Harbour Lights

Aberdeen's harbour, like the docks of many (most?) ports, isn't the most salubrious of areas in which to spend an evening, but that is what myself and my male colleagues did on Friday night.

In what other area of the city could you see 60-year-old women in shell suits hogging the dancefloors of the drinking dens, eyeing up and occasionally groping the younger male drinkers?

The harbour really does offer a nightlife experience unlike any other. Not in these areas will you find the brushed chrome and polished mirrors of the city centre bars. In the harbour, the decor is more dated and the ambience generally less well-honed. In one bar, the overwhelming smell that greeted us as we arrived was disinfectant - always a pleasant aroma to start a drinking spell.

Despite the fact that we spent the best part of our evening in the grottier end of town, a cracking night was, I believe, had by all.

Throne

I need to get me one of these: http://www.airpoo.com/

Screw This

A work colleague forwarded the above photograph to me today.

The warning makes for interesting reading, and is the way of useless tripe, got me thinking.

At what point during your DIY session do you think "Hmmm, I know EXACTLY where that screwdriver would fit."

I'm guessing that it's a warning to male users of the screwdriver set, rather than women who might think it could give their partner a "little surprise" in bed.

In my 28 years on the planet, it has never once occurred to me to stick anything in that particular orifice.

Let's face it, there aren't many things that would fit, and fewer still that would fit comfortably. Those that would qualify on the grounds of their physical dimensions would be those most likely to cause some pretty serious damage and pain I would think: I'm thinking cocktail sticks (how aptly named), hairpins and, yes, screwdrivers.

It makes me wonder how common a problem this is: do hospitals see a steady stream of people who have jammed workmen's tools into the nether regions? Have the manufacturers of such implements faced numerous lawsuits from injured and aggrieved men now missing a testicle after misjudging their angle of entry with a chisel?

Let's throw the question out to the blogosphere: Gents, have you ever been injured attempting to ram a screwdriver into your bellend? Answers in the comments please.

Blank

I am (allegedly) a professional writer.

I don't intend that to sound like some wanky self-aggrandising statement of my writing abilities - it's merely a statement that means I get paid to write stuff.

But being a professional writer means that I shouldn't now be sitting staring at a blank page (well, blank screen) pondering what nonsense to commit to the blogosphere.

That's not really the case though. Just because my employer is kind enough to fill my bank account at the end of each month for committing words to page, doesn't mean that I have any inspiration to write witty, intelligent and thoughtful discourse here on the worldwide interweb.

(I've never written anything witty, intelligent or thoughtful in 18 months of online gibberish to date, and I'm not about to start now.)

Basically, I get paid to translate the machinations of the oil industry into commercial gold, information that can help keep cars running and PlayStations in production around the world.

Inspiration isn't one of the job requirements. I never really have to start at the 'blank page' level.

But here - well I can write about anything I like or dislike. Nothing is taboo, no sacred cow is so sacred it can't be butchered.

And therein lies the problem - where do I start? How do I even begin to tackle the sheer volume of stuff happening in the world today, the weight of history behind it and the possibilities ahead of it?

Hmmm, maybe I can't - maybe I should stick to what I know best - weird folk from the internet:

Carry That Weight

My recent bilateral toenailectomy has had an unfortunate side effect entirely unrelated to the masked man who hacked at my feet with his interesting mini crowbar and scalpel combination.

Though both weeping wounds have long since stopped weeping, and the skin is returning to its standard "Scotland in February" corned-beef tones, the areas where the nails used to be are still a tad tender.

Unfortunately, this has left me unable to play football (some might argue that it has had no bearing on my inability to play football, but that's a debate for another day).

Even more unforunately, two games of football a week is about the only exercise I get. And now it has been temporarily removed from my schedule.

Which means that my weight is slowly but steadily creeping upwards, and I am in danger of reaching a weight I have never reached before.

I'm not quite there yet, but another week or two of couch-based chocolate guzzling would pretty much do it, I'm sure.

Answered

Mobile phones and the internet are wonderful inventions, fellow denizens of the blogosphere.

This evening, at an impromptu post-work pub-based social gathering, I used the wonderful Any Question Answered service to settle a debate.

Safe in the knowledge that I was right, I announced that the woman who sang the oft-imitated, never-bettered advertisement for ladies' sanitary wear Bodyform was the same woman who voiced Susie, the spoilt brat from the Trio adverts.

Frankly, my companions were disparaging in their assessment of my claim. Even after hearing my a capella versions of BOTH tracks.

And so, I sent a text to the magical number 63336, worded as follows: "Is the woman who sang the Bodyform advert the same woman who sang the Trio advert?"

Within minutes, I received my answer: "The woman who roared 'Whoa, Bodyform, Bodyform for you', was Stevie Vann Lange. She also voiced Susie in the Trio adverts. She now works as a vocal coach."

I'm guessing that Any Question Answered is just a couple of guys with Google, but hey, their service works.

Alone

Tonight I am listening to Ray Charles and gospel music and eating lollipops.

That is all.

For Sale

There comes a time in every man's life when it's time to sell up and move on, starting afresh elsewhere.

It's not everyone who faces the prospect of selling a funfair, ranch and and mansion simply to pay the bills though.

Michael Jackson at 50 is a strange thought, and it must be a stranger thought for the man himself, given that he's spent more than half of those years trying to recapture a childhood that never existed in the first place.

As a pop icon, his star waned a long time ago, but he still commands the headlines and public imagination like no-one else on Earth.

I wonder how many buyers will come forward looking to snap up Neverland on the cheap? The ranch will be forever tainted by those allegations, although the place is bound to have potential as a tourist trap for fans of the King of Pop.

Though his personal life is undoubtedly the most fascinating aspect of his life, an interesting question mark also hangs over his professional life.

Will he ever release new material? According to Wikipedia, Jacko has been recording new music in Ireland.

Now, I'm no expert on the workings of the soul pop recording industry, but I'm willing to speculate that it doesn't have its heart in downtown Cork. For a true resurgence, Jackson should get Quincy Jones back on board, ditch the wishy-washy ballads and get some real funk back in the music.

Oh, and invest in a new chimpanzee.

(If anyone would like to read a previous Michael Jackson post I wrote, pop on over to Celebrity Litigation.)

Highly Charged

Ladies and Gentleman, and those of you who are neither, it seems that an English grandmother is staking a claim to be the first real-life member of the Heroes team to turn up here in Little Britain.

Sixty-year-old Mavis Price of Telford, Shropshire, claims she only has to touch an electrical appliance to break it.

Apparently, Mavis' explosive problem is caused by her body generating too much static electricity.

Understandably, she's a bit perturbed at this affliction, but I can't help feeling that she's missing an incredible employment opportunity.

Maybe the possibility of being a circus "freak" doesn't appeal too much to Granny Mavis, and that's to be accepted.

But just think how much her powers would be worth in a military capacity, to housebreakers or terrorists - she could take out vehicles, CCTV cameras, computers, tracking systems and the like just by touching them. Burglar alarms could be rendered useless just by having Mavis wave her electrohands in their general vicinity.

Admittedly, a robust lady in her 60s isn't the easiest addition to the master criminal's toolbag, but the advantages are bound to outweigh the difficulties.

Let's get her an ancient samurai sword, a natty costume and film her in action - sounds like a great show to me.

Sore One

The injury sustained by Eduardo as a result of Martin Taylor's flying tackle in Saturday's Birmingham v Arsenal match is amongst the worst I've ever seen in all my years of watching football.

Having seen the incident in slow motion on Match Of The Day, I don't think the tackle was intentionally malicious - Taylor was simply beaten by a much faster, much more skilfull player.

I broke a fellow youngster's ankle with a tackle when I was only 10 or 11, and it's one of the most sickening feelings in the world, knowing that your own clumsiness or overzealous tackling has screwed up someone's leg for at least a couple of months.

Thankfully, the injury I inflicted on my opponent wasn't as serious as that picked up by Eduardo, whose leg is broken in three places and who will now miss the rest of the season and the European Championships.

He is, however, lucky that he doesn't play in the Scottish pub leagues - he'd have been called a poof and told to run it off.

One Paul Gascoigne

Alastair has posted on the sorry tale of Paul Gascoigne, who was sectioned under the mental health act yesterday, and my post here is a re-hash and embellishment on a comment I made on that post.

Aside from Brian Laudrup, Paul Gascoigne is the most talented player I’ve ever had the pleasure to see in a Rangers shirt. On his day and at the top of his game, he was simply unplayable, and I was fortunate enough to have a pitch-side seat the day he single-handedly destroyed Aberdeen at Ibrox to win the Premier League in 1996.

Unfortunately, he is also one of the most unstable, misguided, naive and easily-led individuals ever to have been sucked into the world of professional football. Hangers-on like Mel Stein, Jimmy Gardner and even fellow celebrities like Chris Evans and Danny Baker were happy to ride Gascoigne’s coat-tails whilst the gravy train was rattling on at a fair pace, but I doubt many will be there to pick up the pieces now.

Mad? Frequently. Bad? Occasionally. Sad? As his life has spiralled downwards in tandem with his prodigious abilities, most definitely.

Had his career blossomed ten years later than it did, Gascoigne would probably have been the world's first £100,000-a-week player, and a superstar on a par with David Beckham. Beckham, talented though he is, doesn't bear comparison with Gascoigne. But Beckham is more able to handle the fame and its associated pressures, and has made far more of his less bountiful gifts.

Gascoigne may have enjoyed his greatest successes and most stable years of his career whilst at Rangers, but the nine-in-a-row dressing room was not the ideal place for an alocholic to spend the peak years of his profession. Alongside fellow party lovers Ally McCoist, Ian Durrant and Andy Goram, Gascoigne was famously part of the "dressing room from hell", not renowned for its sobriety and quiet living. Infamously, all of those players sat out the 1998 World Cup, despite all easily being amongst the most talented players in their respective countries.

Whilst Gascoigne may have been a forerunner of today’s Beckham and Rooney hysteria, unlike Beckham he seemed patently unsuited to life under that kind of media microscope, and unfortunately has been paying the price of that fame since he was only a boy. I, for one, hope he has a speedy and full recovery.

Changing Times

Just as all good things must come to an end, so must all semi-good things.

After a fortnight away from the office, I have returned, the bandages removed from my toes and my butchered feet confined within shoes for the first time since they were sliced and diced by the surgeon's skilled hands.

Undertaking the morning commute for the first time in two weeks meant getting up at 6.15am.
I've said it before, but 6.15am is an ungodly hour to be up and about, even for those of us who don't believe in God.

I mean, Sweet Jesus (hmmm, I should probably rethink my choice of exclamations if I don't believe in God), why do we force ourselves to get up and commute to work when it's still dark?
Wouldn't life be so much easier if we just had a four-hour working day? No early morning or early evening travelling, no waking up long before the cocks have crowed, and no more forcing ourselves to stay awake at our desks.

A four-hour working day without a break. 11am until 3pm. Batter through the work in the time it should really take and be home or in the pub by 5pm.

Well, when I'm Supreme Uber-Leader and Commander of All Earth, that'll be the new rule. Prepare yourselves.

Been and Gone

The 20,000th visitor, predictably, was someone who arrived at 3.55am seeking pictures of Evangeline Lilly.

So, if you were that student (lecturer?) from St Francis Xavier University, Antigonish, Nova Scotia, Canada who was magic number 20,000, let me know and you can claim your prize.

Twenty-thousand People Can't Be Wrong

If the number of visitors dropping by at this humble and far-flung outpost of the worldwide interweb keeps up at its usual pace, the 20,000th visitor will cross the threshold either today or tomorrow.

Frankly, I'm astonished that there have been 20,000 individual visits to this site in 18 months. I know that lots of those visits have been as a result of searching for various things on the internet - quite often pictures of Uluru, Evangeline Lilly and Kylie Minogue, all of which have featured in my barely-literate rants at least once.

Others come seeking unwholesome things involving jocks, jockstraps and other jock-related activities.

But a few hardy souls seem to return fairly often, presumably to read the nonsense spouted on these pages.

With the big 20k moving closer, I'd like to thank all of those who visit daily, weekly, or less often, and those who find my ramblings interesting, entertaining or infuriating enough to comment.

Haste ye back.

Countdown

Another weekend has passed, and I'm now into my last few days of home-based working.

Both big toes are healing well, thanks to (or despite) my own cack-handed attempts at applying my own dressings.

Having been out of the office for the best part of a fortnight, I may find it difficult returning to a real 9-5 routine.

Take yesterday for example: instead of heading to bed early, I decided to watch In The Name Of The Father for the first time, because you can never get enough of Daniel Day-Lewis shouting in a Belfast accent.

Which means that I finally hit the sack at around 1am. And I got up around 9am - well I didn't get up, I just switched on the laptop and worked from the comfort of my pit.

So how will I cope with having to rise at 6.15am, and not being able to work in bed? How will I operate without my mid-afternoon Neighbours break?

I want to retire.

How Real Men Use Post-It Notes

He's Got Fashion

Quite aside from the pain and discomfort my double toenailectomy is causing me, and the enforced absence of work that has come in its wake, the operation has seen me commit some heinous crimes against fashion.

Whilst I am no slave to fashion, I'm usually fairly well turned out and groomed. But being in a situation where I can't put shoes on means that I'm currently waging a one-man war on sartorial elegance.

For lounging about the house, I've been going barefoot, save for the arresting bandages that cover both my big toes. But on my rare forays beyond the confines of Dungroanin', I need something sturdy underfoot.

I'm not averse to wearing sandals whilst roaming the beaches of some Mediterranean, Caribbean or Pacific paradise, but I'm not renowned for wearing them on Scottish soil. I'm even less well known for strutting around the streets of Montrose or Aberdeen whilst wearing a pair of sandals.

There's good reason for this: (sandals + Scotland) x February = bloody cold toes.

However, needs must, and on my expeditions to the nurse to have my dressings changed, I've slipped into a pair of sandals left over from my honeymoon almost two years ago.

But, on the occasions since the operation that Mrs Wife and I have sought entertainment outwith the homestead, I've decided to spare the residents of Aberdeen the sight of my hobbit feet. Unfortunately, as I've already noted, I can't yet fit shoes on my feet.

I can, however, slip a loose pair of thermal socks over them.

And so, I've been seen in public on two separate occasions wearing black thermal socks and grey sandals. At the same time.

I can only hope that no-one I know has seen me commit such an offence. This fashion disaster has been accentuated by the fact that today marked the first day in a week in which I have shaved.

As I have been excused attendance at the office over the past week, I've been rather lax in my face-scraping duties, and so, for the first time since I started shaving half a lifetime ago, I've had a six-day beard.

I'd like to say that I looked like John Lennon circa 1969 or Jim Morrison in 1971, but sadly, even after almost a whole razor-free week, I looked more like a teenager trying to grow a beard for the first time in a lame attempt to get served at the local off licence.

So, if anyone is in the Aberdeen or Montrose areas over the next few days and sees a limping man wearing black socks and sandals and scratching at a patchy beard, don't be alarmed. Just be sympathetic.

Keep The Home Fires Burning

Whilst I am recuperating from my double toenailectomy, my employer has thoughtfully given me a laptop to work from home.

Aside from scuppering any plans I may have had for trawling through the vast backlog of DVDs I have to watch here at Dungroanin', this development has shown me the perils of home working for the first time.

Firstly, just actually starting work can be a difficult task requiring self discipline and commitment. There's no rush to get out of bed and ensure that the morning commute starts on time. There's no boss waiting at the door to ensure that I'm ready for work at 8am sharp, and no-one watching how long lunch lasts.

But besides those initial time-keeping hindrances, there are just so many distractions when working from home. Notwithstanding the vast CD and DVD collections here at the homestead, and the lowest common denominator fare offered by satellite TV, I find myself constantly distracted by the ready availability of food in the kitchen, and the need to put on the washing/switch on the dishwasher/make the bed/have a shower. (If you're reading this Mrs Wife, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

Nonetheless, I have managed to power through a fair amount of work during the first three days of my enforced absence from the coalface. I'm hoping to be back at work before I go completely stir crazy - or have the doctor decree that that I shouldn't be working at all and suggest instead that I spend a week watching Thundercats DVDs on the couch.

Ad-vanced Warfare

Mike, a friend of mine so good that he employed both myself and Eric at the same time, sent me this link to Cracked.com's "If Banner Ads Were Forced To Tell The Truth" competition.

And, is is the way of useless shite on the worldwide interweb, it got me thinking.

How do these sites stay afloat? Surely there can't be that many idiots walking this little blue planet?

But, after a moment's thought, the question kinda got flipped around - "Why aren't there more sites fleecing gullible mugs?"

As I was replying to Mike's email, an advert at the top of my Hotmail window flashed up urging me to claim my free £10 whilst playing Deal or No Deal for £405,000 - a jackpot which rose by a penny every second.

Surely anyone with half a brain can realise that:

1) Companies do not achieve success through giving everyone on the internet free tenners.

2) Companies do not achieve success through giving away £405,000 to idiots on the internet.

3) A jackpot that rose by a penny EVERY SECOND would rise by £1 every 100 seconds, or 60p a minute. 60p a minute = £3.60 an hour = £86.40 a day = £604.80 a week. A jackpot rising by more than £600 a week, in a game people pay for free. Does anyone see any potential problems with that? Such as the source of this wonderful bounty?

And yet, I have absolutely no doubt that there are idiots out there clicking the advert every single second in the hope of brightening their weekend to the tune of four hundred grand.

Presumably, to feature within an advert within Hotmail, the company behind the advert can't be short of a bob or two, and must be (comparitively) legitimate.

But if you're stupid enough to click on a link that says "Free Britney Sex Tape" - well, you deserve the spyware, don't you?

I think I should go and take some painkillers for my toes now.

Top Of The Hops

Fear not, dear readers, for once again I have survived surgery.

Where once I had mangled toe nails, I now have bleeding stumps.

Today's surgeon seemed more focussed than the one who previously fixed my left foot, and he went about his duties with gusto.

As before, the worst part was the anaesthetic injection, which was a tad painful, but from then on, the procedure passed with barely a hitch. In fact, it made for interesting viewing from my vantage point six feet away, and the surgeon saw fit to remark on the depth to which my hobbit nails had dug themselves.

(He also asked if I was a dancer, which wasn't quite so welcome.)

So now I find myself alone in Dungroanin', save for Pepper the rabbit, who seems bemused by my presence in the house during the day, and a little annoyed that she is not allowed out of her cage. But hey, I can't be chasing rabbits, not in my condition.

I know, fellow denizens of the blogosphere, that you will be keen to see the surgeon's handiwork. And so, through the miracles of mobile camera phones, here is the evidence you so crave:

Rage Against The Machine

As a small update to the post below, it seems that my rant against the Touch'n'Fresh advert has been read by at least three people within SC Johnson (a family company).

Shortly after I posted my diatribe, someone arrived at this humble outpost of the worldwide interweb having searched for SC Johnson on Google.

Then, having been directed to my outburst on the ludicrousness of the advert, this person emailed it to at least two other people. All of these people looked at my post from internet accounts registered in Wisconsin. And one of the IP addresses traced back to SC Johnson.

So, I'm guessing that SC Johnson has an office, perhaps a headquarters, in Wisconsin. And that at least three of its employees have read my rant.

Which begs the question - have I done enough to get the advert pulled from television?

Let's hope so.

Not So Fresh

Maybe it's symptomatic of the fact that I'm prematurely turning into a Grumpy Old Man, but recently, I've found myself arguing with the television.

Well, not so much arguing. Basically, something will happen or be said on screen that I don't agree with, and I will loudly and vociferously state my opinion as to why this doesn't agree with my own perfectly-formed world view.

It doesn't matter what the programme is - the news, soap operas, even kids' TV. But recently, I've been most irritated by the advertisement for Glade Touch'n'Fresh, a handy bathroom-based air freshener for those days when opening the window isn't enough to dispel those bowel-based aromas.

The whole advert, from start to finish, irritates me. I urge you to watch it before reading the rant below, so you can understand my fury.



Watched it? OK, let the critique begin:

1) I know we live in a multi-cultural society, but I would imagine the number of caucasian mothers who give birth to oriental children is still relatively small. But I'm willing to let this one slide as part of my vision of a world untroubled by the colour of someone's skin.

2) The little oriental boy is a voice-thrower of world-class standard. He manages to speak in such a way that his mouth movements bear no relation to the words he's speaking. Hey SC Johnson (a family company), if you can't even be arsed to film new adverts for this country, don't bother dubbing them badly then showing them over here.

3) Where does the little oriental boy find a piece of paper and pen? And instead of drawing a crude picture of the empty air freshener container, why doesn't he just tell his mum that the air freshener is empty? Does he draw the picture whilst sitting on the pan, or does he use the hard surface offered by the floor? Does he then waddle across the room, pants and trousers around his ankles, to post the magically-procured drawing underneath the door? Then waddle back in the same fashion before his mother returns with the refill? If he's gone all that way, why not just open the door and hand her the piece of paper (or just say "Where do you keep the air freshener?)

You see - I'm practically incandescent with rage already, just from a 21-second advert for a product I'll never buy.

I need to go and lie down.

Beadle's Not About

So Jeremy Beadle has passed on to that great bloopers reel in the sky.

I think the news on Radio 1 summed Beadle up perfectly this morning, when it described him as "famous in the 1980s and early 1990s".

I was never much of a fan of Beadle's About, but was entertained for many years by You've Been Framed, which he presented in its early years as Sunday night prime time fare.

And a quote from the man himself summed up what was probably many a person's view of him - that you imagine he'd be a bit of a dick, but was a likeable enough chap when you met him face to face.

But now he's gone.

Unless this is all a big prank and he's going to leap out of the coffin at his funeral, dressed as a traffic warden....

We Are The Champions (Tonight At Least)

Dancer!

My works football team won its first match of the season this evening, recording a 9-5 victory over the only team below us in the league.

We were ahead from the first minute onwards, and never really looked like being caught. One of the opposition players was sin-binned for lashing out in the first half, and a member of our team will return home to his wife and kids tonight covered in blood, having been shoved head-first into the boards at the side of the pitch.

So, blood and sweat were spilled en route to this maiden victory, but thankfully there weren't any tears.

Unfortunately, the appearance may be my last for a few weeks, given that I'm about to have a grown man attack my feet with knives and pliers. So I signed off with a goal, either our third or fourth of the evening.

And the pleasure of knowing that a colleague who predicted we'd never win now owes all members of tonight's squad a drink.

Under The Knife Revisited

Almost 18 months on, and I'm now lined up for a second spell under the surgeon's knife in the seemingly never-ending quest to fix my knackered toes.

Regular readers (don't you have anything better to do?) will remember that I was first hacked at by the surgeon's blade in October 2006.

Whilst the operation was a complete success, my recovery caused much hilarity and much swearing in Groanin' Towers, as I hopped around the house smacking the bandaged toe off tables, doors and walls.

This time, things will be different. Firstly, because I now live an hour away from my place of work, I'll be excused a few days at the coal face, as my bleeding wounds will make driving and walking impossible.

So, I effectively get three days off work without actually feeling ill. I can lie on the sofa and watch DVDs, continue my push towards European success with Rangers on Football Manager 2008 and generally just lounge around like the lazy slob I am, all with the perfect excuses hanging off the bottom of my legs.

Hopefully the doctor will take one look at my troublesome tootsies and decide to remove both nails completely, allowing me to never again be troubled by ingrowing nails. Most footballers allegedly peak at the age of 28. So this should be my season.....

No Explanation Necessary

Horton's Folly

Praise be!

Horton Carew, famed product of a union between a syphilitic scullion and prominent biscuit maker, now sadly incarcerated in the Dundee Home for the Irretrievably Demented, has returned to the Blogosphere.

I urge you all to visit his electronic diary to hear of his plans for escape.

Make Your Pool Party Go With A Bang

Yes, that's a power cord floating on flip flops.

Cheer Up Goth

I've decided to get an emo lawn laid at Dungroanin' this year.

Why?

Because it cuts itself.

Soap On A Rope

Soapworld is a miserable place.

Mrs Wife's nightly entertainment regime sees us visit Hollyoaks, Emmerdale, Coronation Street and Albert Square, as well as the occasional stop off in Ramsay Street (literally, in the photograph above taken in 2004).

Tonight's merry little jaunt has seen us "entertained" by a hit and run, blackmail, a baby contracting leukemia, three people arrested for supplying drugs, a gang of teenage thugs terrorising an elderly woman, another "tear-jerking" tale of a hit and run and the stabbing of a teenage boy.

Aside from wallowing in other people's misery, it strikes me that these places can't be especially great places to live.

Imagine being an estate agent selling a house in the picturesque village of Emmerdale.

"Charming four-bed stone farmhouse. Double glazing, gas central heating, gardens to front and rear. Emmerdale is a lively village in the Yorkshire Dales, 15 miles from the town of Hotton. Recent events have included fatal plane and bus crashes and an explosion that wiped out almost half of the village's residents."

I'm sure that would convince most buyers to look elsewhere.

But moving south, buyers in London can't be quite so choosy:

"Two-bedroom terraced town house, situated close to busy local pub, corner shop, garage and tube station. Please ignore the fact that there have been at least two devasting house fires, three fatal car crashes and four murders in this neighbourly east end square in the past 24 years. Oh, and the gangsters who live next door."

Maybe that's why you never see any estate agents move into Albert Square.

Last Man Standing

Mrs Wife and I went to see I Am Legend on Saturday evening.

Aside from being 28 Days Later remade on a Hollywood budget with a topless Will Smith doing chin-ups, the movie was very good.

And, as such things are wont to do, the movie got me thinking about how it would feel to be the last surviving person on Earth.

I've had that daydream on numerous occasions and from quite a young age. These fantasies have never included a mutated species of hairless, photosensitive humans. In fact, I've never really wondered why, in these fantasies, I'm left to wander the Earth alone.

Anyway, I Am Legend rekindled these thoughts. If I woke up tomorrow and found everyone else gone, what would I do?

In the short-term, food isn't going to be a problem. Start by eating everything that is going to go off fairly soon. So I'd be gorging myself on bread, milk, yoghurt, cheese and meat. Except actually cooking meat might be a problem - if everyone else is gone, there's not going to be any power - I don't know how to operate Dounreay, especially on my own.

OK, so back to the start - I need to get some generators. Not a problem, I can have whatever I want from any shop I like. But how do I hook up a generator to my house? Damn, should have paid better attention in physics. No worries, I'm sure I'll muddle through.

Right, so that's power sorted. I can transport anything I like easily - I can use any vehicle I want. So, once the initial shock of being alone on Earth has been overcome, I'm going to be playing with diggers, test driving Porsches along the empty motorways and seeing how much damage I can do with a road roller.

What else do I need to stockpile? Well, presuming that I get that pesky generator working, I'm going to need entertainment. So it's time to empty the shelves of HMV. I'm sure that every movie, ever released, EVER is going to keep me going for the remaining 50 years of my lonely existance.

That is, of course, presuming that I live that long. If I've got all the food in the world to myself, no-one to contract diseases from and no danger of being hit by a bus, can I live a normal lifespan? Perhaps I'd better not attempt to eat the world's remaining supply of chocolate single-handedly - I don't think I could defibrillate my own heart. Especially if I have to hook it up to a generator first.

I won't need to find fresh water, because I have a world full of bottled water at my disposal, not to mention all the bottles and cans of juice. So I'm OK for fluids. May as well experiment with alcohol a bit, seeing as how it's all free. Just be careful not to need my stomach pumped or break a leg doing a drunken walk along a wall. I don't think I could pump my own stomach. And starting that generator when I've got a broken leg could prove troublesome.

So, after a year or so living the high life burning around Britain in my Porsches and watching DVDs, I guess a bit of foreign travel's in order. Can I teach myself to fly a plane? Probably not. Best stick to land and sea. But there's no point sailing to France when I can drive through the Channel Tunnel. In fact, I reckon I can travel practically everywhere with a minimum of sea travel. I can get across Europe no problems, then there's that troublesome Bering Straight stopping me getting into America. Maybe I'll manage to sail across that though.

What else can I do? Have a solo kick-about in the Nou Camp? Rummage through the Queen's underwear drawer (why in hell's name did THAT appear in my head as a suggestion?!)? Decorate the home of my choice with the art of my choice?

I reckon that after 20 years or so of roaming the Earth, I'd have to settle down somewhere. That somewhere may as well be somewhere hot, so I'll go with somewhere Mediterranean, tending to the vineyards and rearing goats. My Mediterranean villa, with the Mona Lisa hung above my bed and a display of Salvador Dali's work in the sitting room, would look out onto my fleet of sports cars, 4x4s and diggers and my battalion of boats bobbing in the harbour.

The next door house can be my store - all the medicines, food, drink, fuel, DVDs, CDs and other odds and ends I'll need for my stretch as Supreme Ruler of the Whole Wide World.

It's going to be a shock if I wake up tomorrow and find this has all come true.

Facebook For Old People

(Click on the picture to make it bigger)

Anti-Hijack System

As spotted at The Frog Bog - The Band Meme.

1. Click on this link. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random. The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. Click on this link. http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3. The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.

3. Click on this link. http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/. The third picture is your album cover.

4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together and you’re done.

My band name is Anti-Hijack System, and our debut album is called Smaller Countries Are Neutral.

Here's the cover (or a rectangular version of it anyway):

Anti-Hijack system are a politically-motivated rock band drawing their inspiration from Rage Against The Machine and Black Flag.

Tracks on the debut album Smaller Countries Are Neutral are:

1. Worth More Than Money (A bombastic opening onslaught of drums and chainsaw guitars.)

2. Enough To Die For (A bombastic onslaught of drums and chainsaw guitars, with lyrics giving a first-person account of the last few minutes in the life of a suicide bomber.)

3. The Ideas of Living (A bombastic onslaught of drums and chainsaw guitars discussing Marxist theory.)

4. Convenience of the Hour (A Boyzone-style ballad featuring four-way harmonies and a harp.)

5. Recognised Wiser Than Oneself (A bombastic onslaught of drums and chainsaw guitars, lyrics about George W Bush.)

6. To Succeed As Myself (A bombastic onslaught of drums and chainsaw guitars giving a modern retelling of the tale of Robert The Bruce.)

7. Quality Of My Work (Instrumental. Bass-heavy bombastic onslaught of drums and chainsaw guitars.)

8. Who Can Help You? (A bombastic onslaught of drums and chainsaw guitars. Contains subliminal backwards-masked advert for the Samaritans.)

9. Their Birth As Toys (A bombastic onslaught of drums and chainsaw guitars explaining why Transformers are responsible for the decline of civilisation.)

10. Smaller Countries Are Neutral (An introspective acoustic meditation on the fact that it might always rain in Switzerland, but at least you're not going to be conscripted.)

Why the cyclist on the album cover? Is it a look at man's loney quest for acceptance, struggling against the bigger, more powerful vehicles on life's great road? A view of how travel should be if the world is to survive global warming? Is that backpack packed with explosives, their courier about to deliver his last parcel ahead of his meeting with those virgins in paradise?

Nah, Anti-Hijack System just thought it looked cool.

Crime and Punishment

Good grief - at 4.13pm yesterday (Greenwich Mean Time) a visitor arrived here from Iran (at 7.43pm Tehran time) having searched for pictures of Evangeline Lilly.

Don't you get your hands chopped off for that kind of thing in Iran?

I Am The Music Man (Slight Return)

I spotted this meme over at Kali's blog, Masquerade. I've done a similar one in the past, but thought I'd give it a go. Play along if you want to.

Directions:

1. Put your iTunes, Windows Media Player, iPod etc. on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW STUPID IT SOUNDS.

1. IF SOMEONE SAYS "IS THIS OKAY" YOU SAY? Got No Love - The Kooks
Well, I do have love. But I guess that if I didn't, things wouldn't be OK.

2. HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF? The Needle and The Damage Done - Neil Young
I'm not a junky, honest

3. WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL? Apple Blossom - The White Stripes
I like apple blossom in a girl? News to me.

4. HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY? Paperback Bible - Lambchop
In need of salvation?

5. WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE? Hung In A Bad Place - Oasis
I've hung around some bad place in my life I suppose, but I wouldn't say it was my life's purpose.

6. WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO? Rags To Rags - Eels
...I tell you the truth, it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. Matthew 19:24.

(Things are getting a tad religious around here today, aren't they?)

7. WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU? Standing Out In The Universe - Paul Weller
Well, gee, shucks. I am a bit special I suppose.....

8. WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU? Topanga Canyon - John Phillips
Eh?

9. WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN? Misfit Love - Queens Of The Stone Age
Is misfit love the love someone feels towards misfits as a group or the love felt between two misfits? See, that's started me thinking about misfit love again.....

10. WHAT IS 2 + 2?Boom Boom - John Lee Hooker
Okey-dokey.

11. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR EX?Cherry Lips - Archie Bronson Outfit
Ha ha, that's a good one. Cherry lips - is that colour or flavour? Actually, I did have an ex who wore cherry-flavoured lip balm.

12. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE? Comedy - Gas
If like means love, then yes, Mrs Wife makes me laugh. If it means the people I like as friends, they wouldn't be friends if they didn't make me laugh.

13. WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY? You're A Big Girl Now - Bob Dylan
I'm certainly a big boy now (13 stone and rising), but I don't think I'll ever be a big girl.

14. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP? Twentieth Century - Cold Chisel
I was 19 when the 20th Century ended. Was I grown up? Probably not.

15. WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE? Up The Morning - Babyshambles
Well, I do see Mrs Wife every morning. Usually when she's kicking me and telling me to get up.

16. WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL? The Colors Of The 8th Dimension - Fonda 500
That sounds a bit trippy, might be a cool funeral choice. Although I've already requested Strawberry Fields Forever, Any Day Now and Here It Comes for my funeral.

17. WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST? Stronger - 30 Seconds To Mars
Certainly not as a result of any time spent in the gym - I hate the gym and refuse to go.

18. WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR? Stunned Silence - Scott Thomson
Silence can be wonderful, but a stunned silence generally isn't a good thing.

19. WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET? Rip It Up/Ready Teddy - John lennon
Ripped up teddys? I have a secret history of cuddly toy homicides. Shhhhh, don't tell anyone.

20. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?Assessment - The Beta Band
Do I assess my friends? I don't think so, certainly no more than anyone else does anyway.

Bring On The Big Boys

Tonight, the small publishing company I work for plays football against the world's most profitable company.

David and Goliath? Perhaps. Except our results have been broadly similar to those of this supermajor oil company - we've both lost all of our matches.

I'm not sure how many employees this multinational company has in its Aberdeen offices, nor how many of these employees are men keen on playing football. But it's bound to be more than the 11-man squad we have.

Which means that if we record a win tonight, we'll have a struck a blow for the little guy.

It's A Man's, Man's, Man's World

I've heard it said that traffic is an organic entity - not a series of cars sitting nose to tail, but a living creature, its head connected to its tail.

If that's true, the traffic into Aberdeen this morning was a sloth, sitting still and going nowhere.

Anyway, following the day I've had, here's a little bit of amusement to cheer everyone up - things that make blokes proud of themselves.

1. OPENING JARS - She's struggling. You take it from her hands, open it effortlessly and pretend she loosened it for you. She didn't. Jars are men's work.

2. CALLING SOMEONE 'SON' - Especially policeman but even saying it to kids makes you the man.

3. DOING A PROPER SLIDE TACKLE - Beckham free kicks - camp. A Stuart Pearce tackle is the pinnacle of the game, simultaneously winning the ball and crippling the man. Magic.

4. SHARPENING A PENCIL WITH A STANLEY KNIFE - Blunt, is it? Hand it here love. No, I don't need a sharpener, I've got a knife thanks!

5. GOING TO THE TIP - A manly act which combines driving, lifting and - as you thrillingly drop your rubbish into another huge pile of other rubbish - noisy destruction.

6. DRINKING UP - Specifically, rising from the table, slinging your coat over your shoulder and downing two thirds of a pint in one fluid movement. Then nodding towards the door, saying, "Let's go" and striding out while everyone else struggles to catch up with you.
You're hard.

7. HAVING A THIN BIT OF WOOD - in the shed, solely to stir paint with.

8. HAVING A SCAR - Ideally it'll be a facial knife wound, but even an iron burn on the wrist is good. "Ooh, did it hurt". "Nah".

9. HAVING A HANGOVER AND THICK STUBBLE - When birds have been partying they just whinge. You on the other hand have physical evidence of your hardness, sprouting from your face. "Big night?" Grr, what does it look like.

10. NODDING AT COPPERS - A moment's eye contact is all it takes for you to share the unspoken bond. "We've not seen eye to eye in the past",it says, "but someone's got to keep the little scrotes in line".

11. USING POWER TOOLS - Slightly more powerful than you need or can safely handle. Pneumatic drilling? Superb.

12. KICKING A FOOTY AGAINST A GARAGE DOOR - Clang-g-g-g-! Stick that Becks, I kick so hard I set off car alarms.

13. ARRIVING IN A PUB LATE - And everyone cheers you. It doesn't mean you're popular, it just means your mates are pissed. However, the rest of the pub doesn't know that.

14. NOT WATCHING YOUR WEIGHT - Fat is a feminist issue, apparently. Brilliant. Pass the pork scratchings.

15. CARVING THE ROAST - And saying "are you a leg or breast man?" to the blokes and "do you want stuffing?" to the women. Congratulations, you are now your dad.

16. WINKING - Turns women to putty. Doesn't it?

17. TEST SWINGING HAMMERS - Ideally, B&Q would have little changing rooms with mirrors so you could see how rugged you look with any DIY item. Until then, we'll have to make do with the aisles.

18. TAKING OUT £200 FROM A CASHPOINT - Okay, so its for paying the plumber later but with that much cash you feel like a mafia don. The only thing better is peeling notes off the roll later.

19. PHONE CALLS THAT LAST LESS THAN A MINUTE - Unlike birds, we get straight to the point. "Alright? Yep. Drink? Red lion? George, it is then. Seven. See ya."

20. PARALLEL PARKING - Bosh, straight in. First time. Can Schumacher do that? No, because his cars have got no reverse gear which, technically, makes you the worlds best driver.

21. HAVING EARNED THAT PINT - Since the dawn of time, men have toiled in the fields in blistering heat. Why? So when it's over we can stand there in silence, surveying our work with one hand resting on the beer gut while the other nurses a foaming jug of ale. Aaaah.

22. HAVING SOMETHING PROPERLY WRONG WITH YOU - Especially if you didn't make a fuss. "Why was I off, nothing much, just a brain haemorrhage".

23. KNOWING WHICH SCREWDRIVER IS WHICH - "A Phillips? For that? Are you mad, bint?"

24. TAKING A NEWSPAPER INTO THE TOILET - A visual code that says that's right, I'm going in there for a huge, long man-sized dump.

Exhumed

Yesterday morning, I aided Mither in clearing out her attic ahead of her forthcoming house move.

As I've mentioned in the past, my grandparents bought the house in 1963. What I haven't mentioned is that my Grampa was a hoarder - if he thought that something might prove interesting or useful in the future, he kept it.

A garage and garden shed full of 'useful' knick knacks have already been emptied. But it was the loft that was always likely to be the greatest challenge, for it was here that he squirreled stuff away, items that have been up in the rafters for 40 years or more.

And so it proved. Amongst the items we removed from the loft were an archaic set of wooden golf clubs, an eight-track tape player, 78rpm records, a projector screen, one headlight for an unknown vehicle, a tent, my Mither's dollys (Mither will turn 46 this year), 12 unopened bottles of wine, six dozen unused glasses too small to drink anything but neat spirits, a Dumbarton tourist brochure from the late 1960s, a 1978 World Cup commemorative edition of the Radio Times and a wooden crate bearing the legend "Corned Mutton - Product of Argentina".

That is merely a brief cross section of the 50 years of detrritus we removed from the loft yesterday. Also included amongst this interesting stuff were random pieces of copper pipe, assorted pieces of wood and boxes of tiles, some of them broken.

Some of the loot we removed from the loft has been retained, but most of it has now been discarded.

If there's an after life, I'm pretty sure that my Grampa is having a good laugh at us spending three days digging through the assembled flotsam and jetsam from three or four generations of my family.

Words of Wisdom

Thought for the Day:

"It's better to be silent and thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt."

Hey Hey, My My

Jimmy Page turned 63 today. Paul McCartney will reach the official pensionable age of 65 in June. Mick Jagger is a year younger than Macca. Pete Townshend will celebrate his 62nd birthday in May.

If announced, which four tours are likely to be the highest-grossing in the UK this year? If Led Zeppelin tour, there's will almost certainly be amongst the highest-paid gigs in history. Paul McCartney has already lined up one date as part of Livepool's European City of Culture celebrations, so a tour might also be on the cards. The Stones will no doubt continue to drag their mammoth enterprise around the globe, hoovering up the millions as they do so. And The Who have made a recent return to the live arena in support of their first album in decades.

Why have no bands from the past decade, Oasis and U2 excepted, made the same leap to stadium rock? Why instead do people turn out in their droves to hear half The Who sing "I hope I die before I get old"?

Obviously it come down to longevity. The Rolling Stones have ignored the walkouts and deaths of band members to battle on, perfecting their polished live show over more than 40 years. McCartney continues because millions of people around the world still want to hear a Beatle sing Beatles songs (and Ringo playing arenas on the back of Don't Pass Me By and Octopus's Garden isn't likely to be as big a draw).

I may sound critical, but I was amongst the millions who sought tickets for Led Zepellin's comeback gig, and I was impressed with the The Who's show at T In The Park a couple of years back. If Macca does tour, I'll be there, quite possibly screaming like a teenage girl from 1964.

It must be a strange quandry for the artists to be in - with each passing year, with each new performance, they risk damaging their own reputation and sullying their own legends. Yet the public demand for these performances and reunions grows apace.

John Lennon became immortal the instant Mark David Chapman pulled the trigger of his pistol in New York more than 27 years ago. Jimi Hendrix's death saw him annointed the greatest ever guitarist for eternity. For some, Brian Jones and Keith Moon are more spectacularly towering figures than Keith Richards and Roger Daltrey, simply because they are no longer here to descend into middle age and geriatricy in the full view of the public.

Better to burn out and live forever or to fade away comfortable with the legacy you've left behind?

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.

Back To Work

6.15am is an ungodly hour of the day to get up, especially in winter, and double especially after a two-week holiday.

Waking up and going to work when it's dark, cold and wet is the ideal way to ruin a good day.

I just can't understand those people who, having won twenty million quid on the lottery, announce: "But I won't be quitting my job, I just love it so much".

Unless you're a rock'n'roll star, professional footballer, Playboy photographer or porn star, why would ANYONE continue working if they didn't have to?

You get up at the crack of, or well before, dawn. Spend eight hours in a shitty office doing something boring with a bunch of people doing equally boring stuff, go home again in the same dark and shitty weather, and pay tax on it all.

I'm only 27, but I'd retire tomorrow if it was financially viable. I've suggested this to Mither and Mrs Wife in the past, and they both claim I'd be bored.

Nonsense. I'd have a whale of a time, doing what I want when I want. I'd write a novel eventually, I'm sure I'd manage to squeeze one out over 40 years. I'd play a lot of computer games and read a lot of books and watch a lot of movies and listen to a lot of music.

The first day back at work ALWAYS sucks.....

Royal Hoo-Ha

When you've finished watching the Hendrix video below (and let's face it, you'll need to watch it more than once) head on over to Alastair's Heart Monitor for this excellent post on a sadly defunct British spectator sport.

James Marshall Hendrix

This morning has been one of those where I've been hopping around YouTube from video to video, mostly looking for videos of Michael Jackson dancing, Cream in their prime and, especially, vintage Hendrix.

One of my favourite sounds in the whole world is an acoustic guitar being played by someone who really knows what they're doing. And when that acoustic guitar has twelve strings and is being played by the greatest guitarist ever - well, that's just perfection:



Forty years on and STILL untouchable.

Herge's Adventures of Groanin' Jock

Happy New Year to you all. Mrs Wife and I are now back on Scottish soil following our jaunt to Brussels for Hogmanay.

The weather held up for most of the trip, only turning to freezing rain on our final day in Belgium, although we did encounter some snow at Waterloo.

What have we discovered from our time on the continent?

1) When chocolate is found in any state other than completely solid, I am a serious risk to myself and others around me. This applies to drinking chocolate, chocolate fountains, the fillings found inside individual chocolates and the cocoa dusting applied to truffels. In short, if you want to avoid chocolate/clothes-based mishaps, minimise my involvement.

2) Belgium, located almost slap-bang in the middle of western Europe, has acquired facets of its national characteristics from its neighbours. These include the humility and good manners of the French, the the stunning good looks of the Germans and the Italians' attitude to queuing. As Misssy warned me, the Belgians ain't too good-looking. Mrs Wife disagrees, and reckons that the men aren't too bad. But most of the women are horrors. Nonetheless, their cooking is pretty good and their beer is unsurpassed.

3) I don't know how I've lasted almost 28 years on this planet without experiencing cherry beer, which now joins pear cider amongst my favourite drinks. "Un grand Mort Subite, S'il vous plait" is the one French phrase I truly mastered whilst in Brussels.

And now we have a weekend of recovery before returning to the wonderful world of work. Thankfully, most of the snow seems to have gone, so I've been spared the nightmare Montrose to Aberdeen drive in the dark during a blizzard. Hurrah!

2007 AD

Well, the turkey is but a distant memory and I daren't even approach the bathroom scales for fear of them spontaneously combusting simply from being in my orbit, so I guess that Xmas is now officially over.

Which means that attentions must now turn towards New Year, which for Mrs Wife and myself means a night in a Prestwick hotel before we fly to Brussels and our week with the party-hard Belgians.

Mrs Wife has already been on the case finding suitable entertainment in Europe's Capital, and it seems that we'll spend the final hour of 2007 watching fireworks in one of Brussels' parks, and will spend New Year's Day at a vast Xmas market.

As far as I'm concerned, as long as the holiday involves copious amounts of Belgian beer and chocolate, and perhaps a trip out to Waterloo, I'll be happy.

Because I'll be in Brussels and unwilling, unable or too inebriated to blog, I'll take this opporchanceity to wish one and all a Happy New Year.

Happy Holidays

I'm likely to be out of action for the next few days for a variety of food, drink and family related reasons, so I'll take this opportunity to wish everyone a Happy Christmas and New Year.

The 2007 Jock Awards

Welcome back once again to the second annual Jock Awards (like the Oscars, but without Billy Crystal presenting).

Without any further ado (or any ado at all), let's get down to the awards.

The Stone Roses award for Album of The Year: (Nominees: The Enemy - We'll Live and Die In These Towns; The Pigeon Detectives - Wait For Me; Arctic Monkeys - Favourite Worst Nightmare; Kings of Leon - Because Of The Times; The Cooper Temple Clause - Make This Your Own)
Scooping the prestigious (in no-one's eyes) Album of The Year award for the second consecutive time, the Arctic Monkeys proved they are no flash in the pan. Moving on from their classic debut, Favourite Worst Nightmare was louder, harder and grittier - Matt Helders' drumming alone is ferocious. Another faultless record from the Sheffield lads - now it's "difficult third record" time.

The Strawberry Fields Forever award for Single of The Year: (Nominees: Arctic Monkeys - Fluorescent Adolescent; The White Stripes - Icky Thump; Soulja Boy - Crank Dat (Soulja Boy); The Enemy - We'll Live and Die In These Towns; The Pigeon Detectives - I'm Not Sorry; Kings Of Leon - On Call)
A tough category to call, given that singles aren't really singles any more - they're just a means to promote an album. But for making me sit up and take notice, it would probably have to be The White Stripes' Icky Thump - one of Jack White's most finger-blistering guitar riffs shoe-horned into an odd-sounding track containing Meg White's standard mono-beat and what sound like untuned bagpipes. Sadly, the album from which the track is taken failed to live up to expectations.

The Rolling Stones award for Live Act of The Year: (Nominees: The Cooper Temple Clause; Kings of Leon; Miyagi; Go! Team; Primal Scream)
This category is also a tough one in which to select a winner, given the high standard of live performances which I've seen this year. Kings of Leon were magnificent at the start of December, whilst Go! Team and Primal Scream were both superb at this year's inaugural Connect festival. But the award must go to The Cooper Temple Clause, whose final tour I witnessed at Aberdeen's Lemon Tree, a venue which may now follow the band into the history books. It would be unthinkable to lose both in a single year. As always, the Clause gave a throat-shredding, instrument-swapping tour de force at The Lemon Tree, even without the sadly departed Didz Hammond, now a Dirty Pretty Thing.

The Goodfellas Award for Movie of the Year: (Nominees: Pirates of The Caribbean III; Transformers; The Simpsons Movie; American Gangster)
Twenty years on, and the Transformers have lost none of their magic. To see Optimus Prime, Starscream and Bumblebee in a real-life action movie was awesome. Roll on the sequels.

The Knight Rider award for TV Programme of The Year: (Nominees: Lost; Dragons' Den; Heroes)
At the end of the second series, I was starting to think that I was losing interest. But by the end of the third series of Lost, I was completely hooked all over again. They're going to get off the island - we know that much. But what happens? A special mention must also be made for Heroes, which would have been a clear winner if not pitted against Lost. Many a workplace debate has been had over the relative merits of Hiro Nakamura and Peter Petrelli.

The Marilyn Monroe award for Babe of The Year: (Nominees: Keira Knightley; Amanda Bynes; Hayden Panettiere)
Assuming that Mrs Wife has won this award from now until the end of time, we'll instead look for a runner-up. Keira's too skinny, so instead the winner is Amanda Bynes, whom I'd never heard of until I saw her in Hairspray. Yes, she plays a schoolgirl in the film (as does fellow nominee Hayden Panettiere in Heroes), but she's 21 in real life. And she's hot.

The Jet Set Willy Award for Computer Game of The Year: (Nominees: Football Manager 2008; Final Fantasy X2; Guitar Hero)
It may not be as addictive as previous versions, but Football Manager 2008 is still the single biggest drain on my free time, sleep and marriage. I WILL win the Champions League with Rangers....

The Godfather III award for Biggest Disappointment of The Year: (Nominees: The White Stripes - Icky Thump; Ian Brown live; The Cooper Temple Clause splitting; the closure of The Lemon Tree)
The White Stripes album may have been a turkey (I've decided - Jack White is a phenomenal guitar player, but a patchy songwriter at best), Ian Brown may have been in a differet time zone to the tune at his Dundee gig, and The Lemon Tree closing is a kick in nuts to all music fans in the northeast, but the biggest disappointment from my point of view was the demise of The Cooper Temple Clause. No more of their howling, roaring, electro-rock - a huge loss to the live music scene.

The Screamadelica award for Scottish Album of The Year: (Nominee: Miyagi - Lucky Face)It's been a pretty quiet year for albums of note north of the border, but the best of the lot is Miyagi's Lucky Face, released just last week at a gig in Edinburgh. They're also the only band ever to have had Groanin' Jock make a special guest appearance on guiro. Buy the record now.

Xmas Is Coming

Another day, another meme - Tish from The Kat House has tagged me with the Christmas Meme, so here goes, starting with the rules:

1. Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.

2. Share Christmas facts about yourself.

3. Tag seven random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.

4. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Welcome to the Christmas edition of “Getting to Know Your Friends.”

1. Wrapping or gift bags? Presents definitely look better wrapped - plus there's the mystery factor associated with a parcel that you don't get with a gift bag. Unfortunately, like Robbie Williams, my (w)rapping is atrocious.

2. Real or artificial tree? Artificial. The same tree every year. No worrying about whether the tree you've just bought will fit in the car or the house. No pine needles to hoover. Although it might be better if we had a real tree this year, as Pepper, Mrs Wife's pet rabbit, insists on chewing it regardless.

3. When do you put up the tree? Sometime in December. Xmas decorations going up before December really bugs me. At the moment, I'm too lazy to set a date and stick to it, so it usually goes up when Mrs Wife says so.

4. When do you take the tree down? The first week in January.

5. Do you like egg nog? I don't think I've ever tried it. It doesn't seem like the kind of thing I'd like, but you never know.

6. Favorite gift received as a child? My parents were always really good at getting me what I wanted. Some of the presents I can remember are a CD player, a snooker table, He-Man's Castle Greyskull and Gameboy games. But the longest lasting and most used was probably my ZX Spectrum +3, which was my first ever computer.

7. Do you have a nativity scene? No. It may be the wrong season to say this, but I'm not religious. I like Xmas because it's a great family holiday season and the ideal way to break up the long, dark winter months.

8. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? There are bound to have been some horrific clothes over the years, but the trauma has forced my memory to blank them out.

9. Mail or email Christmas cards? I'd prefer not to bother, but if i have to, I'll send out real Xmas cards by mail.

10. Favorite Christmas Movie? Home Alone. I watched it last year and it made me laugh out loud, even at the age of 26. But I'm a sucker for all Xmas movies.

11. When do you start shopping for Christmas? Usually immediately after my November wages have been credited to my bank account.

12. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Everything. I love mince pies, trifle, turkey and all the trimmings, chocolate, Xmas pudding, Yule log, that German dessert that has cream in the middle but the name of which I can't remember - as I said, everything. Prepare for several post-New Year groans about my ever-increasing waist line and weight.

13. Clear lights or coloured on the tree? Coloured

14. Favorite Christmas song(s)? All of them. Again, I love Xmas music. I have a 300-song Xmas playlist on the Magic Tunebox. Favourites include Slade, Wizzard, John and Yoko, Mariah Carey, Paul McCartney, Shakin' Stevens and Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer.

15. Travel at Christmas or stay home? I prefer to stay home. Xmas isn't the same if you can't lounge around in front of the TV with the brand new Broons or Oor Wullie book.

16. Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer? I don't know - Rudolph, Dancer, Prancer, Donner, Blitzen - how many are there?

17. Angel on the tree top or a star? It was always a fairy in my house when I was growing up, but now Mrs Wife and I have a Santa Claus.

18. Open the presents Christmas Eve or Christmas Morning? Christmas morning. How can you open your presents before Santa's delivered them?

19. Most annoying thing about this time of year? The sheer number of slow-moving people in every shop, street and post office. And the sheer lack of cash to cover all the presents, all the partying and all the normal day-to-day stuff.

20. Do you decorate your tree in any specific theme or colour? Nope. Our collection of decorations is a rag-tag assortment of stuff gathered separately by myself and Mrs Wife over the years.

21. What do you leave for Santa? As a wee boy, it was always a biscuit and a glass of milk for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer (one carrot between all those reindeer - Mither must have been hard up after shopping for my presents).

22. Least favorite holiday song? Hmmmm, I like most of them. Although The Darkness' effort a few years back wasn't the best. And I'm not keen on As Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night.

23. Favorite ornament? Mrs Wife has a snowman snow globe she bought in New York that is nice.

24. Family tradition? I don't think there were any traditions as such - opening our presents in our pyjamas then spending all day at home was about it.

25. Ever been to Midnight Mass or late-night Christmas Eve services? I do have hazy recollections of attending an evening service at the Episcopal Church at Tarfside when I was at primary school. Which I presume was in some way school-related.

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.

Groanin' Jock on Guiro

For anyone who doubted the validity of my claim that I'd resurrected my live music career, here's the evidence - I'm the frightened looking one in the leather jacket at the back, focussing completely on making sure I don't mess up my guiro part.

Montrose 0-1 Forfar

Recently, I posted a comment on Big Rab's site in which I described Forfar Athletic as "monumentally pish".

Yesterday, in my tortured role as a Montrose FC season ticket holder, I watched this monumentally pish side beat Montrose 1-0.

It would be a falsehood to describe the match as the worst I've ever seen - I've been watching Scottish football at all levels from boys to international for the best part of two decades, so I've seen some abominations.

But at yesterday's Angus 'derby', there was little class on show. The ineptitude of Forfar's players was matched only by that of their opponents, and exceeded only by a shameful refeering performance.

Barely a few seconds would pass without the hapless whistler halting play for some minor offence, and as a result, the match was a scrappy, stop/start affair.

In failing to send off two players who engaged in a shoving match, the official indicated early on that his grasp of both the match and the rules of the sport was limited, and everyone in the small crowd was forced to suffer as a result.

It seems to be a current malaise at all levels of the game - inexplainable, illogical, inconsistent refereeing.

Maybe, as I've grown older, I'm less in awe of the whole footballing spectacle, and far more aware of the hapless individuals who officiate matches, and the difference they can make. But nowadays we don't seem to have strong, assured personalities in charge of our matches.

All I can say is that I don't envy the referees whatsoever. If the ref has a good game, no-one notices. If he doesn't, everyone does.

That was most certainly the case yesterday.

2007 Comeback Show

It's been a long time coming - almost a decade in fact.

For a long time, I thought it might never happen again.

But on Friday night, I made my first appearance onstage with a band since 1998.

Much to my surprise, and that of three quarters of the band members, I was invited onstage to play percussion with Miyagi on the track Dirty Little Monkey at their album launch party at The Ark, Edinburgh, on Friday.

Despite dropping the beat on a couple of occasions, not to mention being flumoxed by the sudden changes in pace when the song hit the chorus, I don't think I did too badly. Although perhaps the band might disagree.

I'd urge you all to check out Miyagi's website, buy a copy of the debut album Lucky Face and do your best to catch them on their upcoming tour.

Photos and/or videos of my impromptu special guest appearance may appear here if and when I find out that some exist.

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.

Through The Wardrobe

In the past week, I've started reading The Chronicles of Narnia for the first time in almost 20 years.

I remember as a boy thinking that The Magician's Nephew, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe and Prince Caspian were all brilliant, but becoming progressively more bored as the series progressed.

I'm not sure what has made me decide to start reading the books again. I bought one massive compendium of all seven whilst in Australia four years ago, and carted it around the world back to Scotland, unread in the eight months that journey took.

Maybe it's because the strange workings of my mind associate Narnia (snow, White Witch, fir trees) with Xmas. Whatever the reason, I'm now approaching the end of The Magician's Nephew, and I'm finding the experience of re-reading the Narnia books a bit strange.

Firstly, the language used by CS Lewis is occasionally archaic, as one would expect from a series of books written 50 years ago, a world before the mass arrival of the motor car, before every house in the world had at least one telephone, and before everyone in the world had a television.

And what has also struck me is the blatantly obvious Christian references, which weren't so readily apparent to an eight-year-old devouring these imaginative tales for the first time.

By the time he wrote The Magician's Nephew, Lewis had already penned five of the Narnia novels, and must have had a clear view of how the series would end. The comparisons with the New Testament, as seen through the eyes of a cynical 27-year-old cynical journalist, are inescapable.

But perhaps the strangest thing is that I can't really remember how the story unfolds. Although almost 20 years have passed, I thought I'd remembered the story pretty well. But each chapter so far has been like I've been reading it for the first time. Cinematic and television versions of the Chronicles have kept certain aspects fresh in my mind, but now I'm having doubts about how accurately I've remembered the rest of the books.

Which has set me to wondering - have I forgotten what happens in some of my favourite literature?

There's only one way to find out - by re-reading Treasure Island, the complete works of Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton's Enchanted Wood tales.

I may be quiet for some time.

Red Card

Xmas cards. What is the point?

You spend hours writing your own name over and over again, then licking so many envelopes that saliva is but a bitter, parched memory.

Then you spend the same amount of time trying to find people's addresses, rummaging through out-of-date address books and sending text messages to which people don't reply.

And for what purpose? So that you can cripple the British postal service by forcing postmen and women to trudge through the coldest weeks of the year weighed down by vast piles of dead trees. Then, when this forest of cardboard is delivered, you look at it once before letting it sit gathering dust on a shelf before it jumps down the back of the sideboard the first time someone opens a door.

Can you tell I just spent a couple of hours writing my Xmas cards?

Party Politics

Today has been a day of hilarity and horrors.

The aftermath of the office Xmas party, the first I've experienced since joining my current employer, was equal parts entertaining and excruciating. The whole morning in the office passed in a flurry of emails recounting Friday's festivities. The bad behaviour, drunken debates and dubious dancing were all picked over in minute detail, providing almost as much entertainment as the party itself.

No-one has been sacked yet, so I think we may be safe, for a year at least.

Nedtivity

Today is Xmas party day at the office, starting at 3pm with Secret Santa. To get you all in the festive spirit, here's Glasgow's very own Nedtivity:

A Helping of Humbug

Aberdeen city centre is a nightmare at the moment, with herds of slow-moving people wandering in a seemlessly aimless fashion from store to store.

This is especially infuriating when someone has to make it from the South College Street car park to Bon Accord Shopping Centre, find a Xmas gift for a workplace "Secret Santa", and make it back to the car, all inside 20 minutes.

None of this would have been necessary if the fuckwit on Ebay from whom I have already purchased a "Secret Santa" gift had sent it in enough time for it to arrive before today.

During my return journey through Aberdeen's streets, I was accosted on no fewer than four occasions by people wanting my opinions on something, wanting me to donate to charity or asking me to buy a raffle ticket.

Then, having arrived at the store of my choice, the assistant, whose neck was barely visible beneath lurid purple lovebites, asked in a disinterested fashion if she could help me.

To which I managed (but only just) not to reply: "Yes, you can get out of my way so that I can do my shopping."

Good God - December 6 and I'm already fed up with the Xmas stress.

Sour

Aberdeen music and arts venue The Lemon Tree is to close down, having gone into liquidation.

For any music fans in the north east, that will be devastating news. The venue was the best (only?) middle-sized venue in the area, and regularly hosted three or four gigs in a week.

Driveblind's last Aberdeen gig before they jetted off to LA was at The Lemon Tree, and the last time I saw The Cooper Temple Clause before they split, it was at a fantastic intimate Lemon Tree gig.

Now, Aberdeen's music fans will be left with only the Music Hall and the AECC to choose from - both too big for smaller acts.

Hopefully, some kind of rescue package will come together, otherwise there will be a gaping hole in the Aberdeen gigs calendar.

Brussels Out

In the past few weeks, I've been taking sporadic stick from several of my acquaintances on account of my plans for New Year.

The reason for these jibes is that Mrs Wife and I will spend the last few days of 2007 and the opening few of 2008 in Brussels.

Faced with the options of Montrose, Brechin, Oban and Edinburgh, none of which were met with great enthusiasm, we decided to look beyond Scotland's border for suitable alternatives.

We briefly toyed with the idea of a cruise to the Low Countries, but the prospect of spending two days on a boat with some geriatrics didn't overly fill us with excitement.

Consideration was also given to a package holiday, basking in the sun in some Mediterranean resort, with only the all-inclusive bar and a pile of paperbacks for company.

But instead, after a bit of hunting around and a cobbled-together plan of action, we settled on Brussels, for no better reason than it's not in Scotland.

Since then, when I've relayed these plans to friends, several have started laughing, with comments generally taking a form along the lines of: "Oh yes, the party-hard Belgians, renowned worldwide for their Hogmanay celebrations!"

Frankly, I don't care. A strange city, home to more than 400 varieties of strong beer and probably as many exciting strains of the world's best chocolate sounds as good a place as any to see in the New Year.

But now, in keeping with the spirit of my friends' mickey-taking, I challenge you, dear readers, to name ten famous Belgians. Off the top of my head, I can only really think of Jean-Claude Van Damme and Poirot, who doesn't count because he's not real. Professional footballers don't count either, because none of them are truly famous in the real sense of the word (apologies to Messrs Buffel, Valgaeren, Degryse and Albert). Good luck, and no using Google or Wikipedia.

Make Love, Not War

I managed to avoid getting into a fight at Saturday's Kings of Leon concert at the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre.

Is that a strange way to start a post? Probably. Perhaps some explanation is required.

Having spent the whole day in Aberdeen, Mrs Wife and I decided that, instead of aimlessly roaming the granite city's streets, we'd head up to the venue early and venture inside as soon as the doors opened.

As we were amongst the first in, we pretty much had our pick of places to stand, and chose a spot immediately in front of the mixing desk. This meant that later, when the venue was stowed out, we couldn't be pushed forwards by any surging in the crowd. (That makes me sound really old and boring. The previous two occasions I've been to the AECC for gigs - Oasis in 1997 and Ocean Colour Scene in 1998 - I was right at the front being crushed against the barriers.)

Anyway, we stood in front of the mixing desk throughout opening act Manchester Orchestra's set (anyone from Jawjah want to explain why a rock band from Atlanta is called Manchester Orchestra?) and were happy to stand there for the Kings of Leon's set.

Until an idiot with rubbish faux-indie hair decided that standing right in front of Mrs Wife would be a good idea.

Don't get me wrong - I expect to have people standing in front of me at a gig, especially if I choose to stand at the back of the hall. But this twat wasn't just standing in front of Mrs Wife, he was practically standing on top of her, and kept on leaning into her, pushing her backwards against the railing.

So Mrs Wife and I reached a simple conclusion - we'd swap places. Hairboy then goes from leaning against a slim 5'6" woman to leaning against a broad-shouldered, marginally overweight 6'1" man clad in a heavy leather jacket.

Far be it from me to suggest how other people should behave, but I would suggest that if a couple standing behind you has just adjusted their standing arrangements so that your ass is now touching the tall bloke behind you, you should take that as a hint to take a step forwards and watch the show.

But no, fannybaws continues to lean backwards. So he is given a small shove forwards by means of suggesting a more suitable vantage point. He responds by telling yours truly to fuck off. But he does so from a position where he is no longer touching me. This is fine.

Two more songs go by, and neepheid seems to have forgotten our little exchange. He again leans into me, forcing me against the barrier. He gets a second shove in the back, this time with a little more force.

It is at this point, when I am being told to fuck off for the second time in the space of 10 minutes, that it crosses my mind that this altercation may not end here. And hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter.

But, as these thoughts are crossing my mind, it becomes apparent that fannybaws' mate has realised that it's not just me and Mrs Wife he has to deal with - we're accompanied by another guy in the six-foot-plus bracket and his own Mrs Wife.

And, having taken stock of the situation, they scarper.

So, I managed to avoid getting into a fight on Saturday. Kings of Leon were rather good, although we were treated to Caleb Followill partially spitting the dummy when his guitar refused to work properly during the encore. For a moment, I feared for the roadie's safety, and thought that my peacemaking services might be required onstage.

Maybe I should start my own business as a diffuser of potentially violent indie situations.