shellsuit, the jacket bleached a pastel shade closer to lilac than to the more proper Royal Blue; a Rangers strip (notice a trend here?) which I wore in its entirety, the shorts hiked up to somewhere around my armpits; and a pair of Bermuda-patterned Speedo swimming trunks, which at least provided some distraction from my lurid white pigeon chest.
Thankfully, this catalogue of what not to wear was shared equally amongst those of us who attended school around the same time, so the burden of shame wasn't mine to bear alone.
Even more toe-curling were the videos of school plays showing on a constant loop in a back room, showcasing to full effect the incendiary thespian skills of Scottish primary school children, starring yours truly affecting some god-awful English accent for recurring roles as a butler.
All in all, it was a great weekend, offering the opportunity to catch up with old friends who have been strangers for too long, drink to excess in the unique surroundings of Tarfside Masonic Hall and spend Sunday eating freshly barbecued hamburgers whilst playing football on the school playing field for the first time in nigh-on 15 years.
Needless to say, I had lost none of the magic.....
Friday, May 25, 2007
Schooled
Teachers aren't allowed to do anything to discipline unruly pupils nowadays. I was fortunate in that I grew up in the post-cane era, so I never experienced the smack of willow on my hand or rear end as a result of my cheek.
But without the threat of corporal punishment, how can teachers control a class of 30 unruly teenagers? To be honest, some of them probably can't.
So is it any surprise that teachers at a school in Kent have resorted to keeping a private journal pointing out the flaws in pupils, primarily for their own entertainment?
Unfortunately for the school involved, someone misplaced the book and it fell into the hands of a member of the public.
This concerned citizen was disturbed to find that it referred to one boy as a "ding bat" who was "away with the fairies", and another as being a "bit of a wally".
Admitedly, the teachers shouldn't have let this book get out of the staff room. But is anyone really surprised that teachers think some pupils are a bit useless?
How many of us in our jobs don't deal with colleagues or customers who we would describe in equally fond terms?
One of my report cards from my final year of high school, when I was 18, said that I was "so laid back, he's almost horizontal". Another from primary school said that if I had devoted as much time to my lessons as I had to working on becoming Rangers' star striker, I'd have enjoyed a more fruitful year.
But hey, at least I cam out the other end a rounded, well-balanced individual (who didn't end up playing up front for Rangers). I wonder if the ding bat or the bit of a wally will do as well?
But without the threat of corporal punishment, how can teachers control a class of 30 unruly teenagers? To be honest, some of them probably can't.
So is it any surprise that teachers at a school in Kent have resorted to keeping a private journal pointing out the flaws in pupils, primarily for their own entertainment?
Unfortunately for the school involved, someone misplaced the book and it fell into the hands of a member of the public.
This concerned citizen was disturbed to find that it referred to one boy as a "ding bat" who was "away with the fairies", and another as being a "bit of a wally".
Admitedly, the teachers shouldn't have let this book get out of the staff room. But is anyone really surprised that teachers think some pupils are a bit useless?
How many of us in our jobs don't deal with colleagues or customers who we would describe in equally fond terms?
One of my report cards from my final year of high school, when I was 18, said that I was "so laid back, he's almost horizontal". Another from primary school said that if I had devoted as much time to my lessons as I had to working on becoming Rangers' star striker, I'd have enjoyed a more fruitful year.
But hey, at least I cam out the other end a rounded, well-balanced individual (who didn't end up playing up front for Rangers). I wonder if the ding bat or the bit of a wally will do as well?
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