Would You Care To Dance?

The good old awkward moment, a social nightmare that we all deal with from time to time. For me, that time was first thing this morning.
My motorbike needed a new rear tyre, so off I trot to the tyre centre at the bottom of the road with the wheel in the back of the car.
The pimpled youth who is apparently the manager has the tyre ready for me, I'd ordered it beforehand, that's how slick I am. 'Danny', as his nametag tells me, suggests I wait in the appropriately named waiting room as it'll take 10 minutes to fit the tyre and that I should help myself "to coffee, 'n that, ma man". I secretly hope he becomes the victim of a violent crime.

As I park my rear in a seat in the waiting room, as far from the other customer as possible, the silence begins, only to be broken a few moments later:

"Inchy?"

I turn and look at the man who has dared to intrude on my waiting space.
He appears to be older, slightly heavier and with less hair than me, though that must be hard to believe. "That must be his Vectra getting two new tyres that I can see through the window" thinks I.

"Yes" I say.

"Aye, I thought that was you, how you doing, mate? I've not seen you since school. How you been?" says the intruder.

"School?" I think to myself "but you must be way older than me??"
I start to wrack my early morning brains trying to figure out who the hell this charlatan is.

"You don't remember me, do you?" asks Captain Mysterious.

"Erm . . . " is the best I can come up with.

"It's me, G_____ _____!" says The Captain *

"Oh aye, I didn't recognise you, mate. Still early!"

I say, neglecting to mention that the extra weight, bad goatee beard, shiny head and couture by Mat Alan didn't help my recognition skills either.

It's at this moment that I should point out that me and Captain Mysterious here absolutely detested each other throughout high school. He was in the school football team and I didn't like football, which clearly marked me out as a 'poofter', a fact that he took great pleasure in reminding me of whenever our paths would cross. How I laughed the day that he pissed in my bag during the PE class. All in all, he was a shite of a man.

"Oh so it is! Fuck's sake, it's been years!" I say, joining in with the social pantomime that is small talk"

"That your Vectra is it?"

I venture, and on and on we go, dancing around the elephant in the room that is the fact that we hate each other.
The minutes seem like hours and eventually Danny the manager breaks the magic by announcing that The Captain's Vectra is "good to go".
Captain Mysterious heaves his bulk out of the chair, clasps me firmly by the hand, and tells me that he hopes that it's not another 21 years before we bump into each other again and that if we do we should go for a pint.
I find myself bizarrely agreeing, even though I find quiet comfort in the fact that The Cap is on his second wife after the first one saw the light and buggered off with "a prick 2 doors down".

My faith in human nature is restored.


*Name withheld because he's a wanker.

Scenes From A Happier Time #2

When I was 5 there was no greater moment in my life than a Sunday afternoon, just after Farming Outlook finished, because that meant that the greatest tv show ever was about to start! (That's not saying much with only 5 years of tv viewing under your belt!)

Space: 1999, which according to wiki only ran for two amazing years, consumed my life.
I had a fleet of model 'Eagle' spacecraft with their interchangable crew compartments (still got one of them), I had a communicator device that Blue Peter showed you how to make out of toilet rolls and plankton and I even had a rare Airfix model of the Mark IX Hawk which made a fleeting visit to Moonbase Alpha once or twice.
This show had everything. Great special effects, cheesy acting, the entire cast of The Bill/Grange Hill/Bergerac, Martin Landau, yes, Martin Fucking Landau, and it had what can only be described as The Most Kick-Ass Theme Tune EVER!

I would have happily given up my Evel Knievel stunt bike, my Crossfire AND my Ricochet Racers to spend one day as Alan Carter, Eagle pilot.

Moonbase Alpha, we mourn your passing.

Nokia Sports Tracker Beta

Nokia Sports Tracker Beta

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Too Cool 4 Skool

I updated an entry on Wikipedia today.

I'm feeling very geeky.

Transformers: Revenge Of The CGI Designer

I'll say one thing for Michael Bay, he certainly knows how to put his stamp on a film. That stamp being a plot full of more holes than a Bulgarian dual carriageway, a penchant for uber-slow motion panning shots and more computer generated imagery than the Christmas issue of Vogue magazine.

This is backed up with a cast of varying talent levels, from Shia LaBeouf on one hand, attempting to play the paradoxically naive and fragile all-action superhero, to the great John Turturro who easily pulls the star spangled rug from under young Shia's feet.
Then there's Megan Fox, a woman SO sexy that I'm pretty sure that every single member of the cinema audience, male or female, would have gleefully clubbed a baby seal to death with their own severed leg if it guaranteed a visit to her 'lady garden'. She's outrageously, spectacularly, monumentally attractive and Michael Bay makes full use of her broad range of acting abilities, she can look happy AND sad.

He's a patriotic lad, Michael Bay. The human heroes of the movie are the good ole' fighting men and women of the US of A, but he clearly supports the 'special bond' that we Brits have with our Yankee cousins by including Matthew Marsden, he of Corrie fame, as a member of the rather vaguely titled United Kingdom Special Forces helping out the Yanks, not that they need it.

You might get the impression that I had a negative reaction to this film, but you couldn't be more wrong. As a means to kill two and a half hours it's great fun. The action is huge of scale and the CGI is simply incredible. The scene where Optimus Prime makes a valiant last stand against Starscream and Megatron is utterly realistic, and therein lies the key.
You simply have to suspend all reality with this film and enjoy it for what it is - fun.
It's not going to win a Best Picture Oscar, and is probably going to be remembered more for Miss Fox's outstanding cleavage, but it's just a film. Lighten up!

Autobots, transform and rollout!

8/10

Run Fat Boy, Run!

See the bloke on the left?
That's how I imagine I look when I go for a run.

See the bloke below?
That's probably what other people see when I go for a run.

I've recently arrived at a point in my life where my own level of fitness has become an issue for me, both in a personal and potentially professional capacity, so, like many men my age, I've pulled on the trainers and started running again.
When I was a kid I ran everywhere, but I was a sprinter never a distance man, and came second at nearly every school sports day 60 metre event (Damn you Scott Patterson!), but then 'life' came along and brought beer, kebabs and Sky TV with it!

Now I don't want you to think that I need Jerry Springer and the Falkirk Fire Brigade to cut me out my house or anything like that, but I could happily lose half a stone or so and make myself feel better at the same time, all of which would help me on my beloved mountain bike.
Win/win situation then.

Well it would be if the park at the end of my road wasn't full of people doing the same thing, most of whom DO look like the couple in the top pic, sprinting around with their skin tight clothing, healthy patina of sweat and iPod nano strapped to their arm.
I, on the other hand, resemble Willem Dafoe emerging from the jungle in the scene from 'Platoon' where he takes a bullet, my face fixed in a visage of discomforture.

There's something to be said for just letting yourself go.

Scenes From A Happier Time #1

As Dara O'Briain opines "Nostalgia is heroin for old people", but as I'm nearly 40 I think I'm allowed a few memories from my childhood.
I always loved The Two Ronnies, well Ronnie Barker anyway. His timing is perfect and I've always thought him one of the funniest comedic actors of all time.
Enjoy this classic slice of tv magic.

The answer to a question nobody asked.

Some of you may have heard today about a new directory enquiries service for mobile phones called 118800.com. Now I don't know about you, but my mobile phone number is very private, I only ever give it out to people that I know, and even then only if I want to. If you don't have my number, I don't want to speak to you. Simple.

I don't think I'm too comfortable with a company being able to contact me via my mobile without my consent, but thankfully they have to have a facility for making your number ex-directory.
The fact of the matter is that they might not even have my number on their list, but I'm not taking that chance. I sent a text containing the letter "E" to 118800 as per their opt-out policy.

Best be quick, it goes live next week.

The Hajj

It hardly seems like a year has passed since that fateful drunken night when a young fresh-faced police officer caught 6 grown men jumping up and down on a trampoline in someone's front garden, but twelve months have indeed passed since the Restless Natives made their now annual pilgrimage to worship the Gods of Downhill at the UCI Mountain Bike World Cup round at Fort William in north western Scotland.

Sunday dawned bright and sunny, conditions that were to remain for the whole days gravity-assisted sport. Like the soft southern fools that we are, we ellected to ride the ski lifts to the top of the infamous Nevis Range downhill course to watch the riders in the womens final leave the starting line. We then took the, quite frankly foolish, decision to walk the course to the finish line some 2.82 kilometers and 100 vertical metres below us. This is a lot easier than it sounds and my upper thighs are still burning 24 hours later!

Nearly 20,000 partially sober spectators had the privilege of watching Sabrina Jonnier and Greg Minnaar destroy their opposition with tremendous displays of bravery, talent and I-get-paid-for-being-off-work-with-a-broken-arm-ness.

One of the best things about the trip is the journey there and back. In my opinion the landscape around the Glencoe, Lochaber and Rannoch Moor area is without a doubt some of the most beautiful on earth and will blow your fucking mind. Take a look if you don't believe me.
So what are you waiting for?

Grab a handful of disposable income, a significant other and come and visit my beautiful wee country, spending as you go.
Just don't stay longer that 2 weeks, I'll have gone off you by then.

PS - Strathclyde traffic police officers, gentlemen one and all.

Terminator Stagnation

I always knew it was going to be an uphill struggle. We'd watched the original Terminator, then the excellent T2, we gave Rise Of The Machines a wide berth, but I was convinced that The Demon would understand the mechanics of time travel, she loved Quantum Leap after all, but as soon as we left the cinema after watching Terminator Salvation it started:

"So . . . . how could that be his own dad?"

Now as someone who has grown up on a diet of pure science fiction, the mechanics of time travel are meat and drink to me, and easily as believeable (and far more entertaining) than Hugo and Martha's torrid love afair in last weeks Home And Away that she found so gripping.

"He becomes his dad later, except it's actually before and he doesn't know that John Connor is his son, but John Connor knows he's his dad and if he doesn't send him back then he can't exist and none of this could be happening and Skynet would already have won the war before the war had started, but what he doesn't know is that if he doesn't send him back then Skynet would never have existed in the first place. Simple"

Time passes.



Anyway, on to the film itself. I enjoyed it. Christian Bale plays a predictable 2 dimensional John Connor, but that's ok, the film's not really about him anyway. The delicious Bryce Dallas Howard could be any actress really, her character gets zero development throughout the fim and is simply there to show Mr Connor's human side, but the real star of the film is Sam Worthington, a little known Australian actor who gives a fine performance as the mysterious and troubled Marcus Wright, despite him having at least three different accents throughout the film.

As you'd expect there is CGI aplenty, there's explosions, aircraft, motorbikes and guns, guns and more guns. There's strangely made-up women, there's stereotypical rapists, and there are bizarre little fires everywhere, and I mean everywhere.
I know what a desolate landscape looks like, I don't need every second bush to be burning to point it out to me. The same goes for destroyed cities and enemy strongholds, enough with the pyrotechnics already!

But . . . there's a but, and it's a pretty big one, in fact it wouldn't look out of place on Beyonce.
Terminator Salvation makes the biggest mistake that a film of it's kind can make. It fails to move the story on, to take it somewhere new, to boldly go exactly where Star Trek buggered off to.
At the end of the film your knowledge of the Terminator timeline is no different to that which you started with.
Having said all that, you have to give McG, the director, some credit. Given that his best work to date seems to be 'Pussycat Dolls Present: Girlicious', you'd have to consider TS a success, if for no other reason than the well done and rather convincing Arnold Schwarzenegger cameo.

He'll be back . . . probably.

6/10

Zoolander

I don't know about you, but I just hate it when I just can't seem to find the kind of clothes I want to wear in high street shops. Clearly Liam Gallagher also feels my pain, that's why he's launched his own "Pretty Green" range of clothing and 'accessories'.
I suppose a career in fashion was always on the cards for the Oasis singer, given his well know pastimes of drinking, fighting and haute couture. Although I do find it rather strange that Liam says he can't find the clothes he likes in high street shops given that most football casuals seem to find their Stone Island clobber with no trouble at all.

"I'm not gonna be putting anything out unless I'd wear it"

says Liam, keeping it real as always. Who knows, in years to come we might be settling down in front of the tv on a Wednesday night to hear Liam say "Oi, dick'ead! You're fuckin' fired!"

"I Feel The Need . . . "

When I was a kid there really only ever was one job that I wanted to do, and that was be a fighter pilot. I had airfix models coming out of my ears, I could rhyme off the stats of an A-8 Corsair II versus a Blackburn Buccaneer and at the age of eleven I carried out a project at school outlining why The Allies enjoyed air superiority over The Axis Powers during the latter half of the second world war. I remember giving my presentation with much gusto and vim and watching my classmates staring back at me like dogs that had been shown card tricks.

The career as Scotland's answer to Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell was never on the cards, but my fascination, admiration and plain lust for some of mankinds most lethal fighting aircraft has never left me. It must be a guy thing I guess.

All of which led to me being delighted to stumble accross this great blog here which has hundreds of these high quality widescreen wallpaper shots of men, mostly American it has to be said, enjoying the kind of High-G pleasures I will probably never know. "Jealous" doesn't even come close.
You, dear reader, can be my wingman anytime.

"You hear that Mr Anderson?... That is the sound of inevitability"

Saturday started in the pub, and it ended in the pub.
The time inbetween was spent on a coach, in the worst pub in Scotland, at Hampden park and back on a coach again.
Falkirk put up a spirited fight for the Scottish Cup, indeed they were the better team for the majority of the game, but that one goal, that one inevitable bloody goal by Nacho Novo was enough to give Rangers the win.

None of which really bothered me in the slightest.
Saturday's Scottish Cup Final takes my tally of football matches that I've been to to less than six but more than four, I was really only there for a good day out, which it damn well was.

By 8:30pm, the headache had well and truly kicked in, the Magners was looking less appealing by the second and a lack of food since the worlds worst sandwiches (pictured bellow) at around noon was starting to take it's toll. A gentle saunter home, passing the kebab shop on the way, led to bed around 11 o'clock.

Sunday morning dawns and I feel fresh as a daisy. More than can be said for Ze Fazer of The Demon. He looks like a corpse, well more of a corpse than usual. It's 2 o'clock in the afternoon and he still looks like an extra from CSI: Vegas.

Hopefully it won't be another twelve years before I can do it all again.

Phenomenal

A Patient Cured Is A Customer Lost

I suffer from occasional lower back pain. It's nothing major and certainly not incapacitating in any way, but it's definitely something I could do without, so you can imagine my joy to hear that NICE, or the National Institute for Heath and Clinical Excelence as I always call them, are now recomending "a course of acupuncture needling up to a maximum of 10 sessions over a period of up to 12 weeks".

Brilliant!
I can now get a 'treatment' that offers no quantifiable proof that it has any effect, positive or negative, on the NHS!

Now in case you're wondering who the hell this NICE mob actually are:

NICE produces guidance in three areas of health:

• public health - guidance on the promotion of good health and the prevention of ill health for those working in the NHS, local authorities and the wider public and voluntary sector
• health technologies - guidance on the use of new and existing medicines, treatments and procedures within the NHS
• clinical practice - guidance on the appropriate treatment and care of people with specific diseases and conditions within the NHS.

Wow, they must really know what they're talking about, and if they say that sticking a steel needle in my earlobe will stop my back from hurting then who am I to argue . . .

. . . but argue I most certainly shall.

I would say that it behooves, and yes I did use the word 'behooves', an organisation that offers recomendations to healthcare 'professionals' to be 100% sure that there is a proovable benefit to any treatment that they champion.
Once we start down the alternative medicine route within the NHS you can bet that your tax bill is going to rise. It'll have to, how else are we going to pay for all the staff training and HR risk assessments in things like leeching, blood letting, crystal therapy and the suchlike.
Now I don't know about you, but I've managed pretty well up til now without having my 'Chi' alligned or my energivistic state altered.

Did someone say Placebo?
Yes please, they're a great band!

BLASPHEMER!

I love a bit of controversy, I really do. I love it when some scientist states that he's found a clue to the secret of creation, only for some hard-of-thinking, right wing, anti-choice zealot to decry him as a 'blasphemer' or possibly the more colourful 'infidel', so it was with some anticipation that The Demon and I headed off to see 'Angels & Demons' last night.
Like everyone else on planet Earth, I'd read 'The Da Vinci Code' and I thought it was ok. No more, no less, just 'not bad'. The film however, was pretty poor. It lost a lot of the excitement and pace that the novel had, and unfortunately featured Tom Hanks, an actor that is the personification of the word beige. 'Angels & Demons' compounds this casting faux pas by including my other least favourite actor of the modern era, Ewan McGregor, as some bizarrely accented Irish/Scottish/Italian stem cell hybrid catholic priest. Honestly, there is so much blandness when they are on screen together that I almost joined the Liberal Democrat party there and then.
None of this, however, detracts from what is a pretty damn good murder mystery, possibly because I gave the novel a wide berth and didn't know the twist at the ending.
What is sadly lacking is the dogma debunking of 'The Da Vinci Code', and whilst The Vatican refused to allow filming in any of their churches, I was hoping for a bit more of an uppercut than "Faith is a gift I've yet to enjoy" dribbled lifelessly from Hanks' expressionless lips.

Come on Ron Howard*, you've got bigger balls than that!

7/10


*...and a fit daughter.

Come back William Daniels, all is forgiven!

Sometimes, dear reader, I'll happily take a bullet for you, that's the kind of guy I am, and this weeks 9mm hollow point that struck me right between the eyes was Knight Rider.

NOOOO!!!! Not the fantastic original series starring the ultimate man's man David Hasselhoff. No, I am of course refering to the all-new Knight Rider starring some bloke called Justin Bruening (I'm not even sure how you pronounce it!) as Michael Traceur, estranged son of Michael Knight, and Hollywood star Val Kilmer as the voice of KITT, who clearly has fallen on hard times of late if he's prepared to be the voice of a car that looks like it's been sprayed with superglue then ram-raided through the window of your local Halfords!

To say that Knight Rider Mk 2 is bad, is like saying that Saddam Hussain was a cheeky wee scamp or that Victoria Beckham is a trifle needy.

No, it's SOOO bad that it makes you realise just how much The Hoff carried the original on his great big cheesy shoulders. The difference is that the original series always knew it was far fetched and never took itself seriously. This new one however, it's a hard-hitting drama all the way, in fact on at least two occasions in episode 2, the legend that is Justin Bruening started trying to act!

I was impressed.

Not enough to series link it however, unlike Jimmy McGovern's 'The Street' which I happened to catch purely by accident last night and remained glued to until midnight when it finished.

Fantastic writing, as you'd expect, and a brilliant performance by Mark Benton (the fat bloke from the Nationwide "new customers only" tv ad) as a down-on-his-luck postman whose life, well, basically just turns to shite around him.

I'd reccomend watching the rest of the series, but there's only one left, however it'll probably be a good 'un.

Toodle pip.

Arse

. . . quite literally.

Now I know that my arse is the last thing that you need to be feasting your eyes on, dear reader, but you're welcome to share my pain.
As some of you may know, mountain biking is my 'thing'. I love it, I love watching it, I love doing it and love being a typical bloke and memorising the most boringly catatonia-inducing facts and statistics. What I don't in any way enjoy however is pain.
The large bruise that you can see on my right butt cheek was sustained approximately 9 hours ago when myself and the rest of the Restless Natives decided that we'd try Innerleithen's renowned national standard downhill run. Approximately 30 seconds into the run I realised that I had completely run out of talent and that the imminent accident was going to hurt . . . which it did.

Landing on your arse at speed. It's not pretty. I think I actually made up a few swear words.

See below for a lesson on how to do it right.

Radio Gag Gag

We're normally a BBC Radio2 factory, but for some reason we've mostly been tuned into Real Radio at work this week.
For those of you who have never experienced the aural "pleasure" that is Real Radio, it's a commercial station populated sycophants, has beens and drama queens who all float around safe in the knowledge that there is no one in Scotland more popular, funny and damn well talented as themselves.

I'm fine with that of course, because it's the job of a popular radio station 'dj' to be a bit "wacky" and be "a bit of a character", but this week the station is staging the annual 'Real Radio Renegade' embarrassment.
This is a competition that I can only assume is open to the unemployed and those out on bail, given that the rules involve you having enough free time to run around the central belt of Scotland (with or without your children) in an attempt to find, and indeed apprehend, said Renegade who leaves cryptic clues to his whereabouts via the hyperactive dj back in the studio.

Again, all good fun with the possibility of a cash reward at the end for the succesful punter who can then go out and buy booze and fags for his/her/someone else's children.

The real problem, and maybe this says more about me than anything else, is that the screaming dj actively encourages these 'people' to phone into the station where they are immediately put on the air. For example, and this is no joke, it happened this morning:

DJ: "Hi, you're on the air, have you spotted the Renegade?!!!"

*NED: "Pure spotted him oan the corner ae Union Street, he's got a gray jaikit (coat) oan man!"

DJ: "Why didn't you catch him then?!"

NED: "I'm in the back ae ma mam's motor, I'm oan ma way tae court"

DJ" "Oh that's priceless! If you'd caught him you might have paid your fine, ha ha!"

NED: "Aye man, ha ha man!"

Now I'm as patriotic as the next proud kilt-wearing Scotsman, but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I was French.


*NED - A slang term for a Scottish urban youth who engages in hooliganism, violence and crime.

A Shower Of Lying Bastards

Hello all, quick question:

Can anyone name me an honest, trustworthy member of parliment?

Anyone?

Anyone??

Bueller??

Two blokes, a flying pizza and a posh bird from Kashmir

Two things have impressed me this week, the first being the magnificent Joanna Lumley and her fight for settlements rights for soldiers from the brigade of Gurkhas. She's been fantastic, and for someone who claims to have no understanding of politics it's been clear to me that Ms Lumley is now running the country and doing a damn sight better job than the majority of the cabinet!
I can just picture Gordon Brown holding his head in his hands as clips of 'Purdey' and a hundred retired Gurkha warriors screaming "Ayo Gorkhali!" were beamed around the globe.

Joanna Lumley herself first came to my attention way back in the seventies with the tv series 'The New Avengers' and, along with Tiswas' Sally James, was right at the coalface when yours truly started to realise that women had an appeal that went further than being able to cook a souffle.

Incidentally, what's the problem with allowing the Gurkhas the opportunity of remaining in the UK after they have completed their service?
If they are prepared to die fighting for this country then not only should they be allowed the possibility of living here permanently, but they should be given a massive pat on the back and subsidised housing at the very least.

The second thing to have impressed me this week is the new Star Trek movie, and be warned, I'm about to get VERY geeky.

As much as everyone who grew up in the seventies claims to be a Star Wars fan, I always preferred Star Trek if I'm honest. I love the tv series and I'll happily hold my hand up and say:

"My name is Inchy, and I'm a trekkie"

I have every episode of Star Trek: The original Series (TOS) on video.
Ditto Star Trek: The Next generation (TNG).
I have all the Star Trek movies on dvd.
I have The Star Trek Encyclopedia and numerous other books.
I have . . . etc etc, you get the picture.

The new film though is fantastic. A decent plot, a great cast, top notch special effects and they have remained truthful to the existing Star Trek universe . . .

. . . but

I feel I have to query some of the decisions made by JJ Abrahms, the director.

* Uber Geek Alert! *

Plot: The young James T Kirk rides his motorbike across the Iowa plains to watch the Enterprise being built.
Hello?! The Enterprise was quite clearly built at the Starfleet Utopia Planitia fleet yards on Mars, everyone knows that and it even states that fact on the commissioning plaque on the bridge!

Plot: The Enterprise, and indeed the remainder of the fleet, leave Earth orbit and go immediately to warp speed.
Erm, correct me if I'm wrong, but a starship cannot engage warp drive when in the vicinity of a planetary body, ie a planet*. (*Star Trek: The Motion Picture)

Plot: The paint on the Enterprise has barely dried, indeed it's her maiden voyage, when young James Tiberius takes command of the helm, but, like me, you're probably thinking, "Wait a minute, the Enterprise was commanded by Captain Christopher Pike for the first 10 years of its operational life before Jim Kirk took over?!"

Having said all that, it's brilliant, and I fully understand and accept that the film had to take my beloved Star Trek in a new direction. The film itself is really about three heroes, Kirk, Spock and the Enterprise itself. It also has to be said that all the cast definitely add something to the mix without taking away from what has boldly gone before, even Simon Pegg.

Live long and prosper.

Oook!

It doesn't take much you know.
One crisis or important issue in your life and before you know it blogging has taken a back seat. For a time it feels refreshing, liberating almost, free from the requirement to dissect X's latest post or Y's funny video clip. This is where I've been for the last four months, in a blog-free world with no monkey on my back saying "What are you going to talk about today, Inchy?"

It's funny though, feeling a desire to take a peek, see what I'm missing, find out what's going on. It's a bug. So I'll dip my toe once more in the cyber water and paddle around the shallow end for a while. Say hello if you see me.

Merry Christmas!

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!

Me and the guys I work with would like to wish everyone a very merry Christmas and a happy New Year!

What The F**k Are You Looking At?!

It's just after 8 am at the moment and I've just woken from a particularly troubling dream which saw me looking after The Demon's 4 year old nephew only for him to go missing "on my watch".

Every parents worst nightmare, I know, but I think I know the reason for this particular nightmare scenario.
If you've read my blog before or even glanced at my profile pic you'll know that I eat, sleep and breathe mountain bikes. As usual, Sunday saw myself and my friends at Britain's premier mountain biking venue, Glentress forest just outside Peebles. After a wet but enjoyable day which saw me fly over the handlebars just the once, we returned to the car park for a shower, a change of clothes and some of the now famous millionaires shortbread.
As I made my way back from the changing rooms I happened to glance over at a man who was packing his car and getting ready to leave.
"I'm sure I know that guys face" I found myself thinking, but it was only when I saw his wife and realised that I also knew her face too that the penny dropped.
Kate and Gerry McCann enjoying a day out, cycling in the countryside.
I immediately looked away, but then found myself staring, something that I noticed every single person in the car park who passed them also do.
I cannot think of anything worse, to be stared at and spoken about in hushed tones wherever you go. It must be like being a celebrity but for all the wrong reasons.
Whatever you're opinion of the McCanns, and I know that they have their critics, you just cannot help but feel sorry for them. Yes they courted the media in the wake of their daughters abduction, yes there is a case to be argued that they should never have left her alone, but without a doubt Madeleine McCann is easily the most well known, if that's the right term, missing child on the planet right now, proving that their choice to use the media was arguably the correct one.
Anyway, they packed away their kit, started up their little silver Honda, and left.
That's when all four of us turned to each other and said "Was that who I think it was?"

As I said, nightmare.

3 2 Go

Nearly there now, we're on the home straight.

My company gratiously gifts its employees a whole two days holiday at Christmas, yes that's right, two whole days holiday, followed by another two days off for New Year! Are they mental?!
This leads to machiavelian plotting by me and my fellow colleagues to see who can take the days between Christmas and New Year off using the allocation of annual holidays that we can all elect to take. The company policy is that no more than two people may be off at any one time and this year I'm one of them. The problem has been that I elected to take those three days as holidays way back in January of this year but I used up the rest of my annual allocation at the end of August. This has meant that I have had to drag my sorry arse through the last four months without a day off, focusing solely on the upcoming eleven day Christmas holiday without my 80 mile daily commute to Glasgow, without the 4:30am alarm, without the doom & gloom of the UK manufacturing industry, without Simon Mayo on Radio 5Live and Bryan Burnett on Radio Scotland, without the bio hazzard yellow chicken curry from the staff canteen and without the £60 of diesel that I'd need to enjoy all these little pleasures.

Instead I shall eat enough food to feed a small township in Botswana, I shall drink more alcohol than Jaggy goes through in an average week, I shall, I'm sure, be required to play various games with a couple of small children that I know, I shall endure much dancing and singing and I'll enjoy every second of it.

Three more days to go, three more days to go, three more days to go, three more . . . . . . .

Come And Have A Go If You Think You're Talented Enough

I don't watch X Factor, never have. I think it's car-crash television that perpetuates the "get rich quick" culture so prevalent in todays youth, but I have been reliably informed that it's been won this year by a highly emotional young lady named Alexandra.

Great.
I'm happy for her, but I'm sure she'll be no more than a memory in 18 months or so.

But . . .

. . . for her first single she, or rather her management, has decided to cover Leonard Cohen's 1984 masterpiece "Hallelujah".
Now having a crack at one of the greatest songs of all time shows either bravery or sheer folly on the part of her and her management team, after all such talents like Allison Crowe, Willie Nelson, John Cale, K.D. Lang, Rufus Wainwright, the late Jeff Buckley, Bon Jovi and even Aled Jones have all had a go, to varying degrees of success.

For me though it's the Jeff Buckley version that is the definitive cover, it's as near to perfection as any song can be, that's why it's at number one in my list of 'Top Ten Cover Versions That Improve On The Original'.

1. Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley
2. Redemption Song by Chris Cornell
3. I Fought The Law by The Clash
4. Sweet Jane by Cowboy Junkies
5. Common People by William Shatner
6. Tainted Love by Soft Cell
7. Suspicious Minds by Fine Young Cannibals
8. All Along The Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix
9. Lost In Music by The Fall
10. Hounds Of Love by The Futureheads

That's right bitches, the Shatner is in there at number 5. Bask in his magnificence.

Actually, I'm not entirely convinced about number 4.

Weather Forecast For Tonight: Dark

Is it just me?
Am I alone?
Am I the only one who thinks that the weather forecasts of, say, the last five years are completely and utterly unreliable?

For example, over the last three days Central Scotland has been gripped in fear of the dreaded "blizzard". Now the name blizzard conjures up images of the Antarctic, polar bears tearing seals asunder, snowdrifts the height of your house.

"Blizzard warning! Blizzard warning!"

Today I awoke to some light drizzle.
Apparently it's chaos theory at work, the overnight temperature being half a degree too warm for the killer snow to form. Small consolation to the people who made and adjusted their plans to account for the mountains of icy precipitation that we were almost certainly guaranteed to have.

Predicting the weather, pah!
Jeremy Paxman was right!

St Andrew's Day

St Andrew.
Patron saint of Scotland, Apostle, brother of Saint Peter, whatever, he's the reason that I decided to make 'tablet' yesterday.
Now for those of you that are new to the world of Scottish confectionary, tablet is basically sugar, more sugar, condensed milk, butter and sweetened with sugar.

Ironically I ended up following an American recipie as the Scottish ones I could find on t'internet went along the lines of "throw all your ingredients in a pan, boil it, that's it done".

The problem seems to be that only old grannies know the timings involved in making this most calorie controlled diet unfriendly of sweets. Pour the mixture too soon and it won't set right, boil it too long and it turns into a substance rivalled only by carbon fibre in it's strength to weight ratio.

Mine ended up SO hard that I could cut diamonds with it.
Tastes nice though, just dont expect to swallow any of it.

I Hate People

. . . especially the people who work in the marketing department of Busters Motorcycle Accesories.
I bought something from them about 4 years ago and since then I have received enough unsolicited mail from them, electronic or otherwise, that would fill a bin bag, virtual or real.

I have clicked on the "unsubscribe" button more times than I can remember.
I have left scathing remarks in the "please tell us why you wish to unsubscribe" box.
I have emailed them directly.
I have even phoned them, begging, pleading not to be sent any more junk from them.

The postman has just been at my door, dropping of his usual pile of bills and, lo and behold, the latest Busters Motorcycle Accesories catalogue.

I now see that I have no alternative but to make the long journey to Swansea in Wales and do a Michael Douglas 'Falling Down' reenactment


PS - It's almost the season "to be jolly", and nothing makes me jollier than other people's misfortune, so join with me in enjoying the aquatic antics of those crazy Ukranian ice swimmers.
(It's funnier with the volume turned up.)

Heroes (No, not the tv show)

Fit looking South African thespian tottie Charlize Theron is to become a United Nations "messenger for peace".

Great.

I can't think of anything more worthy than yet another celebrity, most famous for being pretty, travelling the planet telling people "hey, can't we all just get along?"

According to Yahoo news "In her new role she will join the nine other UN messengers of peace: Israeli conductor Daniel Barenboim, American actors George Clooney and Michael Douglas, Nobel Peace Prize winner for literature Elie Wiesel, Chinese-American cellist Yo-Yo Ma, British primatologist Jane Goodall, Princess Haya Bint Al Hussein of Jordan, Brazilian writer Paulo Coelho and Japanese violinist Midori Goto."

Now I'm sure that like me, you're all accutely aware of the vital work that these personalities have done in . . . erm . . . the important issues that they've . . . er . . . highlighted on . . . eh . . . on the . . .

Well I can't remember all the details, but I'm SURE that they've all been working really, really hard on whatever it is that Ban Ki-Moon says it is that they do.
For example, as soon a someone mentions the name "George Clooney" I immediately think 'humanitarian', and if I see a photo of Michael Douglas I don't think of him banging Glenn Close, oh no, I think of all the charitable pro-am golf tournaments that he and his wife Cathy ZayJay play in solely to raise awareness of . . . . . stuff.

*These poeple aren't celebrities, they're Saints.




*This is called sarcasm. Use it.

Under House Arrest

I am currently unwell.
I have a chest and nasal infection and feel thoroughly miserable. I've been coughing my lungs out for the last two days and my nose is running like a leaky tap, it just won't stop.
I decided yesterday that I wouldn't be going in to work today, I really don't feel up to it and don't fancy passing on my misery to my colleagues, therefore I've had the pleasure of daytime television keeping me company today.

This is not a good thing.

I'm not really sure who daytime tv is aimed at, women probably. It's universally terrible, no matter what channel you happen to be on. Be it Phillip and Fern on 'This Morning' or the living hell that is 'The Paul O'Grady Show', it's all complete shite.
Thankfully, Virgin Media and Sky TV are good friends again so Sky News has saved the day.

Nothing like universal doom and gloom to make you feel better.

Top Tottie Tuesday: Nov '08

This months unattainable tantric yoga partner is the lovely Jessica Biel.

I've mentioned my "appreciation" for Miss Biel before, just over a year ago in fact, but she's definitely worth a second look.
A model, a singer, an actress and a woman that looks just as good leaving the gym with no make up and sweaty armpits as she is strolling down the red carpet for a Hollywood première. Is there no end to her talents?

She's been in a good few movies by now and, in my opinion, she's given a good account of herself, but she has also been in two of the worst films of all time, 'Blade:Trinity' in 2004 and 'Stealth' in 2005, stinkers both of the highest order.
She's currently hated by women the world over for being the personal 'squeeze' of Justin Timberlake, but that just shows me that underneath all the manufactured personna he actually has good taste.

Well done young man, I salute you and despise you in equal measure.

Moore's Law

Purely by accident, tonight I caught the Michael Moore documentary 'Sicko'.
If you haven't seen it, it's been out now for just over a year, it's about the American healthcare system and predominantly the HMO companies that have the power, quite literally, of life and death over the citizens of the good ol' US of A.

I know Michael Moore has his critics, and only a fool would believe that his stunts aren't scripted or staged, but you can't argue with the powerful message that he gets across.

He spends time here in the UK to take a look at the NHS and marvels at the concept of free heathcare for all.
Now I spent 7 years working within the NHS and I always considered it to be like an old decrepit dog, lurching from one cash crisis to the next, waiting for someone to put it down, but after watching Mr Moore's Docu-movie, I have to admit, right now I'm feeling the love for the National Health Service.

I, touch wood, don't have much need for it myself, but my father is currently being treated for cancer and I dread to think how much the radiotherapy and chemotherapy that he's receiving would cost across the pond.

I suddenly feel lucky.

Jimmy B.

Well I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Much has been written about the latest instalment of the James Bond franchise, Quantum Of Solace, and a lot of it has been negative, so last night The Demon and I decided to see for ourselves.
I felt that the director wanted the plot to be slightly ambiguous right from the start, leaving you wondering for a good portion of the film where Bond's loyalties really lay. None of this really matters though, as at it's core it's just a good old fashioned thriller.
What it definitely isn't is a James Bond film, not in the traditional sense anyway, although this probably says more about my age and less about the film.
Bond films, like the Carry On films, were stand alone works that didn't rely on the audience having seen the previous film to follow the plot. They featured aristocratic and extrovert villains who almost always intended to take over/destroy the world, they featured gadgetry that, to my mind at least, always seemed pointless, let alone far fetched or futuristic and they always had a dastardly plan that could only ever be thwarted by an undercover spy who everyone knew and whose sole talent seemed to be his ability to get his end away with almost any woman he met.

Fantastic stuff.

Quantum Of Solace on the other hand, like Casino Royale before it, brings Bond bang up to date. The days of fat Chinese butlers with hats that could take your head off, tall men with metal teeth and guns made of precious metal are long gone, as they should be, this is Bond 2.0 after all, but I can't help mourning the loss of the comedy.
James Bond films always had moments that played for laughs, never delivered better than by Roger Moore, but NeoBond has none of this.
Daniel Craig himself is perfect as the agent for the 21st century and certainly does his bit to take Ian Fleming's character to places that no Bond has been before, having a conscience being one, but I can't help feeling sorry for any actress who plays a bond girl, they are instantly forgettable and totally disposable. When the improbably named Strawberry Fields, played by Gemma Arterton, bites the dust, I found myself struggling to remember what she looked like.
The rest of the film has its faults of course. It's quite short at only 106 minutes and product placement by the Ford Group is absolutely rife, but as I said right at the start, I enjoyed Quantum Of Solace, helped in no small measure by watching Casino Royale on Friday afternoon before heading off to the cinema, but lets be clear . . .

Bond is dead.
Long live Bond.

Hair

As you can see, I don't have much of it.
In fact, I often consider taking an open bladed razor and getting rid of what's left of it, but The Demon has told me that a separation will swiftly follow. Apparently another tattoo would illicit the same response also.

I digress.
I always had thin hair and started to go bald in my late teens, but once I reached my late twenties the progression of my forehead seemed to stop and I've been the same level of "baldiness" since then, I just cut it shorter now.

It used to be such a big deal, the one thing I hated about myself, that I'd change if I could, but one morning I woke up and realised that I'd been a bit of a tit.
My friends weren't my friends because of my hair, the girls I'd shared 'moments' with didn't warp my fragile little mind because I had a cool hairstyle covering it, no one cared except me, so I immediately bought a set of clippers, stuck the shortest guage on the end of them, and shaved the whole lot off.
The relief was immeasurable.
The only thing worse than going bald is pretending you're not.

Nowadays I love having my hair as short as possible, it's just SO convenient and easy to live with. I wake up in the morning and hay presto, I'm ready to go. No faffing about with product.
A quick once over once a week and the job's done.

But...

In the last two or three years my body has exploded in a hair growing frenzy the likes of which I haven't seen since my plums dropped way back when Bon Jovi were still 'Livin' On A Prayer'.

My ears, the back of my hands, my nostrils, one eyebrow, the mole on the back of my neck, and especially my fucking big toes, all have hairs sprouting from them like something from An American Werewolf In London.
I'm not sure what forces of nature I'm supposed to confront in my late thirties that would necessitate such follicle over production, but it's good to know I'm covered should the event take place. My big toes alone look like Nigel Mansell's eybrows have somehow been grafted onto them.

Damn you pituitary gland, get your house in order!

Cheerio

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye . . .

Infected With A Poison

Just when you thought it was safe to go into your email . . .

Steve has "kindly" tagged me again for yet another of the memes that are doing the rounds at the moment, although this one is relatively simple.

Name your most embarrassing record/cd/track ever.

Easy.
I ripped all my cd's into iTunes many years ago and it conveniently has a play counter so you can see how many times you've listened to any one track. All I'll say is that the one that I'm cringing over has had 317 moments of glory.

Is it 'What is love' by Haddaway?
No.
Is it 'Human Nature' by Gary Clail and The On-U Sound System?
Not even close.
Is it 'Real Love' by The Time Frequency?
Nope, although having just listened to those three tracks again, I'm wondering what the fuck I was thinking about during my dance phase.

In fact it's 'Out Of Touch' by Daryl Hall & John Oates from their snappily titled 1984 album 'Big Bam Boom'.

I love this song, I'm not sure why, but I have at least 5 versions of it, from vinyl to cd to mp3.
It's still fantastic today, and if I've had a few drinkypoos then I'll happily sing along at the top of my voice, imagining that I'm hirsute Daryl himself, strawberry blond locks flowing on the wind.
Damn, he had good hair!

I never really liked anything else they did, and in fact the rest of Big Bam Boom is utter shite, but Out Of Touch . . . a moment of genius.
Both men still tour and perform together as Hall & Oates, but both have diversified in later life. Daryl Hall now restores and preserves historic buildings and homes, both here in the UK and in America, and John Oates is a midget in the circus.

Enjoy, you can thank me later.


Ok, lets hear it Jaggy, Roman Empress, Misssy and EmmaK

Good vs Evil

Let the games begin!

Rent-A-Ghost

My friends, today I speak to you from the depths of my latest hangover, and it's a very dark place indeed.

Last night saw the Batman costume being wheeled out again for what may be it's last public appearance. It has served me well over the last couple of years, but I think it's time to consider something new.
The party at The Big 5 kicked off around 7:30 last night, with a host of costumed tomfoolery taking place.
We had witches in abundance, a couple of ghouls, John Rambo, a particularly convincing Heath Ledger, a sexy wee fairy and even an Alex DeLarge from A Clockwork Orange, although it had to be explained to most of the party goers who he was.

All in all, my friend Adrenaline Rush and his lovely wife BatClaire threw a top shindig, but if you don't mind I'm going to lie on the couch now for the rest of the day.

Toodle pip.