From The Dim and Distant Past

Today at work, the conversation turned to awkward interviewees that myself and other reporters had encountered in our professional careers.

Without a doubt, the most obnoxious person I ever interviewed was Bobby Williamson during his time as Hibs boss. He was a grumpy, ill-natured, torn-faced little neep of a man, and he deserved every single piece of abuse he received from the club's fans.

In stark contrast, his predecessor, Frank Sauzee, was one of the most charming, likeable people I've ever met.

Anyway, this conversation also saw me reminiscing about my days as a music journalist, and the great times I had interviewing bands including The Cooper Temple Clause, Terrorvision and South.

And this thought process reminded me that, for a short period after finishing university, I had my own ramshackle website devoted to reviewing music.

The idea was basically that I would be able to blag free CDs and gig tickets by agreeing to review them. And it worked pretty well.

I presumed that, after I lost interest in the site around five years ago, it would have been deleted.

But it hasn't. To this day, it's still sitting quietly on the dark fringes of the worldwide interweb, showcasing how pretentious I was at the point when I finished university.

And so, for your entertainment, here is a link to the site in all its non-showy glory.

What a shambles!

Foreign Affairs

This month's FourFourTwo magazine has a feature on the 100 greatest foreign players to have graced British football. The full list is:

1: Eric Cantona
2: Dennis Bergkamp
3: Thierry Henry
4: Henrik Larsson
5: Gianfranco Zola
6: Peter Schmeichel
7: Ossie Ardiles
8: Cristiano Ronaldo
9: Jurgen Klinsmann
10: Patrick Vieira
11: Dwight Yorke
12: Ruud Gullit
13: Jaap Stam
14: Eddie Firmani
15: Paolo di Canio
16: George Robledo
17: Bruce Grobbelaar
18: Ruud van Nistelrooy
19: Robert Pires
20: Brian Laudrup
21: Didier Drogba
22: Claude Makelele
23: David Ginola
24: Andrei Kanchelskis
25: Marcel Desailly
26: Bert Trautmann
27: Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink
28: Arnold Muhren
29: Frans Thijssen
30: Jan Molby
31: Juninho
32: Gianluca Vialli
33: Freddie Ljungberg
34: Ole Gunnar Solskjaer
35: Michael Essien
36: Clyde Best
37: Nicolas Anelka
38: Georgi Kinkladze
39: Brad Friedel
40: Petr Cech
41: Lubomir Moravcik
42: Anders Limpar
43: Jay-Jay Okocha
44: Roy Wegerle
45: Sami Hyypia
46: Cesc Fabregas
47: Youri Djorkaeff
48: Kazimierz Deyna
49: Russell Latapy
50: Arthur Wharton
51: Marc Overmars
52: Alexei Mikhailichenko
53: Roland Nilsson
54: Edwin van der Sar
55: Emmanuel Petit
56: Johnny Hubbard
57: Dietmar Hamann
58: Ronny Johnsen
59: Eidur Gudjohnsen
60: Dimitar Berbatov
61: Carlo Cudicini
62: Frank Sauzee
63: Igor Stimac
64: Ricky Villa
65: Mark Viduka
66: Roberto Di Matteo
67: Ivan Golac
68: Craig Johnston
69: Joe Marston
70: Henning Berg
71: Jussi Jaaskelainen
72: Slaven Bilic
73: Albert Johanneson
74: Shaun Goater
75: Gustavo Poyet
76: Harry Kewell
77: Frank Lebouef
78: Benito Carbone
79: Claudio Caniggia
80: Uwe Rosler
81: Mark Bosnich
82: Lucas Radebe
83: Aljosa Asanovic
84: Tore Andre Flo
85: Pierre van Hooijdonk
86: Attilio Lombardo
87: Dan Petrescu
88: Jesper Olsen
89: Antti Niemi
90: Tony Yeboah
91: Nwankwo Kanu
92: Tim Cahill
93: Shunsuke Nakamura
94: Nolberto Solano
95: Paulo Wanchope
96: Aiyegbeni Yakubu
97: Jan Age Fjortoft
98: Phillipe Albert
99: John Harkes
100: Kasey Keller

I certainly can't argue with the top five, as it would probably mirror the selections I would make. But I think that in other parts the list, which excludes all British and Irish players, is flawed.

Brian Laudrup, along with Paul Gascoigne the most gifted player I've ever seen in a Rangers jersey, should be higher than 20th, and though it pains me to say it, Lubo Moravcik and Pierre van Hooijdonk should be higher than 41st and 85th respectively.

Presumably the list is based only on the contributions the players made to British football, otherwise Ruud Gullit would be much higher. But if that is the case, I'd argue that Tony Yeboah, Nwankwo Kanu and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer should all be higher.

Meanwhile, the inclusion of Claudio Canniggia over other players to have plied their trade in Scotland is baffling. Nacho Novo has been involved in the Scottish game for longer and has scored more goals; Hans Gillhaus and Theo Snelders were important figures in determining the destination of several trophies in the early 1990s; Jorge Cadete and Andreas Thom were both big figures in the best Celtic team I've ever seen (that didn't win anything).

As for the omissions of Ronald de Boer, Oleg Kuznetsov, Erik Bo Andersen, Peter Van Vossen and Stefan Klos? Those are debates for another day.*

* I'm joking. Except for Klos.

Of Hiccups, Monster Bobs and Visas

The dust is finally settling on a fairly hectic weekend and I'm almost able to keep my eyes open long enough to post, so I'll try to collect my thoughts.

Friday's working day culminated in a leaving night for a fellow employee, and the drink was flowing freely at the start of the evening. My recollections of events are hazy, but I'm told that my Elvis impersonation kept my colleagues amused.

Thankfully, I had the sense to bail out before things got too messy, and instead subjected the passengers on the Aberdeen to Montrose train to a spectacular bout of hiccups that lasted for the duration of the journey. These hiccups were more like sonic booms, and were so loud that I could hear them above Definitely Maybe cranked up full blast on the Magic Tune Box.

Having arrived in Montrose, I decided that food was required, and treated myself to a pizza. The first bite removed removed several layers off the interior lining of my mouth, and in shock I managed to spill molten cheese on both my hands. All in all, a fairly eventful post-pub meal.

After staggering from the pizza shop to Dungroanin', I managed to scare Pepper, Mrs Wife's rabbit, half to death, then retreated to bed.

Unfortunately, Saturday dawned for me at the early hour of 7.30am. Unable to get back to sleep, I settled on the couch, wrapped in a fake fur throw, and allowed my hangover to build up a head of steam.

What I found out later in the day was that a combination of hail, snow, horizontal rain and howling winds, mixed with the standard of football offered up in an end-of-season Angus derby, is enough to shift even the most stubborn of hangovers.

Though the match wasn't dire, the standard of refereeing, in a league renowned for atrocious officials, was honking, and the man in black's performance was enough in itself to deny Montrose a confirmed play-off spot. For a week at least.

And so Saturday night started with me shivering, attempting to restore my core body temperature to something above freezing and preparing for a second consecutive night on the lash.

I believe a good time was had by all, with most of the assembled crowd enjoying their first visit to Roo's Leap. This vast amount of food was washed down with a few civilised drinks....

....Which doesn't really explain how I ended up finally going to bed at 6am, having woken the whole house with an impromptu didgeridoo solo.

My body clock must still be on British Winter Time, because I awoke at 8.30am, unable to do anything but doze fitfully until my lift to Dundee arrived. Why Dundee? To take in the Dundee United v Rangers SPL match, one of the more entertaining games I've been to this season, albeit one in which the final result left a lot to be desired. But no team can expect to go behind three times and still win a match.

A long day at work on Monday was followed by a trip north to Ellon, where Mrs Wife acquired her second rabbit, a bouncing boy now known as Dylan (in tribute to Robert Zimmerman, not The Magic Roundabout).

Introducing Dylan and Pepper has been a high-tension affair. Pepper is no longer in possession of her womanly organs, but Dylan still has a full set of boy bits, and he's eager to use them. So far, as Pepper has investigated this newcomer, she's smacked him around the nose a few times and attempted to give him a warning nibble on the nose. But Dylan seems to take this as foreplay, so there may be testing times ahead.

Yesterday, the 28th anniversary of my arrival on this planet, saw Mrs Wife and I venture south to Edinburgh, with the intention of collecting our Chinese visas. Unfortunately, the Chinese Consulate is an awkward beast, and no amount of discussion or offers of cash would tempt them to process the application in a single day. Which means that I'll have to make a return journey next week.

So, a busy weekend means I'm pretty shattered and looking forward to a few evenings of realxing on the sofa to recuperate.

I must be getting old.

Sleeping....

Still too tired to post - I'll be back soon....

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.

The Eighth Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge

Answers to The Seventh Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge are now in the comments for that post. Mike from Auld Reekie Rants and The Old Man from Dad's Deadpool Blog are this week's winners with one correct answer each.

Here are this week's mystery tunes. Answers in the comments, no Googling.

1: We'll do it all, everything on our own, we don't need anything, or anyone.

2: But you burn me up, you paint my skin in bad designs that ain't even in. I got good lungs, got a good heart, my mind is fit, and my feet can walk.

3: Many times I loved, many times been bitten, many times I've gazed, along the open road.

4: I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss, well a few of the verses well they've got me quite cross.

5: My friend's addicted to cocaine, smokes day and night, drives mom and pop insane.

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'?

Alaska Here I Come

I've yet to break the news to Mrs Wife, but it seems I might be otherwise engaged on the occasion of her 29th birthday.

Birthdays - you get one every year, and once the 21st one is past, they're barely worth celebrating any more.

Therefore, when Mrs Wife completes her 29th trip around the sun, I may be far away from the Scottish homestead, taking my sporting endeavours to a brand new audience.

The occasion?

The ninth World Beard and Moustache Championships.

Unfortunately, a combination of style and inability has restricted my beard and moustache-growing endeavours up until now. But I think that with almost 14 months' notice, I could whip my whiskers into a suitably eye-catching style in an effort to capture the title for the United Kingdom.

I'm open to suggestions - should I be rocking the wild untamed cave man look for the World Championships, or instead spend some time with a tub of warm moustache wax as I twist the flowing locks sprouting from my nose into a fantastic handlebar effort? I'm willing to accept guidance from my readers as to the direction my face fuzz should take.

Though I think some of my fellow competitors will take some beating....

Word Association

Recently, I've been reading CS Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia, books I haven't read since I was around nine years old.

They've been a tad disappointing, if I'm honest, but I suppose I should have expected that, given that they were written for a young audience more than 50 years ago.

I've been reading a lot more since my transformation from car-bound commuting drone to train-bound commuting drone, and I now spend around an hour and a half each day immersed in a world of Fauns, Dufflepuds and Marshwiggles. (I think I should probably read War and Peace or something equally weighty once I've finished the Narnia series....)

Today, on my journey into Aberdeen, I reached chapter nine of The Silver Chair. And if any one passage summed up the differences in the use of language in literature from 50 years ago, it is the following excerpt detailing how a girl called Jane curried favour with the inhabitants of a household of giants:

"She made love to everyone - the grooms, the porters, the housemaids, the ladies-in-waiting and the elderly giant lords whose hunting days were past. She submitted to being kissed and pawed about by any number of giantesses."

Maybe it's my dirty mind, or maybe any other grown-up would think the same, but those two sentences sound more like the script for a Jenna Jameson* movie than a passage from one of the world's best-loved children's books.

Given that the books are a thinly-veiled allegory for Christian teachings, perhaps Clive Staples Lewis could have chosen his words slightly better.....

* Jenna Jameson is, I believe, the female star of many pornographic movies. Having never seen such a thing, I base this reference entirely on sources from the internet.

And that means Wikipedia, before any smart arses pipe up about my internet browsing habits.

The Seventh Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge

It's been quite a while since the last Groanin' Jock lyrical challenge, so I thought I'd revive the game that no-one's talking about.

The object of the game is to identify the artists and tracks plucked at random from the Magic Tune Box. Answers in the comments. No Googling.

1: Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.

2: Though I ain't got a bean, 'cause I've nothing to dream. So if you're waiting for nothing, do something for me.

3: He left no time to regret, kept his dick wet, with his same old safe bet.

4: Left alone with just a memory, life seems dead and so unreal. All that's left is loneliness, there's nothing left to feel.

5: Riding through the city on my bike all day 'cause the filth took away my licence.

Perfect Guide

My Chinese guidebook arrived in the mail this morning, and I've been enthralled by it for the past hour.

I love guidebooks and everything about them. Looking at pictures of far-off lands I intend to visit very soon, reading about the history of a culture so alien to my own that it may as well be from another planet.

Everything about the Lonely Planet guidebooks is measured to perfection - from wide-ranging histories of the countries covered down to miniscule details of where to find a vegetarian restaurant or a laundrette in the smallest backwater town.

Although Mrs Wife and I will only be visiting Shanghai, the book I have covers the whole of China, and I can quite imagine that I'll read the whole thing before we head eastwards.

Opening the book at random places, I find ideas for entertainment in Hong Kong's Kowloon area, details on bike tours of Hangzhou and a recommendation to visit the West Street Bar in Suzhou, which is described as a "three storey bar crammed full of Chinese and European antiques. With its homey ambience, eclectic crowd and friendly management, it's a great place to relax with a beer".

Will I ever enjoy a bike ride around Hangzhou or a beer in Suzhou? Probably not. But just reading about them is almost enough to make me jack in my job and head off eastwards in search of adventure, becoming a perennial traveller.

Almost....

Nuts

The picture above reminds me of a story a friend told me a few years back.

A guy in his 40s, who had been divorced for a while and hadn't enjoyed female company since, set off to Amsterdam on a stag weekend with a group of friends.

Feeling sorry for the guy, his friends told him that they had decided to club together and buy him a night of passion with one of Amsterdam's hookers. The only condition was that, as he got down to business, he called one of their mobile phones so that they could listen in on the action.

(Strange friends....)

The guy agreed and his mates set up the encounter as promised. And, also as promised, he dialled one of their mobile phones as he reached the business end of the evening.

All progressed as you would expect for a number of minutes, until shouting could be heard on the other end of the line.

For this portion of the tale, do your best to imagine a broad Fife accent shouting at the top of its voice: "Fucking poof. Get oot ma room ye fucking poof. Get oot or I'll batter ye."

For those who haven't yet guessed, the guy's 'friends' had clubbed together and hired a very convincing transsexual prostitute, and were at that point wetting themselves in uncontrollable laughter .

The moral of the story?

Your friends are probably a shower of bastards.

Heading For China

I've seen a fair bit of this wee planet in my near 28 years wandering about its surface, but at the end of this month I'll be able to add another entry to the list of countries I've visited.

Bouyed by a couple of recent bonuses at work, Mrs Wife and I will be heading off to China for the last two weeks in May, to spend time with an old friend in Shanghai.

Back in the days when Mrs Wife was known as Miss Girlfriend, we set off on a year-long jaunt around the globe, a trip that included visits to several of the countries in Southeast Asis. Unfortunately, financial and time constraints meant it wasn't possible to take in China or Japan, and I've been keen ever since to visit both.

It seems the planets have aligned in our favour this time, as never before have we had the financial wherewithal to visit China at a time when we've got a ready-made tour guide willing to offer accommodation into the deal.

In my western mind, it seems strange to contemplate visiting China without heading to the Great Wall, the Terracotta Army or Hong Kong, but the distances to be covered would make such trips unfeasible given that we have only two weeks in China. Therefore, we are effectively heading to China blind, with no idea of what we will see or do once we arrive.

Our friend, who we met on our round-the-world adventure almost five years ago, has already begun working on an itinerary, so we may soon have a fair idea of what awaits us in a city that I have heard is amongst the most fascinating in the world. That Mrs Wife celebrates her birthday and we celebrate our wedding anniversary whilst there will simply add to the festivities.

So, does anyone fancy a blogmeet in Shanghai sometime in late May?

Deck The Halls.....Oops, Wrong Holiday

It's that time of year when everyone's talking denial, betrayal, wooden crosses and resurrection.

So, to make sure I book my place right beside the fire at the end of days, here's something I found at Popped Culture via Alastair's Heart Monitor:

Colds, classic albums and The Fab Four

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

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

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

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

Bliss.

Karma

Spend two hours sitting in a freezing shed during a North Sea gale watching Montrose annihilate Forfar.....

.....and the next day, you will be full of the cold. Trust me.

Holiday? What Holiday?

It seems that Aberdeen is the most heathen city in Scotland, if not the world.

Whilst everyone else in this rainy corner of the world gets an extra two days off this weekend to celebrate the death of a bearded magician 2,000-odd years ago, Aberdeen is a rule unto itself.

No Easter holiday for the Granite City. No siree. Everyone is expected to be present and correct (or at the very least, present) on both Good Friday and Easter Monday.

Shame on you Aberdeen Public Holiday Deciders. What the hell (pardon the seasonal blasphemy) is the reason for Aberdeen's non-participation in the holiday?

Why is my company's Norwegian office closed for A WHOLE WEEK, when we poor Scots are subject to normal days of office-bound tedium?

It may be fair comment that, in the absence of Jocklings with whom to roll Easter eggs, I'd probably only spend a long weekend eating chocolate versions of the same and hot cross buns, and watching whatever Disney movie is foisted upon us.

But that's beside the point. I would be very grateful, oh Aberdeen Public Holiday Deciders, if, in your infinite wisdom, you could make some attempt to align the holidays in this grey and cold city with those elsewhere in the country - even 40 miles south, where Mrs Wife is afforded the normal holidays as celebrated by EVERY OTHER PART OF THE UK.

Carnage and Cup Finals

Apologies to you all for my shameful lack of recent blogging, but the past week has been fairly busy.

Besides my move from car-bound commuter drone to train-bound commuter drone, I've also attended a working lunch on the fledgling oil industry in Ghana, which was as thrilling as it sounds, and been on a stag weekend in Inverness, a gathering that has left me exhausted.

The look of dismay from the passengers on the train when 30 young men got on, one of them dressed as Superman with a bottle of Lambrini attached to his hand with duct tape, was priceless. There can be no better guarantee that your hopes of a quiet and relaxing train journey from Glasgow to Inverness have been ruined than when a stag party sits down and begins to work its way through countless crates of Stella at 10am.

Our weekend in the Highland capital also included the Inverness Caledonian Thistle v Falkirk football match, which I can safely say is the worst I've seen in many years. That the players on show at the match are amongst the highest-paid in the country is nothing short of scandalous.

Aside from the football, I am legally barred from reporting any other details of the weekend away, as it is common knowledge that what happens on the stag stays on the stag.

My journey home unfortunately clashed with the Rangers v Dundee Utd match, so I was unable to witness the Famous Glasgow Rangers win the first major silverware of the season and continue their push for an historic quadruple. But by all accounts, they were lucky.

Still, better to be a lucky winner than an unlucky loser.

Leona

Harsh, but I couldn't resist it - this is Leona from Aberdeen's personal dating advert. See if you can guess what unfortunate affliction she suffers from:



It's a real shame - she genuinely seems like a nice lassie.

Sleep No More

The end of this week also marks the end of my days amongst the poor car-bound souls making their way slowly into Aberdeen each morning of the working week.

With my employer all set to move to a new city centre office in June, the time has come for me to sell Jagger, my trusty automobile companion, and join the ranks of those taking Virgin's red and silver train into the city instead.

Some of you may wonder why my car is named Jagger. Jagger follows on from Jimi, the first car I used for travelling to work in Aberdeen back in 2003, back when I worked for A Major Engineering Company.

Jimi, a small Rover Metro with two doors and four gears, was an idiosyncratic little beast, prone to bouts of unusual behaviour and erratic performances. Sadly, Jimi is no longer with us, gone to the great garage in the sky.

In comparison, Jagger is a more reliable but slightly less exciting individual, albeit worth a lot more than Jimi.

Anyway, names for cars aside, Thursday will see me sell Jagger to a new owner and invest a substantial portion of my annual salary in a year-long rail pass.

Unfortunately, what this also means is that lie-ins, even for five minutes, will be out of the window. If I'm driving to work and I sleep in, I can make up the lost time on the dual carriageway. But if I sleep in once I've become a proper commuter, the snooze button won't be a viable option.

There may be trouble ahead.

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!