ASBO's. The Pete Townsend Method.

This is Pete Townsend, legendary guitarist with one of the great rock bands, The Who. Now Pete's had his fair share of troubles over the past few years, but no one can argue that he is an axeman of the highest calibre, so he was the first person who sprung to mind as I was prematurely woken around 8 o'clock this morning.

Let me explain.

As anyone who has had the misfortune to read my blog in the past will know, I have two gay neighbours upstairs from me. They work away from home, I work shifts, generally never the two shall meet. It's an arrangement that I feel works particularly well. They have recently purchased a new hifi, and one of them, I don't know which one, decided, yet again, to listen to 'Bleeding Love' by Leona Lewis. I'm word perfect on this song by now, and I don't even own it (for good reason).

As I work for a hifi company, there was only ever going to be one winner, and that's me.
Since around 9 o'clock, I've had our Pete doing his bit at volume levels that I just know he would approve of. This has two benefits. One, it's pissing Will & Grace off upstairs, and two, I'm loving it.

The sad thing is that he probably just thinks I'm watching a lot of CSI.
I thought all gay guys had taste?

Driver, MOVE THAT BUS!

Now there's not a lot of choice on the TV at 1 o'clock on a Tuesday morning, so while eating my roasted cheese (Canadian Cheddar of course) with Worcester sauce, I had the misfortune to stumble upon an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, which, as everyone knows, is more addictive than crack. Watch more than 10 seconds of this show and it pulls you in like the Death Star's tractor beam.
For those of you unfamiliar with the show, it's like Changing Rooms but with the same budget as the NHS. This week's deserving home owners were two New York firemen who had been best friends since childhood, shared a 'Friends' style apartment, and happened to lose colleagues in the twin towers thing. They get sent away for a week, a thousand people rip their house to bits, the 'makeover team' put it back together, everyone is happy. Not only that, but they got a boat, and I don't mean a dinghy, I mean a cabin cruiser type thing that must cost a years salary!
Very handy in downtown Brooklyn.

Let's meet some of the team:

Ty Pennington

Ty is the screaming front-man of the show. Rarely seen without a loud hailer. Thinks of himself as 'wacky'.

Paul DiMeo

Paul is the father figure of the team. Can turn his hand to anything. Says "work with the grain" at least once an episode.

Tracy Hutson

Tracy walks around wearing a pink toolbelt yet never uses the tools. Bursts into tears on demand.

Michael Maloney

Michael is in charge of 'glamour' and has teeth SO white that they defy all known scientific explanation. He also holds the world record for being the 'Gayest Man Who Has Ever Lived'.

Personally, I'd just be happy for someone to come round and tile my bathroom.

Kids & Shite Music

I'm dying. I know that technically we all are, but I'm really dying. I have a hangover of biblical proportions right now, and not even 2 glorious litres of full sugar Irn Bru, a fry up, and Hollyoaks omnibus seem to be helping. Last night I ventured out into the bright lights of Ye Olde Falkirk Towne to help celebrate the birth of my friend's son, so, as is the norm in these situations, a pub crawl seemed the order of the day. This meant that we found ourselves in 'The Scotia Bar' where I experienced a genuine 'Ashes To Ashes' moment. It was like stepping straight into the '80's! People with style in clothing that, at best, would be called questionable, guys with less hair and more stomach than me, and women massacring some of the best of that decade's music on karaoke.

It was at this point that a woman with more peroxide than sense stepped up to sing 'Drop The Pilot' by Mandy Moore.

Mandy Moore?

Excuse me, karaoke host, there seems to be a discrepancy here.
'Drop The Pilot' is a superb song by the great Joan Armatrading, that has been bludgeoned to death by American teen popstress Moore, you can watch the video here, or Joan's original here.

At this point I had a discussion with one of my friends. It's a discussion we've had before, and I'm sure we'll have it again. It went a little something like this:

"What the fuck is your website all about?"

"It's not a website, it's a blog."

"Eh?"

"A blog. A weblog. It's sort of like an online journal where I post thoughts, ideas, experiences, anything really. It's a place where I can share with other people, have discussions, sort of like a forum. Anyone can have their say and all opinions are valid."

"Eh?"

"You can meet chicks and take the piss out of people."

"Ha! You're a fanny!"

I didn't have a comeback for that one.

Incidentally, worst cover version of all time? 'Don't Give Up' by Bono & Alicia Keys.
Discuss.

Prince Rambo

I feel sorry for Prince Harry, I really do. The poor guy can't get a break. He's slated for not going to fight, he's slated for going to fight. He's a soldier, let him do his bloody job!
I've just watched the Channel 4 news. Their reporter, Lucy Manning, was outside a mosque in London interviewing people about their opinions regarding Harry fighting in Afghanistan, and to a man, they were very supportive of him, even though you could tell that she was desperate for someone to kick off on one and call him a killer or an infidel.

Leave him be.

Anyway, on to Rambo.

The Demon had made it clear that Rambo was definitely NOT on the calendar as far as she was concerned, so myself and my good friend, The Heid, trekked along to see it today, but let me clarify something right from the word go. This film isn't going to win any awards for originality or script writing, but on the other hand it is an absolutely fantastic bloke's film!

Guys, your wife/girlfriend/significant other will think that this is the worst film she's ever seen, if you manage to drag her to see it. You, on the other hand, will be a whoopin' and a hollerin' at the most ridiculous orgy of violence, carnage, and destruction, that I have ever seen! Trust me on this, it's astonishing that it got away with only an 18 certificate! I actually found myself giggling like some sort of voyeuristic Satanic devil-child at one point, so intense and gratuitous was the blood letting!

It's a Blackpool Pleasure Beach of violence, it's an Alton Towers of violence, it's a Disney-fucking-land of violence. It's so violent, if you showed it to the Taliban and told them John Rambo was coming, there would be peace in the Middle East in a before I can make cheese on toast.

Magnificent!

Milking it.

Well well, a new Terminator movie out next year, is there?

Christian Bale is to play John Connor in the snappily titled 'Terminator Salvation: The Future Begins' due out in May 2009.

Make a sentence out of the following words:

dead - horse - flogging - a

PLEASE HOLLYWOOD, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAKE SOMETHING ORIGINAL!

The Good Life

I remember days when life was peaceful, life was relaxing, life consisted of nothing more than Nestle Condensed Milk and full-sugar Irn-Bru. The problem is that these days were only last week.

With hindsight I know where it all went wrong. It was last Monday afternoon. The Demon decided that she wanted to give the flat 'a little spruce up' and that paint was going to be involved at some point.
I was up to my knees in North Vietnamese entrails in Crysis at the point where she thrust the Dulux paint catalogue under my nose.

"What do you think about 'Mount Fuji' blue?" said The Demon.

I'd just found a hidden GK8 Gauss rifle behind a railway car and would have agreed to pretty much anything, up to and including, human child sacrifice, at that point if she'd just go away for 10 more f**king minutes!

"Aye, that's nice." says I.

This was my second mistake. The first was assuming we were in the preliminary discussion phase of the project, not the procurement phase.
Anyway, The Demon has just strolled in with brushes, rollers, trays, something that looks like a Vileda SuperMop, and of course, the Mount Fuju blue paint. I'm not sure what's wrong with the brushes, rollers, and trays we already owned, but I'm not crazy enough to ask.

Now the game begins. My task is to put off the actual painting for as long as is humanly possible, using all the male tricks at my disposal. Work, mountainbiking, the pub, they all work. It just depends on whether you've got the balls to use a line like:

"I was going to start the painting, but Hollyoaks was just about to come on."

No retreat.
No surrender.

28/02/08 : PS - I've just been informed that we also "need" a new carpet. I knew better than to argue that one.

Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus

I love stand up comedy. I have built up a collection of CD's and DVD's over the past few years of classic comedians like Richard Pryor, Dennis Leary, and the legend that is Bill Hicks, through to more contemporary performers like Greg Proops, Dara O'Briain, and Dane Cook, so it was with some excitement that myself and some friends trekked through to Jongleurs Comedy Club in Edinburgh on Saturday night. Jongleurs is a chain of clubs in the UK that combine alcohol, shite food, and comedy, to produce the perfect night out, or so they claim. The evening went something like this:

7:00pm - Doors open. We're shown to our table and the worlds worst bar staff do their best to force-feed so much beer, wine, and spirits down our collective necks that I feel like a foie gras duck at breakfast.

7:30pm - A 'basket' of steak pie appears before me. I've never seen steak pie presented in this manner before, but I ate it anyway. 'Steak Pie' was a generous description I felt. 'Leather pie' would have been more accurate.

8:30pm - Fat host bounds on stage and does a pretty good job of warming up the, by now happily drunk, audience.

8:45pm - Act 1: Quirky ginger Irishman. Observational humour performed well. 7/10

9:10pm - Act 2: Laid-back Cockney. Subtle humour that took a moments pondering before you got it. Very funny indeed, exactly my kind of thing. 9/10

9:30pm - Interval. Get as much beer as possible from the Why-Don't-You staff and que 3 deep at the toilet avoiding the river of piss.

9:45pm - Act 3: Black Londoner. Funny, until he broke the two cardinal sins of stand up. He turned on the crowd when they heckled him, and he stopped being funny. From that moment on his act actually improved as he got more and more angry. For having the balls to call a room full of pissed people a "bunch of cunts", he gets a 9/10 from me.

Jongleurs. Great in theory, pish in practice.

I might as well join in . . .

. . . with the 'ten things about me' bollocks.

1. I used to tickle my sister (on the right) until she pee'd herself.

2. I love the smells of VIM and petrol.

3. I eat Nestles Condensed Milk out of the can with a spoon.

4. Marti Pellow once chatted up my ex and she knocked him back.

5. I've only ever had 5 cars, and still have 2 of them.

6. I'd like to be a cat person, but I'm allergic to them, therefore they must all die.

7. I once helped a policeman to 'restrain' an aggressive man.

8. Every American I've ever met has annoyed me.

9. I don't 'get' Kylie. She's a terrible singer with a screechy, annoying voice. Nice arse though.

10. I have slept in my own sick.

The warning THAT SHALL NOT BE IGNORED!

I feel that we've know each other long enough, dear reader, that I can openly talk about some of my more personal details with you. Details like my bowel movements. I'm regular as clockwork. Every day, between 9am and 11am is my allotted time slot. They always follow the same pattern too. It'll be some time mid-morning when you'll get the first little message, the first subtle hint that all is not well. You can normally ignore this two or three times before the need to 'make a deposit' becomes life threatening.

But not this week.

Oh no, something is most definitely up. "The game's afoot" as Sherlock Holmes would say. My body clock is all over the place, and the need to 'make a little room down below' can, and has, come at various hours of the day and night, and it hasn't been the usual 'three strikes and your out' type hints that my body has been giving me. My colon is currently like the French Resistance in 'Allo! 'Allo!, "Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once!"
At this point I know I have to get to a toilet ASAP, and once there, I'll be possessed by demons and find myself gurning and straining like Geoff Capes trying to pull a lorry with his teeth, and all I'll have to show for my efforts is something that I can only describe as being 'entirely the wrong colour'.

All of this should give you some impression of the kind of panic I felt last night, on my way home from work, at a standstill, whilst the police moved the aftermath of a road accident out of my path. I'd already been given my one and only warning by this point, 30 miles from home, nowhere near a petrol station, unable to turn the car around, and all I'll say is that there's not a court in the land would convict me for the excess speeds I achieved thereafter. I made it, but I'm pretty sure the girlfiend thinks differently of me this morning.

The Brit Awards 2008

The Brits last night was the best ever. I was working and missed the whole show. Fantastic!

I was spared the embarrassment of Chris Moyles trying to be funny when we all know he's just a fat dick, Ozzy mumbling his way through the odd announcement, Sharon Osbourne trying to make the whole show about her, Vic Reeves still convinced he's a comedian, and whole host of 'talented artists' collecting awards that nobody voted for. Here's just a couple of stunners:

Best British female - Kate Nash (a woman who has had only 1 single and she's THE BEST solo female singer in the whole of the UK? Oh really?)

Best British male - Mark Ronson (who hasn't lived in the UK since he was 8 and doesn't even sing!)

Best British live act - Take That (this is just a fucking insult to REAL bands and singers.)

I dunno who The Brit Awards are for? They certainly don't represent the music that I, or anyone I know, listen to, but I am old of course. I think The Brits exist at all simply because America has The Grammys and we don't want to feel left out.

Still, on a positive note, Robbie Williams was nominated for fuck all, so with a bit of luck he'll be feeling suicidal this morning. Joss Stone better get over there pronto!

Anyone Fancy A Ruby?

Я иду кровоточить вас сухие

Does he fuck.

Much as it pains me, I have to agree with the latest post by Mr Jaggy in regard to Red Ken's latest brainwave to increase the London congestion charge from it's current £8 per day to £25 per day. In addition to this, the 90% discount you get if you live within the congestion charge zone is also to be scrapped. Let me give you an example of what this means:

Meet Lucy.

Lucy is a nurse. She lives with her husband Tariq and their 4 kids inside the congestion charge zone. They sold the 2 cars they had and bought a Ford Galaxy diesel thinking that it would be cheaper to run than having 2 cars and that they'd pay less congestion charge.
At the moment, Lucy and Tariq pay £208 pounds per year in congestion charging alone. This will jump to £6525 per year later this year when Comrade Ken gets his new policy in.
Also, if Lucy pulls a nightshift at her hospital, and heads home the next day OUT of the centre of London, she will STILL pay a fee based on congestion IN London.

The bottom line here is that all this hyperbole about it being a congestion charge is pure pish, it's a congestion TAX. In fact, it's not even to do with congestion, it's just a tax on motorists. The London congestion charge has gathered over £1 billion pounds since it was introduced in 2003, but has made less than predicted profit. Profit which, by law, must be spent on London's transport infrastructure. Maybe this is the real reason for the price hike? I don't know, and, living in Scotland, you might wonder why I even care. I care because this tax is coming to a city near you, soon. Glasgow, Edinburgh, Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield, Madrid, Rome, Paris, etc etc. They are all considering their own version of this scheme.

I'll leave the final word to Chairman Ken 'Gagarin Andropov Lenin' Livingstone himself.

“I hate cars. If I ever get any powers again I’d ban the lot.”

- Ken Livingstone, Sunday Times, 21st November 1999.

'Nuff said.

My Own Little Place In The World

Take a good look at this photo. It's a computer generated image of 'the internet', and somewhere in there, is me.

Yes, after shamelessly pinching a (rare) good idea from my workmate Mr Jaggy, I have decided to register my own domain name for my blog. Welcome to the future, and that future is http://www.itsnotpretty.com/ . Hardly inspiring, I'll grant you, but it pretty much describes the internal dialogue that runs throung my mind. As is the case with Mr Jaggy, the old http://www.punchitchewie.blogspot.com/ is still perfectly valid.

Ah, it feels just like the good old days!

10 PRINT "I AM COOL"
20 GO TO 10

RUN

Norway. Gateway to the Arctic Circle!

I've just returned home from four days in Oslo, capital city of Norway, so this post will cover my trip.
Lets start at the beginning:

Prestwick International Airport is a fucking toilet! You heard me, a toilet. A tip. A mess. A disgrace (tell me when to stop).
Apparently the airport's New Zealand-based owners recently completed a £3 million 'major refurbishment' which, to my eyes at least, consisted of nothing more than painting everywhere you look with the worlds worst slogan in the worlds worst paint scheme.

Prestwick Airport - Pure Dead Brilliant! - in pink and purple. I fucking despair.

Anyway, Norway.
Norway is obviously a Scandinavian country, and as such has extremely brutal winters. It never climbed close to freezing during the time that we were there, but this wasn't a problem as I really prefer it too cold than too hot.
Nothing happens in a hurry in Norway. The speed limit on the motorway is 80KPH (that's 49.7079MPH, yankee boy!) not to prevent accidents, but because it's more frugal, but this wasn't a problem as I wasn't driving anywhere anyway.
It's a well known fact that Norway is one of the most expensive countries in the world, and Oslo itself tops the BBC's list of '10 most expensive cities in the world', and this was a HUGE problem, as I'm not Bill gates!
I can't stress enough just how unbelievably, stupendously, staggeringly, ridiculously, expensive it is in Oslo! I paid £8.60 for a single pint of lager! Bear in mind that for 40p more I could get a CASE of Miller from my local Asda! We struggled to have an evening meal for less than £70, and that's from some of the more affordable establishments! I dunno how much a Mazda 2 is in the UK, but in Norway it edges just under the equivalent of £20,000! A bag of crisps? £4.40!

Suffice to say that it's a very nice city. It's people a warm and welcoming, and they all, even the homeless beggars, speak better English than ANY scouser, but I don't really think I'll be in a great rush to return. Not just because of the lotto-winner prices, but because actually not a lot happens there. Been there, done that, couldn't afford the t-shirt.

The £8.60 pint in all it's glory.

Jumper

Never has there been a film more set up for at least one sequel than 'Jumper', the new sci-fi action flick starring Hayden Christensen, Jamie Bell, Samuel L Jackson, and some wee burd from something called 'The O.C.'

It's quite good actually, and, for the most part, is a fairly original approach to the old 'good vs evil down the ages' cinema fodder. Hayden Christensen plays the young action bloke role quite well as 'David', our teleporting hero, but is acted off the screen by his reluctant sidekick 'Griffin' played by Jamie Bell. As for the burd from The O.C., well I can't even remember what she looked like.

All in all, a rather enjoyable couple of hours.

7.5/10

University Massacre . . . . Again!

Americans.

Don't you just love them?

I just wish they could make it all the way through the education system with out using high powered artillery on each other.
I had bad days at school too, Mr Stringer's maths class was a particular chore, but I never once considered taking an automatic handgun in with me to 'pop a cap in his ass'.

I suppose guns are a huge part of the problem. I don't have one. I've never wanted one. I've never fired one. I don't know where to get one, and to be honest, unless I've been at an airport or the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, I don't think I've ever actually seen one in the flesh, so to speak.

Four separate high school/university shootings in the last week?
Is it just me, or does anybody see a problem there?

Anyway, I'm off to Norway now. They've got loads of guns, but the beer's so bloody expensive that they can't afford the ammo!

Lotus Carlton

. . . for sale on ebay!

£19,995.

that's £19,000 more than I've got in my paypal account.

Bugger!

I thought this was the coolest thing I'd ever seen in 1990, and if my EuroMillions jackpot came up, I'd still buy one.

Here's my Lotto Dream Garage (which we'll limit to only 10 vehicles):

1990 Lotus Carlton - Like Stallone, old but still cool.


1999 Yamaha YZF-R7 0W02 - Pure two-wheeled porn. I'll take mine with the full race kit please.


1993 Lancia Delta Integrale Evolution II - No other car has ever looked as good as this one, especially in white. It'd be THE car from this list if I could only have one.


2008 Land Rover Defender V8 - Modified to full 'Greenpeace Offending' specification.


1969 Chevrolet Camaro SS - Rebuilt from the ground up by the legend that is Chip Foose.


2001 Yamaha YZR500 - The exact bike in this pic, thank you very much, and a team of people to show me how to work it.


1992 Suzuki RGV250SP - This would be my restoration project. Something to pass the quiet winter months.


2008 Nicolai Nucleon TFR - It's a Nicolai. I rest my case.


2008 BMW M3 (daily driver) - It goes very sideways and chicks would dig it.


2 x 2008 KTM 250SX - Bright orange Austrian toys.

I know that technically that's 11 vehicles, but I'm in charge here, ok?!

PS - And a Nissan Micra for the girlfiend.

Feedback

Today I received the dreaded ebay email:

"Dear G*********, I have not received the item I purchased from you two weeks ago. can you tell me if you have posted it yet? Cheers."

But What it actually means is:

"Oi! Fanny Boy! Where's my fucking exhaust hanger, you thieving bastard!"

The truth is, the guy paid in cash (arsehole), and clearly wrote his address with his non-dominant hand, whilst hanging upside-down, in a bus, being driven around the inside of a north sea ferry, in a force ten gale.

With his eyes shut.

In the dark.

Drunk.

I actually guessed at some of the address and can only hope that it turns up in the next week or so.
Bugger!

"I am not mental!"

Aye, right.

I'm loving the Mills/McCartney divorce. It just keeps getting funnier and funnier. It should be God damn pay-per-view and I'd Tivo it every day.
Now I'm not a Beatles fan, never have been, never liked any of Paul's music, with the possible exception of the great 'Mull Of Kintyre' everyone loves that, but you better believe I'm rooting for him right now! Apparently Heather has been turning up at court with an entourage that includes her personal fitness guru and her hair & make-up 'technician'. Paul, on the other hand, turns up with a lawyer! That Paul, he's a madman, so he is!

"I've been pushed to the edge!"

Well you will sit in a wheelchair, Heather.
Excuse me if I find it hard to sympathise with someone who's going to get the equivalent of a Euro-Millions rollover jackpot for only 4 years work! I'd marry Paul for that myself!


. . . anyway, here's something far more interesting, and if you pay particular attention to the part where the bagpipes come in, you'll notice that all the members of the Campbeltown Pipe Band would appear to have their full compliment of legs. Enjoy.

Cheats Never Prosper . . .

. . . unless they are black, can run 60m in 6.57 seconds, and are called Dwain Chambers.

Mr Chambers would argue that he's "done the time to fit the crime, homes". This is true, he's served his 2 year ban for testing positive for the banned performance-enhancing drug THG.

He's still a cheating bastard though.

He won his first competitive event in over a year, and easily beat the 6.90 second qualifying time for the 60m sprint.

He's still a cheating bastard though.

The last time Chambers competed for Britain, at the European Championships in Gothenburg in 2006, sprinter Darren Campbell refused to join him on a lap of honour after victory in the 4 x 100m relay.
Why?

Because he's a cheating bastard.

Dwain Chambers could win a world championship title and it would change nothing. He'd just be a world champion cheating bastard.

Uncle Andy

My Uncle, who lives in Canada, has just retired.
I wish you well in your retirement, Andy, and don't get too bored. Get a Playstation, they're great fun! Please don't start building things out of wood like my dad did when he retired. One fence does not a carpenter make!

"Smile, You Son Of A Bitch!"

Roy Scheider

1932 - 2008

"You're gonna need a bigger boat!"

Class.

Life. It's shorter than you think.

Yes, that's right, life is short. As short as 12 years if you're teenage murderer Jordan Cunliffe, 15 years if you're Stephen Sorton, and 17 years if you're Adam Swellings. We met these three scumbags a few weeks ago. They are the three teenage pieces of shit that kicked a father of three to death outside his home last year, and they've just been sentenced to 'life' imprisonment.

"Great." thinks I. "30 years inside is the least that these bastards deserve."

. . . but wait.

It seems that 'life' is negotiable. Life is around about 14.666667 years for these three dregs of humanity, if you take the average, so it's possible that the victim's 18 year old daughter may have to face the first of the men who murdered her father when she's only 30 years old, and the killer will only be 28. Hardly seems fair somehow.
I used to think that a 'Life Sentence' was a minimum of 30 years, but clearly I'm wrong. Surely it can't be right that these 'men' can commit murder and yet still be out young enough for a Club 18-30 holiday!

In the words of Detective Inspector Geoff Elvey of Cheshire Police

"They will have time to reflect upon their actions."

Well well, that'll teach them! Way to go, Geoff!

Reflect?! FFS!

I don't want them to have time to reflect! I want them to be too busy being punished, beaten, and raped!

National Treasure: Book of Secrets

Dear, oh dear.

Where do I begin?

Woke up this morning with a bit of a sore head, the migraine delivery man was well on his way. One of the after effects of such a headache for me is tiredness. With this in mind, we decided to see National Treasure: Book of Secrets tonight rather than No Country For Old Men, a film with a bit more gravitas. I just wanted something to kill a couple of hours, something I really wouldn't have to concentrate on, which was quite a coincidence, as Nicholas Cage, the star of said film, didn't really have to concentrate too much either! To describe him as 'wooden' is like describing Britney Spears as 'confused'.
On the one hand it's a film desperate to be Indiana Jones, and on the other hand it's Tomb Raider, but it manages to become neither. All you're left with is America's abiding desperation to have some kind of ancient history, which is exactly what this film has now become for me. Ancient History.

5/10

P.S. - Nick, just shave it off mate, you're foolin' no one!

My ego's writing cheques my body can't cash!

Got a bit carried away today and thought that it'd take my motorbike out. It's been tucked away over winter so I thought it was a mild enough day that I wouldn't feel cold.

Wrong!

After about 20 miles I couldn't feel my hands! I was holding onto the engine just to get some heat into them, and as for my nipples?!

You could have cut glass with them!

A Punch It Chewie! Top Tip:
If you want to enjoy riding a motorbike, do it in June!

Phoenix From the Flames

So far it's cost me a week, £33.68, a second damaged unit, and some strange looks from my girlfriend, but finally, after more than 28 years lying dormant in a cold, damp, attic, the mighty BigTrak has burst into life once more!

It's SOOOOO cool!

I can't wait to start pissing the burd off with it!

Breaking News: Minor Celebrity Tosser Becomes Yankee!

"It’s a great day for America. Particularly for me. There is a new American in town.
300 million and one. This is my first week as an American citizen. I was sworn in on Friday.
By the way, I’d just like to express my gratitude to all the people of America.
You’re probably thinking “Well there goes the neighborhood.”

Not really. What I was actually thinking was "There goes one less tosser that Scotland has had to put up with."

Craig Ferguson, that well known Scottish comedian, is now an American citizen.
Great.

"Who?" I hear you ask.

Craig Ferguson was a minor comedy celebrity in Scotland during the nineties. He then buggered off to The States in pursuit of 'The American Dream' and no one here really noticed that he'd gone. Living in the US is fine, many people do it, Malcolm McDowell, The Beckhams, even the Mr Claypole of the music industry, Robbie Williams, resides there, but taking citizenship is a different kettle of fish altogether. That is saying to the world that you believe in all the things that America stands for, all the beliefs and freedoms that it's people hold dear. I can only assume that these were the kind of bizarre beliefs that young Craig had growing up in Cumbernauld.

I've no doubt that he'll love the celebrity lifestyle over there where he can bore his L.A. chums with tales of beautiful Scotland, and about how much he loves the place, yet never to return.

Can't say I'll miss him.

Have a nice day, y'all!

The NHS

I love nurses, I really do. I don't know the one in the picture or which hospital she works at, but I know that I love her all the same. They do fantastic work under lots of pressure . . . but . . . . . . . some of them are arseholes.

Now now, before you start to tie the noose, let me explain.

I spent 7 years working in the NHS, and in that time I met some truly exceptional Doctors, Nurses, and members of staff, who would go the extra mile to help someone out, but for every one like that, I reckon there's at least 3 who, much like myself, drag themselves into work and do the bare minimum needed before shuffling off home. The difference is that people don't suffer when I do it. Let me explain further.

Case 1.

In the last two weeks I've had cause to visit Stirling Royal Infirmary every single day. My father has recently been diagnosed with a yet unknown cancer and has been confined to a bed for most of that time until 3 days ago when he was allowed to go home to continue his treatment back in Falkirk.

Brrring Brrring!
Click!
Me "Hello?"

"Hello son, it's your dad. Can you run me through to the hospital to get my medicine?"

"What medicine?"

"The medicine I've to get to fix ma heid (that means 'head' in Scottish slang)."

"Why didn't they give you it when you were discharged?"

"They were busy."

"Whit?!"

"Aye son, the nurse said that they were awfy busy and didnae have time to make up my prescription. She said I could go home and just come back in for it."

It's at this point that I should point out that my elderly father doesn't drive and lives 20 miles from the Hospital.

"Aye, ok. I'll pick you up in 5 minutes.

Fast forward an hour and I've been waiting outside the hospital for 30 minutes when my dad returns minus his medicine.

"Where are your pills, Dad?"

"They can't find them."

Case 2

It's Monday morning, it's 9:15am, and I'm waiting in the que outside the Blood Donors lorry.
'PSSHT!'
9:30am. The doors hiss open and we all troop inside.
9:45am. I've registered, filled out my questionnaire, and am waiting to have a sample taken.
10:00am. Sample taken.
10:10am. We're told that the vehicle has left Glasgow without any bags to put the blood in, but they were being sent by taxi. This would take an hour.
"Bugger that!" thinks I. I'll come back tomorrow, the lorry is due to be here for another day.
"I'll come back tomorrow." says I.

It's Tuesday morning, it's 9:15am, and I'm waiting in the que outside the Blood Donors lorry.
'PSSHT!'
9:30am. The doors hiss open and a head appears "We're running a bit late and are still 'getting ready', come back in 30 minutes."
'Getting ready'???
For what? All that's in these trucks are a few beds, some needles, and some Tunnocks Tea Cakes!

The problem is that these women are all volunteers. It's just one big blood-sucking coffee morning to them.
"Oh aye, son, I used to go on holiday to St Andrews."
I don't give a shit. Stop making small talk, take my B negative, and let me get the hell out of here!

If only everyone who worked in the NHS really wanted to work in the NHS, what a wonderful world it would be, but until then it'll just plod along like the wounded animal that it is. Sadly.

Cloverfield

Went to see Cloverfield tonight, but first I'd like to mention the adverts. If you're a regular cinema goer, like myself, then you'll no doubt have see the Orange Film Board adverts featuring American actor Brennan Brown as Mr Dresden, head of the Orange Film Funding Board, and British actor Steve Furst as Elliot, his faithful assistant. The latest in the long-running Orange cinema campaign, created by the agency Mother London, I've posted below. This has been an excellent series of adverts for Orange, and has never failed to make me laugh.

Anyway, back to the much hyped Cloverfield. I thoroughly enjoyed it, which surprised me a bit given that I thought that The Blair Witch Project, which is filmed in the same 'voyeuristic' style with only a single hand-held camera, was utterly shite. It gave Cloverfied an intensity and pace that I think would have been lacking if it had been filmed conventionally, and helps to turn what is essentially a fairly straightforward 'Godzilla-attacks-New York' disaster movie into something a wee bit special. Monster movies are generally very predictable, "don't go down the dark corridor" and "it's behind you!" sort of stuff, but the extremely amateurish camera work ensures that even these old move clichés still have life left in them. Well worth a watch.

9/10

War Of The Worlds

This is scary.
The yanks have developed a "non-lethal weapon" for riot control called A.D.S. or Active Denial System. Basically it's a heat ray that sends out a beam of approximately 54 degrees centigrade from as far away as half a kilometer. A bit like a long range microwave. Now this is all well and good, but it occurs to me that if they can set the system to deliver a beam at 54 degrees, then it would probably be easy to get it to deliver a beam at 500 degrees. Scary stuff.

Why can't America be more like Canada?

Gentlemen, start your engines!

It's that time again.
Time for the MCN Fantasy Road Race 2008.
Myself and some friends have entered this for the last couple of seasons, not with the intention of winning the top prize, but of just beating each other.
It's a free night in the pub for the winner at the end of the season!

I'm going to be keeping a running total of our scores as the season goes by (see right).

The rules are simple: pick 6 riders, 2 from each of the current big bike racing series, MotoGP, World Superbikes, and British Superbikes. You have a budget of 10 million and each rider has a different cost attached to them, the better riders costing more and so on. Picking a decent team ain't easy, believe me.
Here's my squad:

MotoGP
Nicky Hayden #69 (Repsol Honda)
Jorge Lorenzo #48 (FIAT Yamaha)

World Superbikes
Ruben Xaus #111 (Sterilgarda Ducati)
Keenan Sofuoglu #54 (Hanspree Ten Kate Honda)

British Superbikes
Leon Camier (Airwaves Ducati)
Atsushi Watanabe (Rizla Suzuki)

Restless Natives

There are some things us Scots do well. Whiskey, Haggis, heart disease. And there are things we're pish at. Health care, football, and movies.
There's been the odd gem, Grayfriars Bobby, Trainspotting, Whiskey Galore, to name a few, but for me there is one film that towers above them all, 1985's Restless Natives.

The story of Will and Ronnie, two Edinburgh lads who decide to hold up tourist buses for a living, and if you ever wanted to show someone the kind of scenery we're (rightly) proud of here in Scotland, well this is the film to recommend to them.
I love it. I've always loved it. I own a tattered ex-rental copy of the film on VHS that I've had for as long as I can remember, but now have it on DVD.

It's a harmless wee film that romps all over Scotland's countryside. It pokes fun at the Scottish mentality, it boasts the finest soundtrack to any movie EVER by Big Country, and is probably the only film ever to feature the line:

"Geez that back, ya fanny!"

Genius.

If you're Scottish and don't have a wee place in your heart for this film, then you're either Alan Hansen or Lulu. In which case, you can fuck right off.