Chee-ree-oh, We're Off To China

The next time you hear from me, I'll either be in China or back from China.

Be nice to the guest posters.

If anyone needs us, we'll be with Paul Langmead.

Getting Ready

I'm tired, thanks to getting home late last night after playing in the Aberdeen Oil League then watching the UEFA Cup Final.

I couldn't possibly pass on mentioning the Rangers match, disappointing though the result was.

But if anyone had told me at the start of the season that Rangers would play in a European final within the next year, I would have thought them insane.

The better team won last night, but Rangers played to their strengths, defending (fairly) solidly and looking to catch Zenit on the break.

And in the second half, just as it looked as though Rangers might take the lead through their continued pressure, Zenit scored, and the match was over.

So yes, I'm disappointed, but extremely proud of the club for having made it to Manchester in the first place. Now we can turn our attentions to the league....

The next few days are likely to be spent in a blur as I attempt to get all my shit together before flying off to China. But even before then, I'm going to be a busy boy. Tonight, Dungroanin' will be graced by Eric, my Blogfather and everyone's favourite Heterosexual Caucasian Male, and his wife Fiona, who are in these frozen northern climes for a holiday.

So we'll catch up, set the world to rights and share a drink or two, safe in the knowledge that neither of us has to work the next day.

Friday will be spent packing and preparing everything for departure to Shanghai, including delivering Mrs Wife's rabbits, Pepper and Dylan, to a rabbit boarding establishment. Yep, such a thing exists.

That will be followed by the Dirty Pretty Things concert in Dundee, which should be pretty darn good, what with DPT being a Libertines/Cooper Temple Clause indie supergroup. Which will, in turn, be followed by a night in a hotel at Glasgow airport before we jet off.

I'm not sure whether I'll be able to blog while I'm away, so I've arranged for a few kind souls to drop by and keep both my readers amused in the interim. And they're likely to be so good that my presence here will no longer be required.

For Sale

I received this by email today (click each picture to make it bigger):

Another Sports Day

Writing about sports day yesterday got me thinking again about the sports days I took part in as a boy.

As I mentioned previously, I was, for a few of my years, a half-decent sprinter, winning the McGregor Cup as Senior Boys' 100m champion in both of my final two years at school.

Unfortunately, this success didn't translate to other events, and I was never crowned overall champion, although Baby Brother achieved that feat a few years later.

My inability to convert my sprinting prowess to other events reached its peak when I was around 14. At the end of each school sports day, the final event was always the boys' open 1500m race, an event in which every boy in the school was entitled to compete, regardless of age.

Entering the event as a fresh-faced 14-year-old, I had no grasp of the concept of pacing myself. If I did something, I did it flat out, as befitted a sprinter.

Lining up alongside my fellow male pupils, I was one of the younger runners. But, as the gun signalled the start of the race, I flew out in front of the pack, determined to rattle around the track as quickly as possible.

For the watching crowd, comprising every other pupil in the school, all of the teachers and a few bored parents, it must have been some sight. By the end of the first lap, I was 200 metres in front of my nearest challenger, a senior pupil four years older and considerably fitter than I was.

As I crossed the line at the end of the first of my three laps, I received some sterling advice from those congregated at the line:

"Slow down!"

"You're running too fast!"

"Move into the inside lane!"

True enough, by the midway point of the second lap, my lungs and legs were burning, and the runners behind me were closing in fast. By the end of that lap I was second.

Midway through the third lap, I thought I was going to die, my legs barely willing to carry me any further, my heart dancing to its own private hardcore rave compilation and my lungs wondering what they'd done to deserve the punishment I was inflicting upon them.

Finally, desperately, I stumbled over the finish line in seventh place, staggered to a nearby grassy bank and collapsed.

The world was spinning and I could see spots flashing wildly in front of my eyes. It took me a good 10 minutes to summon the energy to stand up.

The lesson I've learned from that race?

If nature had intended me to travel 1500 metres in one go, he'd have given me wheels instead of legs.

Childhood Memories

Whoever it was that arrived here earlier today having searched for "Disney thong" - that's just wrong.

Sports Day

Today, as I made my way to the train station, there was a chill in the air, but it was a chill that suggested that another day of warm sunshine beckoned.

Mornings like that, when the smell of cut grass hangs in air alongside the morning mist, always remind of sports day at high school.

I'm not sure if this situation was replicated at other schools, but at the high school I attended, there were two sports days - an individual sports day and a team sports day.

At the first, the individual sports day, each competitor was out for personal glory, taking part in as many events as he or she saw fit, the person with the most points at the end of the day winning the individual sports trophy for that year.

A week later, the official school sports took place, with the school's three houses competing against each other for the collective bragging rights. And the events couldn't be rigged - no single competitor was allowed to compete in more than two individual events plus the relay race.

In those days, I was a fairly formidable sprinter, at least within the context of our school. And from first year onwards, it became apparent that taking part in the individual sports day was a great way of missing a day's lessons.

I competed every year from first until sixth year, even in the years when Standard Grades and Highers were doing their damndest to suck the will to live from all who cowered in their shadows.

It was a fairly easy decision - a day in a stuffy classroom with algebra, iambic pentameter and the farming habits of Amazon indians, or a day spent running around in the sun.

Those who participated in the individual sports day fell broadly into three camps:

A) The Competitors. These were the individuals who saw, in sports day, a chance to bag some glory through lifting a silver trophy at that year's prize-giving ceremony, their parents beaming happily from the audience. Their ambition would know no bounds - warm-up exercises, knee braces and isotonic sports drinks were all employed as they attempted to get their grubby paws on a trophy.

B) The Skivers: These people were at sports day simply as a way of avoiding the book-based horror within the school's walls. What they lacked in physical prowess and athletic endeavour, they made up for in journies to the sweetie machines or escape bids to smoke a fly fag around the back of the science block.

C) The Complete Bampots: Even at the age of 13, there are some people you can pick out as being a bit special. They may not have a brain cell to call their own, but when they're 6'2" of rippling muscle before most of their classmates' balls have dropped, you know it's best not to point out their shortcomings.

I was somewhere between groups A and B: I turned up half expecting to do well, then remembered that I can't run for more than 200 metres without coughing up semi-vital internal organs.

But, from the age of about 15, I was almost unbeatable over 100m, when limiting the competition solely to other pupils at my school. I say almost, because there is always one....

....Jimmy (I've changed his name to avoid any future repercussions) was a machine. He didn't so much fit into group C as define it. There are people you describe as solid who don't deserve the accolade. Jimmy wasn't one of them.

I'd encountered him on a running track once before, during a relay race. My team was doing well, and I was leading from the front on the final leg.

Then I heard Jimmy.

That's right, I heard him coming.

Snorting like a charging bull, he was closing the gap on me, his arms and legs seemingly replaced by steam engine pistons.

And, in a blur of thunderous gristle, he was past me and through the line.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Jimmy, not renowned for his ability to work with calculus, is now in the army. Never mind tanks and guns - just set Jimmy at those Iraqi insurgents. He'll take down the whole of Basra in a day.

Bedtime

It's 2am, and I should really be in bed.

No doubt Mrs Wife has a fun-filled day planned for me tomorrow, what with it being our last weekend at home until the end of May.

I expect that tomorrow's (today's) chores will include cutting the grass, which is a pain in the hole at the best of times but is an especially annoying pain of the whole when it clashes with watching Soccer AM or listening to Rangers v Dundee Utd on the wireless.

(As an aside, my Granny always called the radio the wireless, even though it was always plugged in. Even as a wee boy, that struck me as strange. She also referred to the black stuff on roads as Tarmacadam, which, while it is the correct term, hasn't been used by anyone else since the stuff was invented.)

It seems strange to think that in a week's time, Mrs Wife and I will be en route from Dundee to Glasgow, having just seen Dirty Pretty Things at Fat Sams, and that 24 hours later will be winging our way to Shanghai via Amsterdam.

The extent of my preparation so far has been to pile four new shirts on the spare bed, buy a travel pillow and the Lonely Planet China book and try to find out where in Shanghai I can buy cheap electrical goods and hooky DVDs.

I should really be preparing now, but I'm too busy flicking randomly and distractedly through the hundreds of channels on Sky.

And halfheartedly praying for rain so that I don't have to cut the grass.

The Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge

Due to the recent death of the Magic Tune Box, the Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge will, unfortunately, have to be temporarily suspended. The results of the tenth challenge are now in the comments on that post. Oestre Bunny was this week's winner, correctly identifying two tracks.

RIP MTB

Every day, I'm accompanied almost wherever I go by the Magic Tune Box, an incredible device bearing within its dainty frame 15,000 songs.

At least I was until yesterday.

Whilst transferring new music onto the Magic Tune Box, its battery died. "Nobig deal," I thought, "I'll just plug it in."

Except, when I did, it started rebuilding its internal library. And when it had completed that task, it had miraculously lost 2,500 tracks. Not whole albums, not tracks in any logical order. Just 2,500 random tracks.

Despite this sudden removal of 20 per cent of its total of its contents, this incredible piece of technology had decided not to free up the disk space previously allocated to the tracks. So I'm left with a machine missing key tracks from most albums, its memory full and no way of resetting.

So, as a permanent solution, I'm going to sell my soul and jump on the IPod band wagon (10 years too late). I've decided to invest in a 160GB IPod Classic, which I'm hoping to pick up fairly cheap in China next week.

(Doesn't that last sentence make me sound like a real global traveller. Worse still, at one point in the past day, I uttered the phrase "Maybe Ican fit it in between Shanghai and Stavanger." Which probably just makes me sound like a wanker.)

Anyway, RIP Magic Tune Box. It's been a pleasure.

A True Story

As Mrs Wife will happily tell almost anyone, I frequently talk and wander about in my sleep.

Usually, or so I am told, these midnight disturbances are no more than a few muttered words before I turn over and fall back into a snore-filled slumber.

But occasionally, and usually when I am especially tired, I have been known to set off on mini expeditions, to engage Mrs Wife in lurid conversations or to imagine that I am in an unusual place or that there are unusual things in the bedroom.

For example, I once sat bolt upright in bed and informed Mrs Wife (then known as Miss Girlfriend) that there was a mouse in the room. Having delivered this unwelcome piece of news in a darkened room at 1am, I promptly lay back down and fell back into a deep sleep. From the report Mrs Wife gave me the next morning, it seems she was unable to do likewise for quite some time.

This animal fascination has reared its head again recently, as I now frequently wake in the middle of the night under the impression that Mrs Wife's rabbits, Dylan and Pepper, are scampering about in our bedroom.

At least this nocturnal intermission is based somewhat on facts - Dylan escaped from his cage a couple of weeks ago and feasted merrily on the tangle of wires and cables that lives behind our television. He was not a popular critter the morning that his handiwork was discovered.

But my finest hour in the exciting world of sleepwalking occurred while I was at university in 2002.

Myself and four others shared a five-bedroom flat on Edinburgh's Morningside Road, in a block in which the same person owned the two flats directly across the landing from each other. When we had been in our new home for several months, the owner announced that he would be refurbishing both, and that we would have to move across the hall for a few weeks while work took place in our flat.

For a week or so at the end of the renovations, we retained keys for both properties while we moved back into our own residence. And it is at this point that our story takes place.

After a night out in Edinburgh, I returned to the original flat and headed to bed.

Several hours later, I stirred, and found that I was feeling unusually cold. Opening my eyes, I discovered that I was in the bedroom in the other flat that I had lived in briefly during the renovations. I was lying on top of the brand new mattress on the brand new bed in that room, wrapped only in a plastic protective cover from the mattress and wearing only a pair of boxer shorts.

With my confusion rapidly accelerating, I investigated further. I found that I was, not surprisingly, in the flat on my own, but that more surprisingly, all of the lights were on.

And so, having switched all the lights off, I shut the door behind me and padded across the cold hallway to our own flat. Where I found that the door was locked.

Unfortunately, I had also shut the door behind me as I left flat number two, locking me out of both properties.

I was cold. I was tired. I was confused. I was drunk.

And so, I took the only action left open to me and started banging furiously on the door to the flat, knowing that my four flatmates were inside.

Thankfully, I managed to wake one of my sleeping flatmates before any of the neighbours could call the police.

Bleary-eyed and, like me, wearing only boxers, my friend opened the door and stared in wonder at this vision before him.

"Mate, what are you doing?" he asked.

"I have no idea," was all I could say in response, "I'm going to bed."

And I did.

The next morning, I awoke with a pounding headache. Turning over, I could hear the sound of conversation coming from the sitting room.

"WHAT?!"

"Aye, standing on the doorstep waering just a pair of boxers!"

Not wishing to disappoint my audience, I ventured into the sitting room, where I was greeted with applause, laughter and a barrage of questions.

None of which I have ever been able to answer.

Happy Holidays

Having never enjoyed the benefits of Bank Holidays off work when with my previous employer, I'm always very appreciative when I get a Monday off with the rest of the working world.

That's especially true when it seems that summer has arrived, as was the case today with barely a cloud in the sky. And so, armed with the Magic Tune Box loaded with the newly-acquired albums by Portishead and The Courteeners, Alexander McCall Smith's fourth No.1 Ladies Detective Agency book and a drink, I spent most of the afternoon baking in the May sunshine.

As a result, my arms are now a lurid lobster pink - which is a progression from corned beef grey, the standard hue of the Scotsman on his own soil.

But now the haar is rolling in and the working week is lumbering in to view. And my arms are stinging a bit.

Still, it was good while it lasted.

Through We Go

Bouncy Bouncy Bouncy Bouncy Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah

DANCER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MANCHESTER HERE WE COME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THE QUADRUPLE IS ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Football First

I've been a bad blogger over the past few days, but the world of football waits for no man or website.

My prediction skills are obviously abysmal, as not only did we not get right royally humped by the hard-training five-a-side team on Tuesday, but we actually beat them, yours truly netting a hat-trick in a 6-3 win that puts us joint top of the league.

That was followed last night by the first leg of the Scottish League Second Division Play-off between Montrose and Stranraer that ended in a 1-1 draw. Montrose should really have won, but scandalous refereeing cost Montrose a victory, and not for the first time this season. Still, there's a second leg, so there's still a chance, even if the Links Park side will be without their now suspended top goalscorer John Baird.

And now it's Fiorentina v Rangers as the Gers attempt to reach a European final for the first time in my lifetime. Expect no further communication this evening.

Velociman

This is the funniest thing I've read in ages.

Train In Vain

It's been a few months since I donned my electric blue football boots for competitive action, but I'll be lacing them up tonight as I return from injury and can't-be-arsedness to face a team that has only recently joined the league in which my company plays.

Usually, you would expect a new arrival to a league to be cannon-fodder, taking a few good hidings as they adjust to the style of play required to win in the competition.

But not this team. In fact, in all my years involved in football, I've never heard of a team taking a five-a-side works league so seriously.

This team sends scouts to all the other matches in the league. Each night, as the other teams battle it out for the three points, a neutral observer will be standing at the side of the pitch, taking mental notes on future opponents.

It is rumoured that this side also has regular training sessions for its 15-man squad. That's a 15-man squad for five-a-sides. What these training sessions involve, I don't know, but it's enough to mark them out as unusual in the less than professional world of Aberdeen fives.

My training regime involves walking to work and a more leisurely kick-around on Friday afternoons. The prospect of being forced to subject myself to proper training would be enough to put me off. Unless a ball is involved or I'm competing in a sport, I've got little time, patience or enthusiasm for exercise.

I readily expect to get a physical and footballing hiding tonight.

The Campest Old Firm Picture of All Time

The Tenth Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge

Only one of the tracks in the Ninth Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge was correctly spotted, Mike from Auld Reekie Rants spotting Mystery Train by Elvis Presley (which Rab pointed out was actually a Little Junior Parker song).

Answers to the ninth challenge are now in the comments on that post.

Here are this week's mystery lyrics. To play, simply identify the songs from the lines given. No Googling.

1: No one else gets high, and I can't sleep cause I got nothing.

2: Oh come all you young fellers so young and so fine, seek not your fortune in a dark dreary mine.

3: I don't believe in everything I see, y'know I'm blind so why d'you disagree?

4: You're workin in bars, ridin in cars, never gonna give it for free.

5: Now courage my boy when they look you in the eye, try not to look too scummy.

One Love

The Stone Roses' video for One Love - because sometimes you just need the coolest-looking band since the 60s* playing in a room full of fire.

* Please ignore Mani's ponytail.

(I would have embeded this video on the page, but it's blocked - thanks Sony/BMG.)

Don't Panic

What's the easiest way to kick-start a period of mass hysteria in the general public?

At the moment, it seems as though all it takes is for some high heid yin to say "Don't Panic".

I ambled along to the local BP garage a few minutes ago to pick up some lunch, and it seems that the world has gone mad. Despite warnings in the media that panic buying of fuel will merely hasten an avoidable crisis, cars were queuing out onto the road in the mad melee to purchase petrol.

The diesel pumps at this garage have already run dry, and it seems that the staff don't know when they will next be refilled.

I'm now wondering if this phenomenon applies only to fuel, or to other consumables? If someone somewhere announced tomorrow that there would be a shortage of milk within the next week, would people start panic-buying cow juice? Could we expect a sudden run on coffee if Colombia and Kenya announced they weren't going to ship any more?

The answer to both of those is probably yes. But what if we were instead told that the world supply of Angel Delight was starting to run short - would Asda and Tesco be stowed out with scrums of consumers fighting over packets of butterscotch and strawberry flavoured stoor?

Or if the suppliers of pickled eggs stopped pickling eggs, would there be sudden stockpiling of these precious resources in kitchen cupboards around the country?

Sounds like a good experiment to me.

Can You Spare A Minute?

Thankfully, strangers don't often stop me in the street.

Even the charity muggers attempting to part passers-by from their hard-earned cash don't often ask me if I can spare five minutes of my time to help save starving orphaned disabled endangered mice in famine-stricken Bosnia.

Maybe I don't look like I have the money to spare. For work, I wear a cheap Tesco suit, and my shoes have seen better days, thanks in no small part to my daily walk to the train, which involves walking over wet and muddy grass. Actually, my journey doesn't necessarily have to take me along such a route, as there's a perfectly dry concrete pavement on the other side of the road.

But using that pavement would mean my walk to the train would take a minute or two longer each morning. And I'm lazy.

Or maybe the charity muggers avoid me because I tend not to be smiling when I'm pounding the streets of Aberdeen, and my blank face/scowl acts as a deterrent. Or maybe I walk so fast that I seem uninterruptably busy, and the charity mugger decides that I'm unlikely to break my journey to help the starving orphaned mice of Bosnia.

But sometimes, very rarely, I'll arrive on the same part of the planet as some life form that decides I'm worthy of engaging in conversation.

Last Friday, for example, while waiting to be served in an Aberdeen city centre hostelry, a young man who had, I guess, partaken of a refreshment or two, decided to tell me all about his Argentinian mum. I'm not entirely sure why he picked me to be the receiver of such wisdom, nor why he picked that specific topic of conversation. But I can now tell anyone who's interested about the young man's mum's fascination and fervent support for Boca Juniors.

Perhaps the strangest occasion I was accosted by one of these curious souls was in Australia in 2004. Mrs Wife (then known as Miss Girlfriend) and I were at Cape Leeuwin lighthouse in Western Australia, the point at which the Indian and Southern Oceans meet. It was a cold and windy day, and it was bitterly apparent that the wind hailed from the next landmass south of this point, Antarctica.

Having risked being blown south to meet the penguins by climbing the lighthouse, Mrs Wife and I were taking a few photographs and ambling around at ground level, when a young couple came bounding up to us.

The female had an excited look on her face, and she could barely contain this excitement as she engaged us in conversation with the unforgettable opening gambit of: "Oh my god, are you two twins? You look so alike!"

Despite our obvious bemusement, it felt almost cruel to explain to this flustered young creature that, no, we weren't related, and that our relationship was on a slightly different tangent to the one she had imagined.

Nutters - wouldn't want to live with them, but the world would be a darker place without them.

Substance Over Style

How is it possible that Liverpool and Chelsea have spent the millions they have and still produce tedious defensive football?

I'm currently watching the first leg of the Champions League Semi-Final from Anfield, and what comes across so far is just how dull the sides are.

The money that Chelsea have been pouring out almost non-stop since 2003 should have bought them the most exciting team on the planet, playing with flair, expression and crackling electricity. Instead we get a team determined not to lose, where defensive solidity is valued over attacking flair.

Liverpool are nearly as bad, except Rafa Benitez has thrown good money after bad, investing in dross like Dirk Kuyt, Jermaine Pennant and Peter Crouch.

As a footballing purist who loves to see the game played on the ground with quick, attack-minded players sparying the ball around with inch-perfect passes, I'm hoping that the winner of the Manchester United v Barcelona triumphs in next month's final.

Plus Points

At the moment, I'm more excited than I really should be at the prospect of Dungroanin' being visited by a man in overalls.

Today is the day, after several months of waiting, that the world of televisual pleasure afforded to myself and Mrs Wife in the homestead enters a new world.

At some point in the next four hours, a Sky engineer will arrive to upgrade our equipment from bog-standard Sky to Sky+. And, as I've already said, I'm more excited than I really should be at the prospect of this development.

In truth, the only real differences will be the possibility of reocrding whole series of shows at the touch of a single button, instead of manually setting the hard drive recorder for every individual episode, and the fact that Sky+ broadcasts in surround sound where available.

But, in my day-to-day life, these count as exciting developments, so I spent an hour last night disconnecting everything in preparation for the Man From Sky's arrival. Which means I'm now sitting here patiently, waiting for the man in the leopard print van to arrive with a brand new Box of Tricks.

I need to get out more.

The Ninth Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge

Answers to The Eighth Groanin' Jock Lyrical Challenge are now in the comments on that post. We had a three-way tie for winners this time around, Old Man, Ali and OestreBunny all correctly identifying one song apiece (actually, OestreBunny spotted two, but one was already picked out by Ali).

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

1: Bring you a tale from the pastel fields where we ran when we were young.

2: Honey you are a rock upon which I stand, And I come here to talk, I hope you understand.

3: Train I ride, sixteen coaches long.

4: Here comes that panic attack, my heart stops... and then it starts.

5: If you smile then that should set the tone, just be limber.

Only In Japan

Thanks to Baby Brother for emailing this to me

Spam, Spam, Glorious Spam

Is your email inbox swamped beneath a daily deluge of spam?

Mine is and has been ever since I first arrived on the worldwide interweb. If I'd taken up all the offers that have been emailed to me over the years, I'd have a seven-mile penis, thousands of college degrees and would be a multi-millionaire thanks to countless exciting business deals with former African presidents whom I've never met.

But instead of deleting this unwanted electronic detritus, I could be turning it into art just like özi's comix studio, which I found today via Neatorama.

No Capital Punishment

The sun was splitting the sky in Edinburgh this afternoon, and it was a good day to be on holiday in our nation's fair capital.

My journey was one of necessity, as I needed to collect my own and Mrs Wife's passports from the Chinese Consulate. An early start meant that I arrived as the mid morning sun was starting to warm up, and my business with the Chinese was concluded in only a few short minutes.

Which meant that the day was at my disposal. When left unattended in cities, I tend to migrate towards shops selling cheap CDs, DVDs, books and clothes. And so it proved today.

In a day of pounding the streets, I managed to pick up Anchorman (which I've never seen), Mallrats and Super Furry Animals' Phantom Power on DVD, as well as Radiohead's Com Lag and We Are Scientists' Crap Attack on CD.

The latter purchase was made less than 24 hours after seeing We Are Scientists perform a fantastic gig at Aberdeen Music Hall. Though their recently-released second album lacks the punch and catchy tunes of their debut, the WAS set was fantastic from beginning to end. Unfortunately, it was preceded by two chronically abysmal support bands and a cack-handed roadie struggling to tune the instruments, but all that was forgotten once WAS had hit their stride.

But I digress. In Edinburgh today, I also managed to pick up The Broons and Oor Wullie 1946-1956: The Golden Years and Hearts - The Diary of An Incredible Season. I'm especially looking forward to reading the latter title, as it was written by Mike Smith, a recent visitor to this far-flung outpost of the worldwide interweb and himself a fellow denizen of the blogosphere.

The drive home took place in glorious sunshine, and even the slow-moving traffic between Edinburgh and the Forth Bridge, and in Dundee, wasn't enough to dampen the spirits.

Roll on work and a chance to mock some Aberdeen fans tomorrow.

Don and Out

Sometimes, being a football fan is a spectacularly unrewarding experience.

But there are days when all the years of dull as Dido nil-nil draws and all the hours spent shivering in Scotland's concrete stands seems worth it. Today was one of those days.

As a Rangers fan working in an Aberdeen office full of Dons fans, the opportunity to engage in football-related banter presents itself regularly. The joy I took in watching the Pittodrie side lose to lowly Queen of the South in today's Scottish Cup semi-final could only have been greater if it had been Celtic on the receiving end of the embarrasing footballing lesson.

Four times Aberdeen fell behind and three times they equalised. Each time they scored, I was convinced that the Doonhammers' dream was over. But Aberdeen's ineptness was exceeded only by Queens' determination to win.

It's almost enough to make me wish I wasn't on holiday on Monday.

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.