A Grand Day Out

In the continuing series entitled "What Groanin' Jock Did On Holiday", I will now recount the day Mrs Wife and I (accompanied by some close friends) spent at the Grand National, the highlight of the British steeplechase calendar.

In truth, none of us is a horse racing fan. In fact, none of us had ever been to the races before.

But when we were mulling over ideas for a weekend away, Mrs Wife and her friend reminded us that they had originally considered attending the National in 2006 for Mrs Wife's hen party (Mrs Wife was then known as Miss Fiancee).

So, leaving all of the arrangements to Mrs Wife, I agreed to go to the races for the first time.

I'd never been to Liverpool until last week, so the train journey south into the land of Morris Dancing, clotted cream and Premiership football was a journey of discovery in itself. Passing through towns and cities including Preston, Wigan and Warrington reminded me of how heavily populated England is in comparison to Scotland, and how much the north of England's history is tied to its industrial past - every town we passed through had a huge mill or factory dominating the horizon, although many of them have now been closed or are awaiting demolition.

As I mentioned in previous posts, the weather last week was stunning - unseasonably warm for April. (As my birthday falls at the end of the first week of April, I can generally remember the weather around that time - it was snowing in Dublin as I turned 19, this year it was scorching in Liverpool).

It seems, at first glance, that there isn't much to see in Liverpool itself - a couple of cathedrals, the Liver Building and the Albert Docks were about the extent of it. But we made the most of the chance to explore the area around our hotel on the night before the big race. The city centre was teeming with well-dresses ladies (in their own heads at least) and gentlemen, as the Aintree Ladies' Day takes place on the Friday before the Grand National. The extravagant costumes put Mrs Wife and her friend in a state of some alarm....

But come Grand National day itself, all was well. The trains from Liverpool Central to Aintree were jam packed, but everyone was in good spirits. There was a buzz all around the race course, as racegoers enjoyed the sun and prepared to lose their money betting on the favourites.

Between us, our four-strong party wagered almost 100 pounds on the main event - not one of us picked up a single penny at the end. Thinking I was playing it safe, I put each way bets on the winners from the previous two Grand Nationals - although both finished, they failed to make the first four.

This failure was compounded when Mither sent me a text message to say that she had backed the winner at odds of 33-1 - because she liked the jockey's silks.....

But even parting with cash couldn't put a dampner on an otherwise excellent day. We enjoyed an excellent dinner at a city centre pub before heading to Matthew Street, epicentre of Liverpool's Cavern Quarter and home to its most popular pubs and clubs.

Well Well Well

As the sun was beating down last Wednesday and Mrs Wife's parents were visiting Dungroanin' for the first time, it seemed like a good idea to take a walk up Glenesk to the Queen's Well.

It was a wonderful drive up the Glen, where my family lived for five of my teenage years, with the unseasonably warm sunshine allowing the scenery to look its best.

Upon arrival at Invermark, at the top of Glenesk, we decided to head straight for the Queen's Well, which is roughly 2.5 miles from the car park.

The only problem was that I was a tad hazy on the direction to take, as I hadn't visited the well since I was at primary school, and that wasn't yesterday.

So, our little party, accompanied by the in-laws' Scotty dog Islay, set out past Invermark Castle. Which, after five minutes of walking, I was fairly sure was the wrong path. Nevertheless, we kept on going, eventually arriving at the head of Loch Lee with its now dilapidated cemetery.

Having caught our breath and taken in the view, we returned to Invermark, having taken around an hour for the round trip.

Then, having found the correct path towards the Queen's Well, we set off again.

They say that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun - well, we're all Scottish, but we certainly felt the heat as we continued ever onwards towards the Queen's Well - never quite sure that we were on the right road this second time around, as you can't see the well until you are less than half a mile from it.

But eventually, hot and weary, we reached our goal. The Queen's Well was built to commemorate a visit by Queen Victoria in 1861, the year of Prince Albert's death. Apparently the Queen stopped at the well for a drink, which she reportedly found "most refreshing", and a 6m high stone crown was erected in her honour.

So, after spending about 10 minutes taking photos of the well, we headed back to the car, having hiked 7 miles in the baking heat.

Which I think more than compensates for the fact that I didn't play football at all last week.

As you can see from the photograph on the right, neither me nor Mrs Wife died during the lengthy walk - in fact, I would say that we look quite perky for having undertaken such a lengthy walk in the sun.

Islay struggled a bit more though - it must be tough being a foot high and having a thick black coat in that heat.

Acting The Goat

Courtesy of a work colleague and the BBC, a heartwarming tale of romance in Africa.

I heard a story a few years back about a train full of passengers travelling through a London suburb.

Apparently the train normally went rattling through this suburb really fast, but delays on the line meant that it was barely moving one day. All of the passengers on one side of the train who happened to look out the window were "treated" to the sight of a man, trousers and boxers around his ankles, enjoying the company of his pet goat on his allotment.

It seems that local police received around 20 calls from disturbed passengers reporting the man's activity.

I don't know, you head down to your allotment for a bit of peace and quiet and a quick fumble with your goat, and a trainload of strangers report you to the police. What's the world coming to?

I'm Still Alive

I'm back folks.

As I mentioned in the previous post, I've been on holiday since Good Friday, a week that coincided with an early summer in Montrose.

The weather has been gorgeous, and Mrs Wife, her parents and I took the opportunity to take a walk up Glenesk in the glorious sunshine.

And then Mrs Wife and I headed to Liverpool for a weekend that included attending the Grand National and Everton's clash with Charlton Athletic.

I'll post properly on all of these activities as soon as I get a chance, but at the moment I'm back at work and staring at an inbox of 250 emails.

Hey, it's good to be back....

Lawnmower Man

Jim, the all-seeing individual in charge of the universe, is smiling on me this week.

Mrs Wife and I have been on holiday since Good Friday, and the sun has been beating down ever since.

Ideally, this would mean spending a whole week relaxing in my new hammock in my new garden, but things don't always work out in an ideal fashion.

Firstly, I HAVE a garden, which has vast lawns at front and rear. And this means that I have an atomic shedload of grass to cut.

So, at the helm of a bright orange device that looks more like a floor buffer than a blade-spinning destroyer of weeds and Mrs Wife's flowers, I began battle with the grounds of Dungroanin' first thing this morning.

And it's pretty hard going. But although I expected to resent the activity and the drain on my precious holiday hours, it was actually almost enjoyable. There's something almost therapeutic about going head-to-head with nature in the glorious spring sunshine.

Of course, I looked cool whilst engaged in this tidying up of the ranch - the Magic Tune Box pumped the sexy soul of Amy Winehouse into my lugs as I worked, and my new wraparound shades protected my peepers from the sunshine and the flying dandelion heads.

And now Dungroanin' is ready for a visit from the Inlaws. Luckily, Mrs Wife's parents will get their first look at Chateau Jock in glorious sunshine and with the garden looking as good as is ever likely.

But, if future battles of the lawn are to be tackled in the appropriate fashion, I'm going to need to invest in some serious military hardware. So I think I'll take some advice from Eric.

Birthday Boy

Seems I'm just a big kid in everyone else's eyes - for my birthday I received two He Man and The Masters of The Universe boxed sets, PlayStation games and Easter eggs.

Not that I'm complaining, just saying.....

The Big Pay-Off

Right folks, here's the deal. I've been keeping you entertained at this website for seven months now, and I've never asked for anything in return.

Not once have I demanded a penny for my thoughts - all of the views, opinions, rubbish jokes and moaning on this humble webpage have been donated free of charge.

So now, if you'd like to show your appreciation, I've found the present I want.

KITT is for sale

So, if you could organise some form of online collective and raise the 149,995 dollars that Kassabian Motors is looking for, it would be very well received.

(Thanks to Yes But No But Yes for brightening my Friday afternoon with the news that David Hasselhoff's greatest-ever co-star is up for grabs.)

Easter

To many of us, Easter is about fluffy bunnies, chocolate eggs and Disney cartoons on TV.

But to others, Easter is about commemorating the day that a magician was nailed to a cross about 2,000 years ago. (It's not my way of thinking, but I'm happy for those who believe in it. In the words of God himself: "Whatever gets you through the night, 'salright, 'salright".)

And as regular readers know, this blog is all about spiritual enlightenment and improving ourselves through learning (as well as crass jokes about Mute Tourette's Syndrome and rants about how stupendously rubbish Rangers are at the moment).

So, in what is probably a misguided effort at helping you strange people get some edjookayshun, here's a link to Wikipedia's entry on Easter.

My favourite part, once we're done with all the heavy stuff about Saints and the lunar calendar, is this:

"According to the children's stories, the eggs were hidden overnight and other treats delivered by the Easter Bunny in an Easter basket which children find waiting for them when they wake up. The Easter Bunny's motives for doing this are seldom clarified."

Now come on, does the Easter Bunny really need a motive for his annual gift-giving? If an imaginary rabbit wants to spend his Bank Holiday weekend delivering chocolate to my garden, why can't we just leave him in peace?

Beer vs Makeup

In what is a first for this blog (I think), today is Three Post Thursday.

I happened across this little picture whilst over at Ralphdood's place at Boobies and Beer.

And it made me laugh.

Summer's gone

Well, summer lasted less than a day. I headed out to Duthie Park for lunch in the fresh air and sunshine, only to find that it had been replaced by fresh air and big black clouds.

Typical.

Summertime

Less than a fortnight after the city was swamped by horizontal blizzards, Aberdeen is now sweltering in a very early summer.

Since returning to the supposedly cold North East, Wednesday has become my day of exercise. I play football with colleagues at lunch time and then pull on the boots again after work for a second match.

This second match is played outdoors on astroturf, and yesterday's clash was unusual - the weather was too hot for football.

I never thought I'd say that, especially when talking about Aberdeen, but it was far too hot to be running about playing five-a-side. Never before in all my days of playing have I seen grown men queuing up to play in goal - but that's what happened last night, as the goal that my team was defending was in the shade - and you don't have to run around when you're the keeper.

Hopefully this early summer will continue through the real summer. I'll be happy if it even continues through the next week. Sunday is my birthday, Mrs Wife and I are on holiday all next week and we're going to the Grand National next weekend.

And my new garden is big enough for a game of football with Baby Brother as well.

Tune Box Time

It's been more than a month since I delved into the Magic Tune Box to see where its mood takes us, so here goes:

1: This Never Happened Before by Paul McCartney (from the album Chaos and Creation In The Back Yard): One of the stand-out tracks from Macca's most recent album. Has a melancholy feel to it and sounds as though it could have appeared on Abbey Road, with Harrison-esque guitar, a typically melodic bass line and strings.

2: Tommy's Disease by The Paddingtons (from the compilation album Bring Your Own Poison: The Rhythm Factory Sessions): Live version of a full-throttle track from the shambolic punks. Bears a close similarity to early Libertines, although without the urgency of Doherty and Barat's work.

3: Theme From Come September by Bobby Darin and His Orchestra (from the compilation album More Music To Watch Girls By): Easy listening instrumental theme tune from the Rock Hudson/Gina Lollobrigida romantic comedy filmed in 1961.

4: Alone by Terrorvision (from the album Good To Go): Terrorvision knew what they were good at and stuck at it throughout their career; a quirky British take on metal. Alone, from their final studio album, could have fitted in with any of their previous records. Enjoyable enough, but hardly memorable.

5: 2:1 by Elastica (from the album Elastica): Cracking song from one of the great Britpop albums. Everything about the song clicks, from the jarring guitar line to Justine Frischmann's vocals. The band would never scale such heights again, taking five years to follow up their debut record. This track featured on the Trainspotting soundtrack.

6: Evening Sun by The Strokes (from the album First Impressions of Earth): I didn't like The Strokes until the release of Juicebox - something about them just never appealed to me. But I quite enjoyed their third album, although I still don't think they deserve the praise they've had since emerging back in 2000. Evening Sun just sounds like a typical Strokes song.

7: The World Outside by Palo Alto (from the album Heroes and Villains): Comparisons between Palo Alto and Radiohead are perhaps inevitable, but whilst Thom Yorke and Co. have branched out into jazz rock and almost deliberately obtuse takes on their music, Palo Alto concentrate on the dynamics of songwriting, in a similar vein to Radiohead during the mid 1990s. The World Outside, the opening track from their debut album, is a great song, setting the tone for the rest of the record.

8: You Know I Hate Stupid Phones by Liars (from the album They Were Wrong, So We Drowned): Spiky new-wave track from the Brooklyn band. Echoes Gang of Four and The Slits. Well worth checking out.

9: Bankrobber by Audioweb (from the album Audioweb): A cover version of the classic Clash song, playing up to the original's reggae rhythms. Singer Sugar launches into his own lyrics promoting marijuana after the second verse. One of the better Clash covers I've heard, and a great live experience.

10: God In The Numbers by Richard Ashcroft (from the album Human Conditions): Richard Ashcroft has never hit the same heights he did as leader of The Verve, but his solo albums have hinted at a middle-aged satisfaction with his lot, and that his days as the angry young man in the Bittersweet Symphony video are long gone. God In The Numbers is typical of his solo work, an acoustic track adorned with synths and psychedelic guitar. Very easy listening.

Dungroanin'

Well, we're in.

Mrs Wife and I may be surrounded by boxes, and we may be unable to find anything we need, but we are now safely holed up in Dungroanin'.

The next few months are likely to be spent unpacking the boxes and trying to find new homes for all of the vitally-important objects we have acquired in our first 27 years wandering the Earth.

But the important bases have already been covered - the phone and digital TV are connected, the surround sound system is wired up and broadband will be installed later this week.

And I've tested the hammock just to make sure that it meets my approval.

Book Now

I've encouraged all you weird and wonderful people to drop by Elisson's place in the past - and there's a permanent link to his work on the right-hand side of this website 24-7.

But for those of you who ignore my good advice, I recommend you take a little tour over there right now (well, after you've finished what you were doing here of course).

I paid one of my regular visits last night and found a list of 100 books that someone, somewhere on the worldwide interweb reckons we should all read at least once.

Like Elisson, I'm not terribly sure what the criteria for making the list is. Whatever it is that puts The Da Vinci Code above To Kill A Mockingbird must be strangely skewed towards the popular rather than the magnificent. But hey, it's all a matter of opinion.

Bringing it down to the bare brass tacks, I've read 19 of them, which I don't think is terribly impressive. I would consider myself fairly well read, but there are 81 books on this list I've never opened.

But there are some amazing books, and authors, who aren't on this list. My favourite book of all time, Lanark by Alasdair Gray, fails to make the list. It's a book so compelling I could read it repeatedly until the day I die, and I urge everyone to give it a shot at least once.

Others that would make my top 10 but fail to appear are Mario Puzo's The Godfather, almost all of the works of Irvine Welsh, but primarily Trainspotting (which is far superior to the incredible film), Winston Groom's Forrest Gump (again much better than the movie), Jurassic Park, The Beach, Huckleberry Finn, Dracula, anything by Thomas Hardy and Arthur C Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I've also read the highly-regarded Sunset Song, which I hated, and a lot of Shakespeare, who obviously failed to make the list because he didn't write about Jesus's wife, a boy wizard or Hobbits.

But the biggest oversight of all is that Roald Dahl doesn't make the cut. Charlie and The Chocolate Factory is one of the most absorbing pieces of art ever created, an alternate world so real that it is entirely believable.

The full list is printed below, with the books I've read highlighted in bold. How many have you read.

1 The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)
2 Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
3 To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4 Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
5 The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (J. R. R. Tolkien)
6 The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (J. R. R. Tolkien)
7 The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (J. R. R. Tolkien)
8 Anne of Green Gables (L. M. Montgomery)
9 Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10 A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (J. K. Rowling)
12 Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
13 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (J. K. Rowling)
14 A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15 Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16 Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (J. K. Rowling)
17 Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18 The Stand (Stephen King)
19 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (J. K. Rowling)
20 Jane Eyre (Charlotte Brontë)
21 The Hobbit (J. R. R. Tolkien)
22 The Catcher in the Rye (J. D. Salinger)
23 Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
24 The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25 The Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26 The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
27 Wuthering Heights (Emily Brontë)
28 The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
29 East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30 Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
31 Dune (Frank Herbert)
32 The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33 Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34 1984 (George Orwell)
35 The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36 The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37 The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38 I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39 The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40 The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41 The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
42 The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43 Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
44 The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45 The Bible
46 Anna Karenina (Tolstoy)
47 The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48 Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49 The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
50 She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51 The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52 A Tale of Two Cities (Charles Dickens)
53 Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
54 Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)
55 The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
56 The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (J. K. Rowling)
58 The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59 The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
60 The Time Traveler’s Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)
61 Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62 The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63 War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy)
64 Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
65 Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66 One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67 The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Ann Brashares)
68 Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
69 Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)
70 The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
71 Bridget Jones’s Diary (Helen Fielding)
72 Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel Garcia Márquez)
73 Shogun (James Clavell)
74 The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
75 The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
76 The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
77 A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
78 The World According To Garp (John Irving)
79 The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
80 Charlotte’s Web (E. B. White)
81 Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
82 Of Mice And Men (John Steinbeck)
83 Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
84 Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
85 Emma (Jane Austen)
86 Watership Down (Richard Adams)
87 Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
88 The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
89 Blindness (Jose Saramago)
90 Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
91 In The Skin Of A Lion (Michael Ondaatje)
92 Lord of the Flies (William Golding)
93 The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
94 The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
95 The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
96 The Outsiders (S. E. Hinton)
97 White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98 A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
99 The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
100 Ulysses (James Joyce)

Hair We Go

A short respite from the moving madness has allowed me to check on the strange folk who've dropped by this humble website over the past day or so.

Somebody (presumably a man) arrived here having searched for "Growing hair like Liam Gallagher" on Google.

In my teenage years as the frontman of Merge, I had longish hair similar to that of the Oasis frontman (or so I thought).

At some point, when Mrs Wife and I have settled into Dungroanin', I may dig out a photograph to show you just how cool I was.

But I hardly think that I am qualified to provide advice on how to achieve that uber-cool look. And neither did my visitor, who only stopped by for a second.

Time To Move

Posting here at Groanin' Jock may be a bit irregular over the next few days, as Mrs Wife and I are now in the throes of moving from Groanin' Towers to Dungroanin'.

As a result, my access to an worldwide interweb connection and a spare five minutes will be sorely restricted. But it's all for the greater good - as you can see from the photograph, Dungroanin' has a garage, which means that I'll soon have room for a drum kit and a pool table in both my home and my life.

Although purchasing either may mean that I no longer have a wife in my life.

The Greatest Rock'n'Roll Band on The Planet

There was no post at this here homepage yesterday due to two factors - my daytime was filled with a hectic day at work and my evening with a gig by the Greatest Rock'n'Roll Band on The Planet.

If I recall correctly, and I probably don't, I think last night's gig at The Lemon Tree in Aberdeen was the ninth time I've seen The Cooper Temple Clause.

That makes me sound like some sad fanboy obsessively trailing the band around. Not quite, although I have now seen them in London, Glasgow, Edinburgh and Falkirk. And there's a very good reason for this (hint: I mentioned it in the first paragraph).

Last night's gig was heavily weighted towards material from new album Make This Your Own. Whilst the record doesn't quite hit the same heights as their first two, when played live the songs sound more like the Clause of old - like the end of the world as interpreted by Metallica and Aphex Twin.

TCTC have always been loud. Their aural arsenal doesn't include songs like "Let's Kill Music" and "Panzer Attack" for nothing - it really is a bass-driven blitzkreig. But it's the distillation of their influences that makes them the most exciting band I've ever had the fortune to see nine times. Combining German electronica, prog rock, metal, space rock and indie may sound like a recipe for unlistenable chaos, but the Clause, reduced to a five-piece following Didz Hammond's defection to Dirty Pretty Things, manage it.

That they can leave out songs of the calibre of "The Devil Walks In The Sand", "Who Needs Enemies?", and "Did You Miss Me?" and still thrash through an hour-long set speaks volumes of the band's back catalogue.

I could go on like this forever. I've been a huge fan of the band since before their first single was released, and I imagine that, provided they don't suddenly branch out further and become a reggae band, I always will.

Anyone who wants to know what all the fuss is about should check out the band's homepage, which includes a few samples of songs.

Or email me and I'll let you hear some of their earlier work.

Champions

Well, we did it. It may have been a close-run thing, but Scotland are still top of their Euro 2008 qualifying group thanks to a late winner from Craig Beattie against Georgia.

And now we're once again Unofficial Champions of The World, setting up a unification match with Official Champions of The World Italy on Wednesday. Bring it on!

Lyrical genius

My baby brother (who, despite being 23, is still my baby brother) recently asked visitors to his website to contribute their favourite song lyrics of all time.

I've been mulling the question over for a while, and I think that I've now come up with the answer.

Shockingly, the song in question wasn't written by The Beatles, who are far and away the greatest band ever. Nor is it from such lyrical Gods as Bob Dylan, Morrissey or Kurt Cobain. The song doesn't even feature on my favourite album of all time and was never released as a single.

The lyrics to The Stone Roses' Tightrope are, in my humble opinion, those to the greatest love song ever written. It may be from their second album Second Coming, which was vastly inferior to their debut (which, as I may have previously mentioned, is the greatest album ever crafted in the history of recorded music, and should be issued to everyone along with their birth certificate), but the lyrics manage to convey love in poetic terms that most people wouldn't associate with the band.

The lyrics to the song are below. What's your favourite song lyric?

Tightrope

You should have been an angel, it would've suited you
My gold-leafed triptych angel, she knows just what to do
In the half light of morning, in our world between the sheets
I swear I saw her angel wing, my vision was complete

And I know I'll never want another lover, my sweet
Can there be more in this world than the joy of just watching you sleep?
I don't know just what to feel
Won't someone tell me my love's real?

Are we etched in stone or just scratched in the sand
Waiting for the waves to come and reclaim the land?
Will the sun shine all sweetness and light
Burn us to a cinder, our third stone satellite?

I'm on a tightrope, baby, nine miles high
Striding through the clouds on my ribbon in the sky
I'm on a tightrope, one thing I've found
I don't know how to stop, and it's a long, long, long, long way down

She's all that ever mattered, and all that ever will
My cup, it runneth over, I'll never get my fill
The boats in the harbour slip from their chains
Head for new horizons, let's do the same

I'm on a tightrope, baby, nine miles high
Striding through the clouds, on my ribbon in the sky
I'm on a tightrope, one thing I've found
I don't know how to stop, and it's a tightrope baby nine miles high
Striding through the clouds, on my ribbon in the sky
I'm on a tightrope, one thing I've found
I don't know how to stop, and it's a long, long, long, long way down

Dream On

A word of warning to you all. Eating chocolate before bed can lead to really strange dreams.

What does it mean if you dream of being barricaded in your home by a man sealing your door with masking tape?

That was a rhetorical question. Dreams don't mean anything. They're just insane, plotless movies created by your brain as a means of making sense of the day's activities.

No doubt someone out there will interpret my nocturnal encounter with the masking tape man as some Freudian theory explaining that I didn't have a great relationship with the man in the local hardware store.

Or that I actually want to be shut in my home to escape the legions of halfwits patrolling the Earth on a daily basis. (Actually, that doesn't sound so bad).

I've never been able to grasp the concept of our dreams having meaning. Surely each person's dreams are unique to them, and therefore can't be connected in any way to another person's?

And that recurring nightmare I have where Jennifer Aniston, Jessica Simpson and Evangeline Lilly capture me and keep me locked in a bedroom for use as their private sex slave? Well, I just have to deal with that in my own way....

New Rules

Because of a trifling amount of snow in Angus this morning, the roads were packed solid and the trains were delayed. As a result, I was late into work and am now having to work through lunch to catch up.

So, in lieu of a 'proper' post, I'll share with you an amusing email I received from my friend Mike a while back, detailing some suggested new rules for modern living:

New Rule: Stop giving me that pop-up ad for classmates.com! There's a reason you don't talk to people for 25 years. Because you don't particularly like them! Besides, I already know what the captain of the football team is doing these days--mowing my lawn.

New Rule: Don't eat anything that's served to you out a window unless you're a seagull. People are acting all shocked that a human finger was found in a bowl of Wendy's chili. Hey, it cost less than a dollar. What did you expect it to contain? Trout?

New Rule: Stop saying that teenage boys who have sex with their hot, blonde teachers are permanently damaged. I have a better description for these kids: lucky bastards.

New Rule: If you need to shave and you still collect baseball cards, you're a dope. If you're a kid, the cards are keepsakes of your idols. If you're a grown man, they're pictures of men.

New Rule: Ladies, leave your eyebrows alone. Here's how much men care about your eyebrows: do you have two of them? Okay, we're done.

New Rule: There's no such thing as flavored water. There's a whole aisle of this crap at the supermarket, water, but without that watery taste. Sorry, but flavored water is called a soft drink. You want flavored water? Pour some scotch over ice and let it melt. That's your flavored water.

New Rule: Stop screwing with old people. Target is introducing a redesigned pill bottle that's square, with a bigger label. And the top is now the bottom. And by the time grandpa figures out how to open it, his ass will be in the morgue. Congratulations, Target, you Just solved the Social Security crisis.

New Rule: The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger the asshole. If you walk into a Starbucks and order a "decaf grande half-soy, half-low fat, iced vanilla, double-shot, gingerbread cappuccino, extra dry, light ice, with one sweet-n'-Low, and one NutraSweet," ooh, you're a huge asshole.

New Rule: I'm not the cashier! By the time I look up from sliding my card, entering my PIN number, pressing "Enter," verifying the amount, deciding, no, I don't want cash back, and pressing "Enter" again, the kid who is supposed to be ringing me up is standing there eating my Almond Joy.

New Rule: Just because your tattoo has Chinese characters in it doesn't make you spiritual. It's right above the crack of your ass. And it translates to "beef with broccoli." The last time you did anything spiritual, you were praying to God you weren't pregnant. You're not spiritual. You're just high.

New Rule : Competitive eating isn't a sport. It's one of the seven deadly sins. ESPN recently televised the U.S. Open of Competitive Eating, because watching those athletes at the poker table was just too damned exciting. What's next, competitive farting? Oh wait! They're already doing that. It's called "The Howard Stern Show."

New Rule: I don't need a bigger mega M&Ms. If I'm extra hungry for M&Ms, I'll go nuts and eat two.

New Rule: If you're going to insist on making movies based on crappy, old television shows, then you have to give everyone in the Cineplex a remote so we can see what's playing on the other screens. Let's remember the reason something was a television show in the first place is that the idea wasn't good enough to be a movie.

New Rule: No more gift registries. You know, it used to be just for weddings. Now it's for babies and new homes and graduations from rehab. Picking out the stuff you want and having other people buy it for you isn't gift giving, it's the white people version of looting.

New Rule: and this one is long overdue: No more bathroom attendants. After I zip up, some guy is offering me a towel and a mint like I just had sex with George Michael. I can't even tell if he's supposed to be there, or just some freak with a fetish. I don't want to be on your web cam, dude. I just want to wash my hands.

New Rule: When I ask how old your toddler is, I don't need to know in months. "27 Months." "He's two," will do just fine. He's not a cheese. And I didn't really care in the first place.

New Rule: If you ever hope to be a credible adult and want a job that pays better than minimum wage, then for God's sake don't pierce or tattoo every available piece of flesh. If so, then plan your future around saying" Do you want fries with that?"

Resurrected as Rex

If the Hindus have got things right and reincarnation exists, I'm coming back as a well-loved family dog.

(I don't really think that the Hindus ARE right, but hey, it's as believable as any of the other religions doing the rounds, so lets just suspend our individual beliefs for the duration of this post.)

Mrs Wife and I have just spent the weekend with her parents and their 18-month old Scotty dog.

It seems to me that if you have the great fortune to live your life as a well-loved family dog, things are pretty good most of the time. You get fed a couple of times a day, have fresh water whenever you want and are free to lie in front of the fire throughout your waking hours.

People will quite happily throw a ball for you to chase, and you can think of no greater entertainment than running after it for hours on end. Learning a small 'trick' like standing on your hind legs is a sure-fire way of winning plaudits from your audience.

In short, dogs have it pretty good. Which is why, if the Hindus ARE right, I'll happily be reborn as a canine companion to any family good enough to have me.

And if none of the religions have it quite right, and the universe is run by an all-seeing individual called Jim, hopefully he will see to it that my wish is granted.

Weather warning

Horizontal blizzards in March?! So much for global warming....

Crisis? What crisis?

Wins over Celtic and Aberdeen in the space of week may suggest that Rangers are finally on the road to recovery after the traumatic days that ended Alex McLeish's reign as manager and lasted for the duration of Paul Le Guen's.

Putting the disappointing European performances to one side for the moment, Rangers' resilience in defeating Celtic at Parkhead and the superiority shown in the crushing of Aberdeen are enough to let us believe that the Ibrox side has turned the corner and that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Hammock Heaven

With only a fortnight to go until the big move, we seem to have reached a short calm before the storm.

The mortgage and all the associated finances are in place, the removal firm is booked and we're ready to take possession of Dungroanin'.

One of the exciting things about the new pad is its back garden, which is huge - with loads of room for games of football, trampolines and the like.

But perhaps its most endearing feature is the hammock in the back corner, which the current owners are leaving behind, as it is suspended on huge wooden posts that have been fixed into the ground in concrete.

So I can now envisage many a Sunday afternoon spent swinging merrily in the breeze, listening to the Magic Tune Box and sipping on a nice cold beer.

Then my thoughts are always disturbed by the reminder that I will be living in Montrose, which isn't well known for its hammock-lounging weather. Still, it's a nice thought.

Party pooper

Well, in what is the biggest anti-climax since Paul le Guen became Rangers manager, the 4,000th visitor to Groanin' Jock was someone from the UK who dropped by for only one second before continuing on their merry journey around the worldwide interweb.

Hopefully the 5,000th will be much more exciting.

May The Four-Thousandth Be With You

The 4,000th visitor to this humble website should roll up at some point today, probably whilst searching for such delightful terms as "drunk jock" or "Derek Riordan caught in a strip bar".

As is the way of things round these parts, lucky visitor 4,000 will receive a piece of crappy tat wonderful prize.

Come Mr Taliban...

...Turn Over Bin Laden

Some of you may have seen this video in the past - I first discovered it in 2002 - but I found it again online this evening and remembered how much it amused me.

Bush's bongo-playing face cracks me up every time.....

(You need to have sound to get full enjoyment from the clip)

Bass-ic Instinct

Well, the upshot of the weekend is that I am now a bass player.

Back in my teenage years, it always seemed the least appealing of all the instruments available (except perhaps keyboards - I REALLY didn't want to be a keyboard player).

Something about bass back then suggested that it wasn't a terribly exciting instrument to play, that it lacked the glamour of playing lead guitar or the possibility of making as much noise as the drummer.

But over the years, as my musical tastes have broadened, I've come to realise that the bass is, when played well, one of the most exciting instruments.

Nowadays, some of my favourite musicians are bass players: Mani, whose thunderous bass graced both of The Stone Roses' albums and every Primal Scream album since Vanishing Point; Didz Hammond, a bass player so good that Carl Barat poached him from The Cooper Temple Clause to play in Dirty Pretty Things; John Entwhistle, a man whose nicknames included "The Ox" and "the Jimi Hendrix of the bass" for good reason; and Noel Redding, one of the few bass players who could have kept up with James Marshall Hendrix.

Sadly, my bass playing will never bear comparison with any of those illustrious names. But I'm quite taken with my new toy, and I think that I've taken to playing the bass more easily than I did the acoustic guitar.

So prepare yourselves for my solo album of bass lines. If it's good enough an idea for Mani, it's good enough for me.

(Mani's Freebass album is actually a collaboration with fellow bass players Andy Rourke of The Smiths and Peter Hook of Joy Division/New Order. Rumour has it that guest vocalists on the album will include Bobby Gillespie, Liam Gallagher, Tim Burgess and Ian Brown. Which sounds like absolute bedlam and the makings of the best album ever.)

Back In Black

Back in my teenage years, I was the lead singer of a band.

One of the major drawbacks to me being the lead singer of a band was that I can't really sing.

Inspired by Oasis and their "anyone can be a rock'n'roll star" mentality, I was convinced that superstardom awaited me, if I only I could find someone to write the songs.

And so, I formed a band, appointing myself lead singer. I was also the band's self-appointed publicist, manager, creative director and every other position that didn't involve playing an instrument.

We named ourselves Merge, a typically lame Britpop era band name (inspired by the likes of Blur, Suede, Pulp, Menswear, Sleeper, Oasis and so on).

We weren't as bad as we could have been, primarily because of two talented songwriters / guitar players.

But after three gigs in two years, we called it a day, sparing the discerning listening public in Brechin any more of our acoustic onslaught.

Now, almost a decade later, three of the members, myself included, are attempting to rekindle those dying embers. Two of them, myself not included, are proficient songwriters with ample material to fill four or five albums.

And my role this time around will be to do whatever I'm told.

Like setting up the amplifiers and fetching the beer....

Stop Press: Groanin' Jock praises Celtic

It's very rare that I'll praise the forces of darkness over at Celtic, but their performances over the two legs of their Champions League tie with AC Milan were worthy of recognition.

This was a Scottish club going toe-to-toe with one of the best sides in Europe and matching them over 180 minutes of competitive football.

Scottish football is often criticised, and is often deserving of that criticism, but on this instance, Celtic can hold their heads high.

Nonetheless, they are out of Europe, leaving only the famous Glasgow Rangers to fly the Saltire (and the Union Jack) in continental competition.

Hopefully they will get off to a flying start in tonight's first leg of the clash with Osasuna.

Dazed and Confused, Battered and Bruised

I think my body is in shock from the recent resurrection in my exercise levels.

My hamstrings and knees are both grumbling after I played football twice today, and I think that my problem toenails will probably resurface in the near future. I don't blame them - if I were an inch long and 15-stone men spent an hour kicking me, I'd complain as well.

To compound today's injuries, I blocked a belter of a goal-bound shot, which I estimate must have been travelling at around 50mph, with my face. As a result, my jaw feels like it has moved a couple of inches backwards.

So it's a fine line between enjoying a game of football and spending the best part of an hour wandering around a rectangular patch of astroturf in a semi-concussed daze.

In fact, I think I must be delirious - as I write this, Celtic are holding AC Milan to a goalless draw in the San Siro.....

Tyranny of Normality

I am under no illusions that I am normal, primarily because I don't think any such condition actually exists.

Presumably everyone thinks the things they do on a day to day basis are the right things for them - and thus they are normal, if only to that person.

I own around 2,000 CDs, all of them filed in alphabetical order so that I can find them when I want them. To me, that is normal. To others, it is a sign that I am some semi-autistic geek with an anal obsession for having The Beatles' albums stored in chronological order.

Despite being a professional wordsmith, I have to mentally flip through the alphabet to determine which letters follow each other - even though I learnt it more than 20 years ago.

But to this day, I can recite the full list of World Cup winners in the correct order without so much as missing a beat - and with only a little thought, I can also name the countries which staged the event, again in the right order.

And, as far as I am concerned, there is nothing abnormal about any of this. Which is why I don't think there's really any such thing as normal.

For sure, there are people like Jade Goody, raised by a one-armed lesbian junkie, who definitely do not fall into anyone's category of 'normal'.

But so long as each of us is happy in our own little way, who cares what's normal?

Please excuse me, I now have to go and catalogue the collected DVD works of Al Pacino.

(By the by, www.blogthings.com reckons I am 55% normal.)

You Are 55% Normal

While some of your behavior is quite normal... Other things you do are downright strange You've got a little of your freak going on But you mostly keep your weirdness to yourself

How Normal Are You?

Joining in

Joining organisations seems to be a long and laborious process nowadays.

In the past week, Mrs Wife and I have joined the local cinema and the local gym. On both occasions, we have been asked for more identification than when entering Vietnam on tourist visas four years ago.

What I can't understand is why the cinema really needed to see two separate forms of ID and proof of our bank's address before they would let us join - they made us pay the first month up front by debit card, so even if we had provided them with false details, they could easily have cancelled the memberships without any cost to themselves.

Neither joining the cinema nor the gym was made any easier by the fact that our applications were handled by monsyallabic cretins who seemed to spend as much time remembering how to put their left foot in front of their right as they did sorting out the simple process of handing us pieces of laminated card.

Still, all is now well, and more of our money is now being channelled away each month in the name of leisure pursuits. Returning to the east coast, and to an area where recreactional facilities are available far more readily than in Argyll, has led to a sudden rise in expenditure for both myself and Mrs Wife - in the past week, I have spent more than 12 pounds simply to play football.

But hey, it's all good - the new, lithe Groanin' Jock is on his way!

Hospital-ity

I hate hospitals.

Last night, following an incident involving my Granny, the kerb, a stone wall, a broken kneecap and a severely battered and bruised face, I spent six hours in the accident and emergency ward at Ninewells Hospital in Dundee.

Besides the obvious feelings associated with watching someone close to you endure having their nose stitched shut and their broken knee prodded and manipulated, the hospital is not my favourite place for other reasons.

All of the seats and chairs in hospitals seem to have been designed as a cruel but inventive Medieval torture technique whereby comfort is hinted at but can never be achieved. None of the vending machines work properly, and the television in the waiting room is always too loud or too quiet.

However, the reason that I most dislike hospitals is that nothing ever seems to happen quickly. I half expected to leave the casualty ward to find that Scotland had popped up somewhere near the Bahamas thanks to continental drifting, or that a new mutant race of genetically-superior humans was now running the show.

In the six hours that we spent in the hospital, three things happened: my Granny's cuts were cleaned, her nose was stitched and her knee was x-rayed. Now, does any of those activities sound like it requires two hours to itself?

Please excuse today's groanin' - I've only had three hours of sleep, and I'm struggling to stay awake at work. Roll on 4.30pm and the end of another working week.

Wise monkeys

One of mankind's traits that I had always treated with disdain until comparitively recently was the personification of animals.

Deciding that lions are brave, elephants wise and jackals cunning may be based on observations in the field, but I'd always thought that anything that characterised animals as having personalities and morals was wrong.

Until I saw a TV programme a few years ago that proved that monkeys DO have morals.

I don't remember the scientist involved or the name of the programme, but the basic premise was:

Take two monkeys

Sit them in front of a button

When the first monkey presses the button, give it a grape

When the second monkey presses the button, give it a biscuit

Repeat

Each time the first monkey pressed the button, the scientist handed it a grape, which it initially devoured with pleasure.

But when it saw that the second monkey received a biscuit for carrying out the same task, it reacted in an unexpected manner.

At first, it continued pressing the button and receiving its grapes. But after a few rounds, it became agitated, immediately discarding grapes and re-pressing the button in an effort to extract a biscuit from the scientist.

It watched the second monkey receive its biscuits, and began efforts to steal them. Then, in a final hissy fit, it threw its grapes at the scientist, jumped on him and attempted to get straight to the bag of biscuits.

The point of the experiment was to prove that monkeys, like humans, are capable of rationalising what is fair and unfair. And that monkey didn't think it was fair that his friend was receiving a better reward for carrying out the same task.

I've known lots of dogs over the years that quickly worked out that if they performed a certain trick when requested, they would receive a reward. But I can't imagine any of those dogs realising the fairness of different rewards for performing the same trick.

However, just in case dogs do have a deeper thought process than we give them credit for, when Mrs Wife and I move into Dungroanin' and adopt a couple of dogs, I'll be sure to treat them equally, for fear of being murdered in my bed by the spurned sibling.

Inspiration for this post came from Chimps, Snow Dogs and other assorted trivia over at Another Cup of Coffee and I May get Something Done.

(And before any of you smartarses point it out, I know that the photograph is of a chimpanzee, not a monkey. But I don't care.)

The Blogging Bogle

After yesterday's rant on our eternal suffering, after a day spent in my new office sitting on my own because everyone else in my team is off ill and after a day where I played football not once but twice, in what is probably my single biggest day of physical activity in nigh on three years, I am spent.

I've got nothing.

Nothing at all.

Sorry folks, but my knees are creaking, my eyes are barely staying open and I just want to stare mindlessly at the TV.

So, as way of an apology, let me point you in the direction of a fellow blogger who's never short of a word or two: Mirk.

Like my (occasionally) good self, he's Scottish, with a slightly withering outlook on his own country.

Oh yes, and he's a Bogle. Drop by and say hello, and tell him I sent you.

Misery

One of the most memorable pieces of dialogue in The Matrix comes from Agent Smith.

Discussing the history of The Matrix with Neo, Agent Smith says: "Did you know that the first Matrix was designed to be a perfect human world? Where none suffered, where everyone would be happy. It was a disaster. No one would accept the program. Entire crops were lost. Some believed we lacked the programming language to describe your perfect world. But I believe that, as a species, human beings define their reality through suffering and misery. The perfect world was a dream that your primitive cerebrum kept trying to wake up from."

I've seen the movie a good few times now, and that speech always gets me thinking. Is mankind's default setting misery?

Like all other creatures on Earth, are we simply designed to ensure that our basic biological needs are catered for, at the expense of fun and enjoyment?

Some evidence certainly backs that theory up: there are countless tales of lottery winners who blew their vast fortunes in the space of a few years, returning to the poverty that they were more acclimatised to, as if their natural inclination was to strive for better, not have it thrust upon them.

Personally, I don't think that humans define themselves through their misery, but that mankind has a strange habit of seeing the silver lining on even the darkest clouds.

In Britain, this was shown in the post-war years, when people spoke fondly of the 'Blitz mentality' and of the fun they had in air raid shelters, ignoring the fact that London was being flattened by the Lufftwaffe. Subsequent television series such as Dad's Army also painted a rosy image of the 'fun Britain had during the war'.

Having said that, one of the key aspects of living in modern society is that we spend most of our waking hours doing things that we don't want to do.

There may be some people who proclaim to love their job so much that every hour at the coalface is an hour in Heaven, but for most, work is what they have to do to pay the bills.

Very few of us would actively choose to work if we could get away with it. And it is the knowledge of a forthcoming day off, holiday or weekend activity that encourages us to continue working, rather than dropping out of society and becoming a castaway on a desert island.

And so, I don't believe that human beings define themselves through misery and suffering, but through the knowledge that better times are ahead.

Time consuming

One of the biggest gripes I have with moving house (and there are many, though the pros far outweigh the cons) is that every free hour between now and April 5, and possibly even well beyond The Day We Get The Keys, will be taken up with moving house and various tangentially-linked activities.

This weekend, whilst most devout football fans tuned into to the Carling Cup Final and the stramash that concluded it, I was driving through the Perthshire wilderness. As Inverness Caledonian Thistle came close to a hat-trick of Scottish Cup wins over the forces of evil, I was unloading a life's worth of clutter from two Renault Clios.

And the more I ponder it, the more companies I remember I have to write to in order to let them know where to track me down.

But I am certainly looking forward to The Day We Get The Keys, and having a garage and three bedrooms to fill with my various forms of clutter.

Mrs Wife isn't keen on my 'pool table and drum kit in the garage' idea, but I'll work on her.

Movin' On

The hunt is over.

Mrs Wife and I have found our new home, and have begun the process of emptying Groanin' Towers.

In a shock twist, I am deserting my Brechin roots and moving to Montrose, to a charming, almost-new three bedroom bungalow with a garden big enough for a battalion of dogs and babies, or even dog-riding babies. The fact that it is a bungalow with thick double-glazed windows in the corner of a cul-de-sac lends itself to the prospect of cranking up the volume on the surround sound system and letting the complete works of Messrs Tarantino, Pacino and De Niro reverberate around the lounge.

Admittedly, there are a few hurdles to be, emmm, hurdled between now and then. The big one is packing up the contents of Groanin' Towers and preparing them for the move to Dungroanin'.

I hate moving house, and having done it too often in my first 26 years striding around this planet, I sincerely hope that this will be the last move for many a year.

Tune Box revisited

It's been a while since I delved into the Magic Tune Box, so here's a little insight into the strange sounds lurking within that silver music machine:

1: F.E.A.R. (with Dann) by Ian Brown (B-side): Remixed version of Ian Brown's strongest post-Stone Roses track. Brings in a female vocalist, who gives a more melodic interpretation of the lyrics. Doesn't really compare with the album version.

2: Magic Pie by Oasis (from the album Be Here Now): The first respite from the thunderous guitars that signalled the start of Oasis' third album. Magic Pie was unfairly maligned, as was much of the album, but stands up well when revisited 10 years on. Includes one of Noel Gallagher's best lines: "An extraordinary man can never have an ordinary day". Too long at seven minutes.

3: Wasted Little DJs by The View (from the album Hats Off To The Buskers): Jingly-jangly indie from Dundee's finest. A fine blend of Libertines-esque guitars and Scottish accents.

4: Sweetness Follows by REM (from the album Automatic For The People): Like most of this colossal album, Sweetness Follows is a downbeat, lyrically perceptive track built around Michael Stipe's almost shy drawl. I haven't listened to the album for years, but this track reminds me just how huge it was.

5: Depression by Black Flag (from the album Damaged): Noisy, uninhibited and extraordinarily powerful live, Black Flag were a major influence on Kurt Cobain, as demonstrated by the uncomprising Depression, which even covers a theme later broached by Cobain.

6: Northenden by Doves (from the album Lost Sides): Doves have never really reached the level that their talents suggest they are capable of. I think I've seen them live nine times since they first burst on the scene with debut album Lost Souls in 2000. B-side Northenden is typical downbeat indie fare, with exquisite guitar work throughout.

7: Pro (Your) Life by Arab Strap (from the album Elephant Shoe): Falkirk's Arab Strap are an acquired taste; their tales of misery and woe, backed by plaintive guitar and electronic drums, are never going to appeal to the masses. In this song, Aidan Moffat gives an alternative (male) view of abortion.

8: Submarine by Black Grape (from the album It's Great When You're Straight...Yeah): That Shaun Ryder was able to put the heroin-fuelled disintegration of the Happy Mondays behind him and re-emerge with Black Grape is testament to his never-say-die spirit. Their debut album was packed full of bouncy, feel-good party songs, all set off brilliantly by Ryder's acidic wit.

9: Space Invaders by Arctic Monkeys (Unreleased demo): Hinting at the genius that would become evident on Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not is standard Arctic Monkeys fare; world-weary lyrics delivered in a Sheffield drawl by Alex Turner, whilst the band rattle through at break-neck pace.

10: Biting The Soles Of My Feet by The Electric Soft Parade (from the album Holes In The Wall): The ESP's debut album, recorded when brothers Alex and Tom White were just teenagers, gave us the concept of "prog indie", bringing an archetypal indie sound to songs typically eight minutes long or more. Biting The Soles Of My Feet is typical of the band's sound at the time.

It seems that the Magic Tune Box was in a very indie mood today.

Back in action

Very soon, dear readers, I will be unveiling a new, lean, mean footballing Groanin' Jock to the world.

My fitness levels have steadily crept downwards since I left school eight and a half years ago, and I had feared they would never be recovered.

My time in Argyll did not help, as I was in a tiny town where few people played football, and those who did played on Saturdays, generally when I was working. The constant rain didn't exactly encourage me to head out for a run or a cycle either.

But now, back in home territory and working in the city, I find myself practically fending off offers to play football and recapture that lost magic.

In the past two days, I have played two hours of football - more than I had played in the previous two months. Next week, I am line to double that amount - so the weight will be dropping off in no time.

Now I just need to remember whether I can play the game as well as I can talk it.....

What time is it?

Two days into my new job, and I have encountered a problem I've never had before - dealing with people in different time zones.

As I'm covering the oil industry in West Africa, I've had to phone people in Angola and Nigeria. But because the big players in the industry are based in the US, I have also been calling Houston.

Nigeria and Angola are six hours ahead of the UK, whilst Houston is six behind. So my working day is going to have to be structured around the times on three continents.

It's all so different from my previous job, which covered a relatively small area of Argyll (although it sometimes felt as if Tarbert and Ardfern were in their own personal time zones).

Mystifying

This week, I am participating in an assignment run by The Blue Sloth, entitled Things That Mystify Me.

I am mystified by how infrastructure around the world is put in place - how drawings and blueprints become roads and railways and power lines a couple of years down the line.

I can see that massive machinery has made the task infinitely easier than in days gone by, but trying to compute how long it would take me to lay down one square metre of serviceable road makes me wonder - how on Earth did the Romans manage to build a Europe-wide network of roads?

For more insights onto things that mystify the weird and wonderful people of the worldwide interweb, follow the links below.

Blue Sloth Assignment III: Things That Mystify Me

Jen Mathis

Alley Katt

Ziji Wangmo

Hooray For Saturday

Tiggermn

Groanin’ Jock

Blue Witch

Tim

ally bean

Rayne of Terror

BD

Dan

Mary

Tish

Phil

Tricia

MsShad

Day of rest

What a weekend!

Friday was my leaving night from my old job. After stuffing our faces with far too much Indian food and consuming a bottle of vodka and bottle of champagne between six of us, we spent the remainder of the evening hastening our move towards drunkenness with vast amounts of beer and vodka, including my first ever taste of ginseng vodka (I don't recommend it).

Friday evening ended at around 5am on Saturday morning with drunken PlayStation tournaments, cack-handed acoustic guitar 'interpretations' of Oasis songs and a heated debate on whether Flea or Mani is a better bass player.

After around five hours' sleep, three litres of fresh orange and a bacon roll, Saturday involved driving for 200 miles to an engagement party in Aberdeen, which gave me a chance to catch up with a lot of people I haven't seen for a long time, a lot more beer and half-baked plans for trips to the casino, football matches at lunchtimes during the working week and further nights out.

So Sunday was spent tiredly walking around Aberdeen's shops before driving 'home' to Brechin.

Today should have been spent lazily recovering from the weekend's excesses, but Mrs Wife and I are going househunting. Oh the joys!

It's over

That's it, my last day at the newspaper is over, and I am a free man once again - until Tuesday at least.

So I am effectively unemployed until Tuesday.

I wonder how much benefits I could claim for being unemployed for a day?

Glory

Watching Oasis pick up the lifetime achievement award at last night's Brit Awards reminded me just how important a part they have played in my life.

No other band of my generation has made anywhere near the same kind of impact on my life and those of thousands or millions of others.

When Oasis first launched themselves on the UK music scene in 1994, British music fans were still in thrall to the wave of grunge bands that had dominated the charts for the best part of four years.

But, as Noel Gallagher pointed out, whilst Kurt Cobain was telling us that he hated himself and wanted to die, Oasis' music has always been about living forever, being rock'n'roll stars and striving to be the biggest band on the planet.

Oasis arrived at the exact point in my teenage years when I started seriously listening to music, and their influence on almost everyone in my year at school was phenomenal.

Almost overnight, people started growing their hair into an 'indie bush', dressing like Liam Gallagher, talking like Liam Gallagher and even walking like Liam Gallagher.

A whole host of bands emerged at my school, all inspired by Noel Gallagher's ethos that anyone could be a rock'n'roll star.

They also acted as a means of finding out about other music – through listening to The Beatles and other acts from the sixties, or listening to the T-Rex riffs that Noel Gallagher had pilfered for Definitely Maybe, or investigating Paul Weller's music, his time with The Jam or his love of soul records.

Oasis may never have scaled the same heights that they did on their first two albums, but they are still the biggest band in the country. When Oasis release an album, it is still an event, and everyone has an opinion on the band.

Although seemingly obsessed by The Beatles in their early days, Oasis failed to ascend to the same heights as the Fab Four, but no band could. Few bands have a back catalogue as strong as Oasis', and their latest reward is much deserved. Long may they continue.

Sooty Super Stud

This article, sent to me by email by my friend Mike, seemed appropriate on Valentine's Day.

Sooty the guinea pig is clearly a super stud - having his wicked way with 24 women one after the other, producing 43 babies in the process.

My favourite part is the last paragraph: "He was absolutely shattered. We put him back in his cage and he slept for two days."

A man after my own heart!

If I Can Make It There

Whilst supposedly reporting on a local community council meeting last night, my mind began wandering, as it is prone to do at almost any time of the day and during any given task.

Last night's little meander was provoked by the thought of 'where would I rather be right now'?

That wasn't really a fair task for my mind last night, as the simple answer was 'anywhere'. Sat in a cold room on a hard chair in a room where I was the youngest person by at least 30 years and where I couldn't give a rat's ass about any of the issues being discussed - boredom doesn't even come close to describing the feeling I had.

Anyway, this zoning out gave me the opportunity, in my head, to try to work out where my five favourite places on Earth are.

Edinburgh in the spring is easily in the top five. Recalling my lazy student days, relaxing in Princes Street Gardens and looking up at the castle, there was never going to be any doubt of that one.

The Khao San road in Bangkok is also in the running, just for the sheer bedlam happening all around you. Mrs Wife (then known as Miss Girlfriend) and I arrived in Thailand after dark, and were taken in an air-conditioned taxi to the Khao San. Stepping out into the humidity and temperature, with Thais whizzing around us on mopeds and in tuk-tuks, was a once in a lifetime feeling.

Whilst travelling the world, I came to love both Perth and Melbourne, the two cities in which Mrs Wife and I lived whilst in Australia. Perth, despite having around a million citizens, feels more like a large town than a sprawling city, and the summer weather is like paradise to sun-starved Scots. Melbourne is more bohemian, with an exciting arts and music scene and more life.

Other places I considered for my top five list were Barcelona and Paris. But the overall winner, and my favourite place on the planet, is New York.

I'd always imagined that I would love London, but having been there a few times, I realise that I don't. It's too busy, too dirty, too noisy and there are far too many self-centred people for one country to be able to handle, let alone one city.

And yes, New York is all of those things as well. But New York tops my list just by virtue of being New York - spending days exploring Central Park; visiting the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island; reaching the top of the Empire State Building and looking out at the world's most famous skyline.

But New York also wins because of the little details, like walking across the Brooklyn Bridge and seeing the Statue of Liberty from a different angle, or seeing steam rising up from manholes.

And New York wins hands down for food. The best food I have ever tasted came from a takeaway on Court Street in Brooklyn called Buddy's Burrito, and the best pizza I have ever had was made in Manhattan.

I've been all around the world, visited Vietnam, Malaysia and Singapore, but the one place I know I will definitely return to is New York.

And now, the end is near

This is it - my last week in my current job has begun.

I've actually stayed with the company for longer than I intended - I had always planned to limit my time in Argyll to less than two years, but it's been more than that since I first started.

Whilst working weekends and evenings has sucked, I've gained some valuable experience during my time here, from learning the art of taking photographs for publication to single-handedly producing a weekly tabloid newspaper.

But, when it came down to it, the prospect of having every weekend to myself, working regular office hours and living nearer the cities was always going to win me over.

And because work here is always so busy, I don't suppose it will really sink in until my last day that I am actually going for good.

No snow

I'm most disappointed. Despite the Met Office promising a UK-wide blanket of snow for most of this week, Argyll has been a region of unsullied blue skies all week.

It has been bitterly cold all week, a biting cold that is at odds with the blue sky and sunshine.

Mrs Wife drove from Angus to Argyll last night, and she told me that the snow cover stops almost exactly at the border between Argyll and Stirling.

I like snow. Even though I'm 26, there is still something exciting about waking up and seeing fresh snow covering everything.

That childlike promise of a day spent sledging and playing snowballs has never left me, and is just one of the many reasons why I am looking forward to moving back to Angus - it snows there much more than it does in Argyll, and when it does, it's proper snow, deep enough to make snowmen and snowballs.

When I Grow Up

Yesterday's post on the possibility of The Smiths or The Stone Roses reforming has been used to spark a debate on I Am Without Shoes, a Stone Roses forum I was unaware of until they linked to this here site.

It's strange that, the day after I wrote that I didn't want either band to risk damaging their legacies by reforming, I interviewed Geoff Ellis, CEO of DF Concerts, the group behind T In The Park and the new Connect Festival taking place this summer in Inveraray.

He told me that the thinking behind Connect was that it should attract a more mature audience than T In The Park. He explained that he viewed T as a 'rite of passage' for Scottish teenagers and students - that you go along for the weekend with your mates, see loads of bands and have a great time.

He then said that he expected Connect to appeal more to people in the 25-35 year-old age group. Although none of the bands performing have yet been announced, he did say that anyone expecting metal acts, emo bands or girl bands would be sorely disappointed, and that the new festival is for the 'discerning' music fan.

So at what stage does an act pass from being suitable fodder for T In The Park to being at home on the Connect bill?

Geoff wouldn't give away much about the Connect lineup, although he did say that at least two of the headline bands were American. So who could that be: Sonic Youth? Soundgarden? Dinosaur Jr? Or are they too noisy for Connect?

Clearly, 'mature' music fans have some clout, as they're soon going to have a festival aimed solely at them. Perhaps some of those acts on the lineup will be bands that peaked when audience members in their 30s were still teenagers, hoping to recapture some of that spark on a reformation tour.

Thankfully, it's unlikely to be The Smiths or The Stone Roses.

It's Better To Burn Out....

I'm listening to The Smiths' debut album as I write this post. The band's stock is currently at its highest since they split almost 20 years ago, yet only a decade ago they had slipped so far from the cultural radar that it seemed as though no-one appreciated their contribution to British musical history.

Even the patronage of Noel Gallagher at Oasis' commercial peak did little to bolster The Smiths' reputation. But now, with Morrissey performing his former band's songs on sold-out tours, it seems as though everyone is a fan.

Inevitably, this has led to calls for the band to reform. Given that Morrissey and Johnny Marr were sued by Mike Joyce and Andy Rourke only a few years ago, a reconciliation seems unlikely.

In truth, I'd rather that The Smiths didn't reform. They were a band of their time, and their musical legacy is strong. To attempt to recapture that feeling would probably have a detrimental effect.

The same rule applies to most bands: never go back. Though both Mani and John Squire have said that they are in favour of reforming The Stone Roses, Ian Brown has wisely rejected the idea at every opportunity.

To me, The Stone Roses were the one of the greatest bands ever, behind only The Beatles. Their self-titled debut, released when I was only nine, is the best album in musical history. By the time of their second, John Squire's cocaine use had changed the Roses' sound from rich psychedelia to thunderous blues rock. It wasn't a change for the better, and essentially tore the band apart.

That Squire and Brown haven't spoken since the former quit the band in 1996 speaks volumes. Don't get me wrong - if they do reform and announce that they're going on tour, I'll be first in the line for tickets.

But I think it's better to leave their legacy intact and unsullied by a cash-fuelled reunion in middle age. The Beatles never reformed, neither did The Clash. Does anyone really think that recent performances by Queen or The Doors are the same as seeing the real thing?

Hopefully The Smiths and The Stone Roses will have the good grace to see out their retirement without feeling the need to patch up their differences for unnecessary reunions.

Georgia on my mind

All Scots should take a special interest in Georgia's football match with Turkey tonight.

Not only should it act as a preview of the side we'll face in Alex McLeish's first match in charge of the national side next month, but it is also Georgia's first chance to defend their title as Unofficial Football World Champions.

Should the Georgians skelp the Turks, their next defence will be against the mighty Jocks in March.

Which will give us a chance to reclaim the title that is ours by birthright.

Hoarding

I am, by nature, a hoarder. I'm one of those people who can't bear to throw things away 'just in case'.

Thankfully, the limited space available in Groanin' Towers, and Mrs Wife's more ruthless streak, mean that I amn't now surrounded by great piles of what I would call valuable possessions, but that others would term 'useless crap'.

Inspired by this post at Erica's site, I recalled a hoarder of even greater ability than even myself.

Edmund Trebus, the most famous star of the TV show A Life of Grime, was one of those rare people who was happy to live his life in the way in which he chose, regardless of how it was perceived by others around him.

Upon his death, a lengthy obituary in The Guardian said:

'At first, his obsession took the form of mild eccentricity. He filled the upstairs rooms of his four-storey Victorian house with the spoils of hunts through local builders' skips and junk shops. One room was packed with vacuum cleaners, another with cameras. Trebus bought every recording he could find by Elvis Presley.

'As time passed and his children moved out, the collections piled one on top of the other, like sedimentary layers, until each room was full to the ceiling. Trebus would push a small cart around the streets of Crouch End, gathering discarded building materials, which he carefully arranged in the garden, doors in one corner, windows in another. There were washing machines, wood, motorcycles and bicycles. There was even one of musician Dave Stewart's old synthesisers, retrieved from the back of his recording studio. Like all the objects, it came to be forgotten about and covered up over time.'

I can imagine that, left to my own devices in my dotage, I could become a 21st century Edmund Trebus. Whilst I may not have a penchent for discarded doors and windows, I could seriously see myself surrounded by vast mountains of magazines and newspapers, CDs and DVDs.

I can imagine this all too well, as Mrs Wife and I have begun the process of emptying Groanin' Towers ahead of our move eastwards. And in every nook and cranny, under every bed and in every wardrobe, piles of magazines wait for the day when they will once again be read.

Perhaps the most worrying aspect is that, in our quest to find New Groanin' Towers (or Dungroanin'), Mrs Wife and I are looking at properties with twice as many rooms as our current abode - which is room for a LOT more magazines.

Spring

Spring is in the air in Argyll today - the sky is a brilliant blue and the sun, although washed out, is at least gamely trying to warm us up.

Mornings like this always remind me of my days as a paperboy in the village of Edzell, seen here in the photo.

During the summer holidays back in 1996, which I seem to remember as a never-ending summer of sun, I actually looked forward to getting up and heading out to deliver the news to the sleeping folk of Edzell.

At 6.30am, there was still a chill in the air and dew on the grass, but not a single cloud in the sky. And as I wandered or cycled around the village, reading the sports pages of every paper I delivered, it was plain to see that the day was going to be a scorcher. By the time my round was completed at 8am, the village had awoken and my parents were off to work. The great unfillable vastness of a seven-week holiday stretched before me.

Practically that whole summer was spent playing football and swimming in the river by day. In the evenings, the attentions of my group of friends would turn to music, primarily The Beatles and Oasis, who played at Knebworth that August, a concert broadcast live on Radio One.

It was also the summer of Euro 96, watching Scotland draw with Holland, lose to England and beat Switzerland, only to miss out on the next round by a single goal.

No summer since has been the same - since then, I've spent every summer working. Full days can no longer be spent lying in the sun or recreating the mercurial talents of Brian Laudrup on the local football pitch.

Perhaps it is true that schooldays are the best of your life - not necessarily on a day-to-day basis, but in the comparitively commitment-free way in which you can live your life at 16.

Bible basher

Taking a late night stroll around the worldwide interweb, I decided to follow Erica's lead and test my Bible knowledge.

As far as I can remember, I've only been to church five times since I left school -twice for funerals and three times for weddings (including my own).

So it came as quite a shock to discover that I'm still fairly clued up on the scripture.

74 per cent - that's a definite pass. My colours may not be as flying as Erica's, but I'm just an amateur - she REALLY knows her stuff.

You know the Bible 74%!

Wow! You are truly a student of the Bible! Some of the questions were difficult, but they didn't slow you down! You know the books, the characters, the events . . . Very impressive!

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Rise of the Machines

Ever offered to help out with something and then wished you hadn't?

I've spent the best part of a week helping to 'fix' a friend's computer. Initially, it looked as though it would be a simple case of swapping out a damaged hard drive for a fully-functioning one.

But this laborious quest has instead involved performing a Frankenstein treatment on two separate machine and installing three different operating systems.

The desired result, that my friend should end up with a basic machine for a six-year-old to play games on, has finally been reached.

It all seemed so much simpler back in the days of Windows 95 - you stuck the CD in, the operating system installed and that was you ready to go.

Now, with online registration of operating systems, Microsoft has really upped the ante in a bid to stamp out piracy.

Which all just makes me very glad that I chose to turn my back on being an IT professional and pursue my career in the media. I no longer have the patience to sit in front of a computer that won't work and attempt to solve its problems.

Where the Magic Tune Box goes, nobody knows

It's been a wee while since we delved into the darkest regions of the Magic Tune Box, so here goes. Brace yourselves.

1: A Strange Arrangement Of Colour by I Am Kloot (from the album I Am Kloot): Typically downbeat Scouse indie. I'm a big fan of the band, especially Johnny Bramwell's lyrics and deadpan drawl.

2: Falling Away With You by Muse (from the album Absolution): Muse's ascendancy to one of the biggest bands in the world has taken a while, but each successive album has built on their skyscraping, over-the-top blend of Queen, Radiohead and Pink Floyd. This, from their third studio album, is a characteristic combination of an almost leisurely verse and bombastic chorus.

3: Shoot To Thrill by AC/DC (from the album Back In Black): Few bands in the history of rock'n'roll could follow the tragic death of their frontman by recording their greatest ever album. There are no weak tracks on Back In Black, and Brian Johnson's gravel-voiced roar, whilst different from Bon Scott's drunken drawl, helped carry AC/DC to the stadium-rock level.

4: The River Curls Around The Town by Hood (from the album Cold House): Using cut-up vocals over backwards-masked guitar lines may not be a new trick, but Hood use it to good effect on this track, although it meanders along throughout its three minutes without ever really progressing too far.

5: C Note by Body Count (from the album Body Count): Guns'n'Roses-tinged instrumental from one of the most intentionally antagonistic albums ever recorded. Amongst the other tracks on the record are KKK Bitch, Evil Dick and the infamous Cop Killer, which was removed from later releases of the album.

6: Zip...Just Gone by Lo-Fidelity Allstars (B-side from the single Lo-Fi's In Ibiza): If Lo Fi's In Ibiza is the sound of a big beat Balearic rave, then Zip...Just Gone is the after-show comedown, combining jazz horns with an almost spoken vocal. Very chilled.

7: Guide My Hand by Driveblind (from the album Driveblind): One of the slower numbers from the Aberdeen band's debut album. It still seems strange to hear of Driveblind playing sold-out shows in LA, as I know a couple of the band's members fairly well, having worked with them in the office of an Aberdeen engineering company. Guide My Hand isn't one of the stronger tracks from the album, but does carry the band's hallmarks of strong vocals, faultless guitars and magnificent production.

8: Skeptics and True Believers by The Academy Is... (from the album Almost Here): American indie-punk by numbers from the Chicago band. Whilst I have nothing against them as such, this track does sound indistinguishable from Fall Out Boy, All-American Rejects and their ilk.

9: Bully Boy by Shed Seven (from the greatest hits album Going For Gold): In which Rick Witter - whose name became unfortunate Britpop-era rhyming slang for shitter - recalls a beating he received. Not the band's finest hour, with Witter's foghorn delivery failing to gel with the poor man's Stone Roses backing track.

10: I Don't Know by Beastie Boys (from the album Hello Nasty): I didn't really get into the Beastie Boys first time around - it wasn't until the release of Intergalactic and Body Movin' that I sat up and took notice. I've subsequently discovered their Beatles-sampling masterpiece Paul's Boutique, and whilst Hello Nasty doesn't quite compare with that record, it's still a very strong set. I Don't Know is one of the record's quieter moments, eschewing the Beasties' electro beats and triple-pronged rap attack.