Party games!
Binty’s come up with a good one; a POPTASTIC sing-along-a lyrics quiz.
and you’ve to guess the tune and or singer. There will be prizes.
Right. You go first. Oh all right then, I’ll start.
1] “…I saw the light on the night that I passed by her window…”
won by PAT. Tom Jones Delilah
2] “…have you heard, it’s in the stars, next July we collide with Mars…”
Won by PAT. Frank and Bing from Philadelphia Story
3] “R: I like the city of San Juan…A: I know a boat you can get on…”
America! From West side story!
4] “…and I ride and I ride, I ride through the city tonight…”
won by Andraste, Iggy Pop, the Passenger
5] “…I could yawn and be withdrawn and watch them gallop by..”
What a waste, Ian Drury and the Blockheads
6] “…yellow tigers crouch in jungles in her dark eyes..”
White Room by Cream
7] “…down in the valley she was saving the best for last…”
Dani California by Red hot Chilli Peppers!
8] “…cold as ice cream but still as sweet…”
won by Sam. Blodie, Sunday Girl
9] “…when your head stops, and your body is still, there ain’t no crying at [song title]” Top of the Hill, Family.
10] “…let me put my hands on you, let me put my…hands…on…you…”
Faithhealer! Alex Harvey Band
11] “…I forget myself, I want you to remind me…”
Won by andraste i touch myself by Divinyls
12] “…no more teachers, no more boooks,…”
Won by Pat. Alice Cooper School's Out.
13] “…you feel it, running through your bones…”
Jerk it out! by what they called, Caesars!
14] “…Well I hope Neil Young will remember, a southern man don’t need him around anyhow…”
Won by sam, Sweet Home Alabama, Lynyrd Skynyrd
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Saturday, September 30, 2006
It’s a new concept, one of my own I think, and one which has caused much excitement round here I can tell you.
Scattered across all points of the compass and 24 time zones as we obviously are, the party will have to last the whole weekend or until somebody, probably the police, spoils it for everyone.
So, come in, come in. This is the place. Throw your coat over the teenagers in the spare room and get yourself a drink from the kitchen.
Drinks: Now obviously we must supply our own wherever we are. I FINALLY found a supplier (Morrisons) of Crème de Cassis de Dijon so I’m on KIRS.
Guests: to make the party go a bit, I’ve invited all the 6.2 billion people who live on the planet. If it gets too crowded, we can bail out to Barney’s. Also, Richard and his wife are coming up tonight, so he will definitely make a comment or two, I’m sure of it. But, because he is gauche and utterly socially inept, he will probably say things like;
“get stuffed!”
or
“Dr Maroon works for…”
You know the kind of childish thing. We must ignore him, he doesn’t get out.
Now it’s a bit early here, even for me, it’s only 07:05 BST and I have an errand to run, but if it suits you wherever you are, just get wired in. I’ll soon catch up.
Wait, I’ll stick a record on, James Last or Dave Brubeck or something. Just as muzak while we loosen up a bit.
Bottoms Up! Nostrovia! Down Der Hatchen!
Sainte! καλή υγεία! Mud in Yer Eye! 환호!
Buona salute! богатырскя здоровье! 身體好!
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Thursday Rant.
SUVs. Dontcha hate them?
There is something despicable about SUVs. It’s the mentality. It’s a symptom of defence, protection, withdrawal. There is an inherent simplistic immaturity about those who drive them. A dullness, a predictability, a poverty of ambition, a lack of imagination, a sheepish willingness to believe the marketers that a jeep will solve their deep rooted psychological problems of inadequacy, that’s what it is.
It’s not only that; they are a hopelessly over engineered solution to the problem of personal transport.
It used to be Mercs didn‘t it?
Although to be fair, there was always something a little disreputable about a Merc. It was an English class thing. Mercs were new money.
They still really annoyed me.
They were so heavy, they needed a lorry engine to haul their Germanic carcasses round the streets, just so their dullard drivers could look out on the non Merc world.
Not now. The Mercedes is a tinny piece of chav junk now.
Common as muck.
The three pointed star is like Burberry. Naff.
All my friends (four) drive totally nondescript old hatchbacks and saloons. The fact we choose to spend all our money on drink is neither here nor there.
My other friend Richard, the finance director, has a Mercedes SUV.
You couldn’t make it up.
His wife, an utter gem, hates it, because it’s agricultural and too high up and awkward to park in the crappy spaces you get in carparks these days. She really did take a wrong turn when she married that oaf.
Post script.
Here is a quote from the page that I got that picture from:
“The only drawback I found to the interior is the presence of a confusing new shift lever on the steering column, which places the gear stops at points that most drivers will find unfamiliar. I found myself engaged in Reverse when I really thought I was in Park. Park is engaged by pressing in a button on the lever.”
God bless us and save us all.
Post, postscript.
I wonder how many of you read the postscript above in that nasal "white man" voice so beloved of Eddie Murphy.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
The strangest thing happened this morning.
There I was in the sitooterie, having a java, singing to myself…
“oh roamin’ in the gloamin’, by the bonny banks o’ Clyde,
roamin’ in the gloamin’ wi a lassie --- what the bloomin’ heck is that?..”
A tiny humming bird had arrived and was flitting around the trailing fuchsia (wonderful display this year).
A tiny hummingbird? In Perthshire? In September? Are you quite insane?
‘My God! The lobsters will be back soon. Damn you absinthe! Damn you straight to hell!’ I thought.
But no! It was a hummingbird moth. The first I’ve seen in Britain.
That was not the remarkable thing however. The remarkable thing was that to confirm my identification, I googled it, only to find that there is a huge underground hummingbird moth movement with dedicated websites and forums.
Imagine, while honest folk like us, go about our bona fide business in the blog world, under the surface, a shadowy organisation of hummingbird moth lovers use these same pages for their filthy purposes. I might have to join.
I will return after a proper breakfast and tons more coffee.
There I was in the sitooterie, having a java, singing to myself…
“oh roamin’ in the gloamin’, by the bonny banks o’ Clyde,
roamin’ in the gloamin’ wi a lassie --- what the bloomin’ heck is that?..”
A tiny humming bird had arrived and was flitting around the trailing fuchsia (wonderful display this year).
A tiny hummingbird? In Perthshire? In September? Are you quite insane?
‘My God! The lobsters will be back soon. Damn you absinthe! Damn you straight to hell!’ I thought.
But no! It was a hummingbird moth. The first I’ve seen in Britain.
That was not the remarkable thing however. The remarkable thing was that to confirm my identification, I googled it, only to find that there is a huge underground hummingbird moth movement with dedicated websites and forums.
Imagine, while honest folk like us, go about our bona fide business in the blog world, under the surface, a shadowy organisation of hummingbird moth lovers use these same pages for their filthy purposes. I might have to join.
I will return after a proper breakfast and tons more coffee.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Cue music, the Grieg, you know the one, the peaceful, dawn-breaking one……
Come gentles, for morning sunlight is streaming through the shutters, sending stripy shadows over the superb feline curves of our heroine still abed.
We may look and wonder. Indeed, if there be men with blood in their veins among us, then wonder we must, but sshh, all should be quiet as a mouse.
Look, she sleeps on yet…
…Captain Barney, most dashing in sea boots, britches and baggy white blouson, stood one foot upon the scuppers and turned his piercing blue-grey, hazel eyes towards the eastern horizon.
At that moment, a wind, soft as a zephyr from Araby, swept across the bay with the tide. The captain filled his chest, hungrily gulping down the air as a fallen Rechabite might an honest ale.
Still in her shift, Fatmammycat emerged on deck beside him, and as she did, the gentle breeze took her glorious mane of hair and sent it billowing out over the rail as fine as any admiral’s pennant, while its warm insistence pressed the thin fabric of her nightshirt against the contours of her delicious body. The captain turned and took her in his manly arms.
“Oh Barney.” she breathed.
“Oh Cat.” he sighed, “where do you keep your black pudding?
Sound of needle skating across vinyl.
“Wha?”
“And I can’t find any HP, don’t tell me you’re out of it.”
“Hennessy! I was having a lovely dream there.” She yawned.
“Oh? Was I in it?” shouted Hennessy, pulling pans from a cupboard with much clattering.
***
Cardinal McShae pushed back his seat and stubbed out his cigarette. He immediately took another from the packet, lighting it in one fluid movement born of long habit.
He tapped the packet with impatience. From his office high in the basilica, he looked down on the tourists, (they hadn’t had a bona fide pilgrim for ages), as they swarmed over the square waiting for the Angelus.
‘If they knew what I knew…” he thought and shuddered.
He absentmindedly took another cigarette from the packet, Navy Cut Capstan Full Strength, lit it, then realising his mistake, stubbed it out with an oath.
“God forgive me.” he muttered.
Come gentles, for morning sunlight is streaming through the shutters, sending stripy shadows over the superb feline curves of our heroine still abed.
We may look and wonder. Indeed, if there be men with blood in their veins among us, then wonder we must, but sshh, all should be quiet as a mouse.
Look, she sleeps on yet…
…Captain Barney, most dashing in sea boots, britches and baggy white blouson, stood one foot upon the scuppers and turned his piercing blue-grey, hazel eyes towards the eastern horizon.
At that moment, a wind, soft as a zephyr from Araby, swept across the bay with the tide. The captain filled his chest, hungrily gulping down the air as a fallen Rechabite might an honest ale.
Still in her shift, Fatmammycat emerged on deck beside him, and as she did, the gentle breeze took her glorious mane of hair and sent it billowing out over the rail as fine as any admiral’s pennant, while its warm insistence pressed the thin fabric of her nightshirt against the contours of her delicious body. The captain turned and took her in his manly arms.
“Oh Barney.” she breathed.
“Oh Cat.” he sighed, “where do you keep your black pudding?
Sound of needle skating across vinyl.
“Wha?”
“And I can’t find any HP, don’t tell me you’re out of it.”
“Hennessy! I was having a lovely dream there.” She yawned.
“Oh? Was I in it?” shouted Hennessy, pulling pans from a cupboard with much clattering.
***
Cardinal McShae pushed back his seat and stubbed out his cigarette. He immediately took another from the packet, lighting it in one fluid movement born of long habit.
He tapped the packet with impatience. From his office high in the basilica, he looked down on the tourists, (they hadn’t had a bona fide pilgrim for ages), as they swarmed over the square waiting for the Angelus.
‘If they knew what I knew…” he thought and shuddered.
He absentmindedly took another cigarette from the packet, Navy Cut Capstan Full Strength, lit it, then realising his mistake, stubbed it out with an oath.
“God forgive me.” he muttered.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
I wish I had one of those weather-maps so I could superimpose lots of zigzag lines showing where I’ve been hiding this last sevendays. I truly do. But since other people’s tribulations are as interesting as their dreams or their children’s O Level results, I shan’t.
Hotel corridors smell. Their dining areas smell the whole thing merges into a great big fat hairy Trust House Forte hellhole with full English at the buffet breakfast bar upgraded school dinner in the Windsor function suite washed down with some filthy wine served by smiling courteous hatefilled Poles.
Young Polish are moderately goodlooking and yet somehow not. Have you noticed that? They are and they aren’t good looking. A puzzle to be solved. There’s no pretty ones. Striking ones. None that you would think “Hey, it would be nice to run off somewhere with that big thing.” They are Godamned averaged-out clones with moderately attractive physiognomies.
We let them down badly in the war.
Face fixed into rictus grins for my drinking fellows in the hotel bars oh all directors of this or that good suits good shoes no rubbish good smalltalk good talkers yet everyone of them living the life of a sad commercial traveller.
Yes BAe Systems (Bradley Fighting Vehicle among others) has decided to sell its share in Airbus, Rolls cancels opening of new Scottish repair facility, A380 delivery slips back again because airlines can’t make up their minds on options OR AI gave them too much choice in the first place and then the general turmoil of air travel but only FROM Britain.
Rightso, who’s for a snifter? Come on, don’t be shy.
Sing out there! What’ll it be?
I’m having one.
Too right I am.
Hotel corridors smell. Their dining areas smell the whole thing merges into a great big fat hairy Trust House Forte hellhole with full English at the buffet breakfast bar upgraded school dinner in the Windsor function suite washed down with some filthy wine served by smiling courteous hatefilled Poles.
Young Polish are moderately goodlooking and yet somehow not. Have you noticed that? They are and they aren’t good looking. A puzzle to be solved. There’s no pretty ones. Striking ones. None that you would think “Hey, it would be nice to run off somewhere with that big thing.” They are Godamned averaged-out clones with moderately attractive physiognomies.
We let them down badly in the war.
Face fixed into rictus grins for my drinking fellows in the hotel bars oh all directors of this or that good suits good shoes no rubbish good smalltalk good talkers yet everyone of them living the life of a sad commercial traveller.
Yes BAe Systems (Bradley Fighting Vehicle among others) has decided to sell its share in Airbus, Rolls cancels opening of new Scottish repair facility, A380 delivery slips back again because airlines can’t make up their minds on options OR AI gave them too much choice in the first place and then the general turmoil of air travel but only FROM Britain.
Rightso, who’s for a snifter? Come on, don’t be shy.
Sing out there! What’ll it be?
I’m having one.
Too right I am.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Hennessy found her sprawled on the strip maple floor of the penthouse. With great tenderness, he carried her lifeless form to the Louis Vuitton couch where she now relined in his strong arms. The lines of concern etched on his face melted as her eyes opened.
“What were they?“ She murmured, “they were so thin, -they seemed without fleshy substance, -skeletons almost.”
His reply, chilled her to the marrow:
“From what you said in your delirium. You have been most fortunate. There are many, great in renown, who have fallen to The Six. They are the Narmani-gul!
Once, they walked the earth as women, as real as you, but they were swayed by the hollow gifts of The Necromancer. Style, panache, grace, a local branch of Harvey Nicks: all these things he promised them. But ever in his malice, there was a cost. The price they paid was terrible.
They are condemned now to wander the land, surviving on rocket salad and weak spritzers. The Dark Lord himself controls them through the pages of aspirational magazines. From now on, you must not show your Versace accessories or Tifanny jewellery. It draws them. They can smell it.”
“Bling wraiths!” wailed Fatmammycat.
“Aye.” nodded Hennessy sadly, “and now you are known to them.”
“What am I to do? They want my summer collection! Will you keep it safe for me?” she asked.
Hennessy shrank back from her as if scalded.
“No Cat!” He exclaimed, ”in my hands it could end up in Asda or K-Mart!”
At these words, a window blew open putting some of the scented candles out.
“Ronnie Hennessy! Said Fatmammycat in alarm, “never have those words been spoken in this fair place. Speak not that tongue here in the hours of darkness.”
“Yet I make no apology Cat.” he replied, “if we are to win through, we shall hear worse than that before our trial is over.
This much is clear. You must come with me to Rome: Cardinal McShae will know what to do.”
And with that, he stood and took a bottle of Jägermeister from the freezer. He poured two measures of the smoking liquid, handing one to Fatmammycat.
They drank in candlelit silence.
“What were they?“ She murmured, “they were so thin, -they seemed without fleshy substance, -skeletons almost.”
His reply, chilled her to the marrow:
“From what you said in your delirium. You have been most fortunate. There are many, great in renown, who have fallen to The Six. They are the Narmani-gul!
Once, they walked the earth as women, as real as you, but they were swayed by the hollow gifts of The Necromancer. Style, panache, grace, a local branch of Harvey Nicks: all these things he promised them. But ever in his malice, there was a cost. The price they paid was terrible.
They are condemned now to wander the land, surviving on rocket salad and weak spritzers. The Dark Lord himself controls them through the pages of aspirational magazines. From now on, you must not show your Versace accessories or Tifanny jewellery. It draws them. They can smell it.”
“Bling wraiths!” wailed Fatmammycat.
“Aye.” nodded Hennessy sadly, “and now you are known to them.”
“What am I to do? They want my summer collection! Will you keep it safe for me?” she asked.
Hennessy shrank back from her as if scalded.
“No Cat!” He exclaimed, ”in my hands it could end up in Asda or K-Mart!”
At these words, a window blew open putting some of the scented candles out.
“Ronnie Hennessy! Said Fatmammycat in alarm, “never have those words been spoken in this fair place. Speak not that tongue here in the hours of darkness.”
“Yet I make no apology Cat.” he replied, “if we are to win through, we shall hear worse than that before our trial is over.
This much is clear. You must come with me to Rome: Cardinal McShae will know what to do.”
And with that, he stood and took a bottle of Jägermeister from the freezer. He poured two measures of the smoking liquid, handing one to Fatmammycat.
They drank in candlelit silence.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Fatmammycat gunned the Maserati round the cobbles in a skitter of squeals.
The private show had gone well. Very well indeed. She patted the sharkskin portfolio on the passenger seat beside her. They had lapped it all up. This time next year, fashion week would be toasting FMC Internationale as the new black. In five years, street markets across the continent would be awash with Chinese counterfeits of her new label. She had arrived.
In the basement carpark, Fatmammycat pressed for the penthouse elevator.
As she did, some of the lights flickered and went out. She instinctively moved away from the wall, into some space on the floor.
In a rush of black silken taffeta they were upon her. Six of them. Fashion Ninjas, and by their scent and Paris manicures they were D & G. Obviously.
“No matter what,” she thought, taking up her defensive stance, “they must not get those designs.”
At Milan airport, Ronnie Hennessy relaxed into the backseat of a taxi.
“Piazza Del Santa Maria” he ordered.
They circled her, feigning attacks, trying to draw her out. She stood her ground, waiting her chance.
The elevator pinged.
“Now or never” she thought.
Before the weighted handbags started to rain down, she pushed through to the lift which now stood with its doors open, then turned to face them. None of them dared approach the cornered feline in such an enclosed space, but instead gathered just out of claw reach, mewling and posing and striking the right attitude with what light was available, cursing her most foully.
“Marks and Spencer,” said one, her faultless teeth framed in beautiful full lips now twisted into an erotic pout.
“Come on come on!” thought Fatmammycat as she stabbed in the code that would take her home to safety.
“Top Shop.” said another, running her hand down her waist to rest on her hip, accentuating the superb cut and workmanship of her outfit.
“Jesus,” Thought Fatmammycat as the doors started to close with treacle slowness.
When the gap was less than a foot, the tallest of them, their leader presumably, leaned her impeccable upturned nose in to deliver her venomous barb.
“T K Maxx!” she hissed.
“Oh Christ nooo” Fatmammycat heard herself say as her world spun and the merciful embrace of unconsciousness took her in its yummy arms.
The private show had gone well. Very well indeed. She patted the sharkskin portfolio on the passenger seat beside her. They had lapped it all up. This time next year, fashion week would be toasting FMC Internationale as the new black. In five years, street markets across the continent would be awash with Chinese counterfeits of her new label. She had arrived.
In the basement carpark, Fatmammycat pressed for the penthouse elevator.
As she did, some of the lights flickered and went out. She instinctively moved away from the wall, into some space on the floor.
In a rush of black silken taffeta they were upon her. Six of them. Fashion Ninjas, and by their scent and Paris manicures they were D & G. Obviously.
“No matter what,” she thought, taking up her defensive stance, “they must not get those designs.”
At Milan airport, Ronnie Hennessy relaxed into the backseat of a taxi.
“Piazza Del Santa Maria” he ordered.
They circled her, feigning attacks, trying to draw her out. She stood her ground, waiting her chance.
The elevator pinged.
“Now or never” she thought.
Before the weighted handbags started to rain down, she pushed through to the lift which now stood with its doors open, then turned to face them. None of them dared approach the cornered feline in such an enclosed space, but instead gathered just out of claw reach, mewling and posing and striking the right attitude with what light was available, cursing her most foully.
“Marks and Spencer,” said one, her faultless teeth framed in beautiful full lips now twisted into an erotic pout.
“Come on come on!” thought Fatmammycat as she stabbed in the code that would take her home to safety.
“Top Shop.” said another, running her hand down her waist to rest on her hip, accentuating the superb cut and workmanship of her outfit.
“Jesus,” Thought Fatmammycat as the doors started to close with treacle slowness.
When the gap was less than a foot, the tallest of them, their leader presumably, leaned her impeccable upturned nose in to deliver her venomous barb.
“T K Maxx!” she hissed.
“Oh Christ nooo” Fatmammycat heard herself say as her world spun and the merciful embrace of unconsciousness took her in its yummy arms.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
In a white room,
with black curtains,
at the station,
Was going to talk about Scottish Meat and how it’s The Best in The World, but I’ve just come from The Japing Ape and it all seems nonsensical.
We live in interesting times my friends. The nights are drawing in after one of the best summers ever and our minds will inevitably turn back to our black art of BLOGGING.
Vaporise Barney has decamped and good luck to him.
He still made me laugh the loudest. He had something to say and the bastard gave himself the best lines. Of all the blogs, I identified with him the most.
It’s a drinking, seen a bit, had the corners knocked off, kinda thing.
One day, when you’re like me, you’ll understand.
Christ he was good. Hey! Get over it.
Hutton and his acolyte Noreen have hit an unfortunate purple patch. I say unfortunate because this is The Republic. I shall have no truck with them.
Brewski’s back, which is excellent. It’s like the swallows or house martins, except it’s out of sinc. But fairplay to him. He is a pinnacle. We can see him from afar. There isn’t many you can say that for, now is there?
I won’t mention FMC. I can’t sleep while there is an ague in her bones.
But throughout, and without the slightest slip, Gorilla Bananas has continued like some immutable standard.
e.g. ‘Diana’.
I am at a total loss as to how this is possible but there it is.
Not quite a year ago, I handed out the first ever Maroons. Awards for what I thought were the best blogs and commenters.
Bananas won Best Blog.
I’m having an INTERNET PARTY on the first anniversary of Cape To Rio. What I thought we’d all do is sit at our machines wherever in the wide world we are, with a bottle, and just get pie eyed drunk making all sorts of rash comments along the lines of:
“Leave him FMC/Sheba/Sarah/Lindy/Andraste/Sam and come and live with me in poverty in Scotland” sort of thing
I’ll send out the invites don’t worry.
Oh. And all the rest that haven’t been mentioned, come on, we all know who we are and that there isn’t a bunch comes anywhere close.
See! This is the worst of it. I assume we are so vain and up our own arses when it might just be me.
Anyhoo, HERE is the list of the best blogs on the web. NOT IN ORDER. Just the arbitrary way I put them in the stencil. (template) If I missed you out it aint personal.
The Japing Ape(BEST Blog)
The Anti-Barney
CLAIRWIL
Just ask Anti! (AGONY)
Foot Eater !
Kim Ayres
Sir Kim
Justin Barker
The Lord Goldenshowers
Manuel Stimulation
The Safety Inspector
Dr McCrumble's bookcase
Jagd KUNST
Ms Redhead
Leilouta
CHARLIE HARVEY
MONSTEE!!
Daphne Wayne-Bough
PI Pat's Past Imperfect
LINDY-K
SheBah (QUEEN OF)
SAM-problemchild
Brewski
Binty McShae
Andraste
Doctor EVIL
Fatmammycat (15)
SARAH LAUGHS
Hungbunny
Twenty Major
JOKEMAIL
EL BARBUDO!
List update.
The list of the best blogs should be THE SAME as the links list opposite. By definition. Somehow (by my own hamfistedness) I’ve contrived to miss out LEILOUTA, Kellius, Mr McGuinness, and by a quirk of fate, my own fab tribute site. Cape Trio.
If your site is not on the LINKS LIST it just means I haven’t got there yet. So long as you bring records or cider or mild recreational stimulants or better yet some girls, you will be welcome at the soiree. (Details to follow)
I shall now try and type out some snappy replies to your comments in the comments section.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
The Beggars' Banquet
Commissioner Conroy strode across the room to welcome his visitor. Handshakes over, both men sat, taking their ease in familiar silence at the window overlooking Phoenix Park.
The commissioner waited for his political master.
“O.K. Noel, where are we up to?”
Conroy counted off the points on the fingers of his hand:
“We have total deniability. Miller’s in Spain with the dossier, he’s due back tonight. The decoys left yesterday, they should be in Italy tomorrow…”
“Where are they now?” asked the politician.
“God knows. They flew Ryanair.”
The politician allowed himself a sudden bark of a laugh before seeking his clarification:
“And you’re confident they will sow confusion in the manner that we want?”
“Trust me, that pair could fuck up a game of ludo without trying but we’ll keep kicking their arses in the right direction.” Conroy replied.
There was no laugh this time.
“And the other feller, what’s his name, Hennessy? Does he need anything ? Is there anything I can provide?” asked the politician, now very much, the only Prime Minister in the room.
Conroy, realising too late his earlier freedom, paused to consider his answer:
“He will suffice.”
Hennessy put down the folder, careful not to betray his excitement at the revelations he had just read. He unfolded the black return envelope from the inside cover and following the instructions, put the folder in, then closed and signed the security strip, before pushing it back across the table.
‘So,’ he thought, ‘even Max is out the loop on this one.’
He couldn’t decide if that pleased or disturbed him.
Max stowed the packet away, and as if reading Hennessy’s mind, said:
“I do know this much. Your first stop is The Vatican. You have an appointment tomorrow with Cardinal McShae of their secret service. Be careful of him.”
“What is he? Swiss Guard? Jesuit?” asked Hennessy.
Max shook his head, “K. O. M.”
“Here, take this,” he said, sliding Hennessy a clear plastic wallet of banknotes.
“It’s to be cash all the way from now on. Don’t use a card. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see a man about a dog.”
Hennessy watched as Max, satchel slung like a bandolier, made his way through the tables to the washroom in the gloomy interior of the bar.
He didn’t come back.
A peal of laughter from the tour group in the corner prompted Hennessy to take a quick professional scan of his fellow patrons. The place was filling up. Mass must be over. The Feast of the Assumption would be in full swing soon.
The tour leader was gathering his group about him. Advising them their bus had arrived to take them back to their ship.
“Dinner dance tonight everyone, and this time tomorrow we’ll be in Italy!“
They all cheered. They had an infectious end of term jollity which only threw into relief what lay before Hennessy. But that path led nowhere so he checked his Bulgari. Still plenty of time. He would catch this evening’s plane to Milan, take the Maserati if Cat hadn’t wrapped it round a tree by now, and he could be in Rome by 2am. On second thoughts, the road to Rome was good, he could catch up with Cat tonight and still be in Rome with time to spare…if he left early enough.
With that thought, he smiled as if for the first time.
Commissioner Conroy strode across the room to welcome his visitor. Handshakes over, both men sat, taking their ease in familiar silence at the window overlooking Phoenix Park.
The commissioner waited for his political master.
“O.K. Noel, where are we up to?”
Conroy counted off the points on the fingers of his hand:
“We have total deniability. Miller’s in Spain with the dossier, he’s due back tonight. The decoys left yesterday, they should be in Italy tomorrow…”
“Where are they now?” asked the politician.
“God knows. They flew Ryanair.”
The politician allowed himself a sudden bark of a laugh before seeking his clarification:
“And you’re confident they will sow confusion in the manner that we want?”
“Trust me, that pair could fuck up a game of ludo without trying but we’ll keep kicking their arses in the right direction.” Conroy replied.
There was no laugh this time.
“And the other feller, what’s his name, Hennessy? Does he need anything ? Is there anything I can provide?” asked the politician, now very much, the only Prime Minister in the room.
Conroy, realising too late his earlier freedom, paused to consider his answer:
“He will suffice.”
Hennessy put down the folder, careful not to betray his excitement at the revelations he had just read. He unfolded the black return envelope from the inside cover and following the instructions, put the folder in, then closed and signed the security strip, before pushing it back across the table.
‘So,’ he thought, ‘even Max is out the loop on this one.’
He couldn’t decide if that pleased or disturbed him.
Max stowed the packet away, and as if reading Hennessy’s mind, said:
“I do know this much. Your first stop is The Vatican. You have an appointment tomorrow with Cardinal McShae of their secret service. Be careful of him.”
“What is he? Swiss Guard? Jesuit?” asked Hennessy.
Max shook his head, “K. O. M.”
“Here, take this,” he said, sliding Hennessy a clear plastic wallet of banknotes.
“It’s to be cash all the way from now on. Don’t use a card. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see a man about a dog.”
Hennessy watched as Max, satchel slung like a bandolier, made his way through the tables to the washroom in the gloomy interior of the bar.
He didn’t come back.
A peal of laughter from the tour group in the corner prompted Hennessy to take a quick professional scan of his fellow patrons. The place was filling up. Mass must be over. The Feast of the Assumption would be in full swing soon.
The tour leader was gathering his group about him. Advising them their bus had arrived to take them back to their ship.
“Dinner dance tonight everyone, and this time tomorrow we’ll be in Italy!“
They all cheered. They had an infectious end of term jollity which only threw into relief what lay before Hennessy. But that path led nowhere so he checked his Bulgari. Still plenty of time. He would catch this evening’s plane to Milan, take the Maserati if Cat hadn’t wrapped it round a tree by now, and he could be in Rome by 2am. On second thoughts, the road to Rome was good, he could catch up with Cat tonight and still be in Rome with time to spare…if he left early enough.
With that thought, he smiled as if for the first time.
Friday, August 25, 2006
The Beggars' Banquet
At one of the more regional airports of our fine European Union, a plane has landed. On board, are two important people. From the thousands of hard working professional men and women who make up that august organisation, An Garda Siochana, they have been most carefully selected for this mission.
I’m calling it an airport, but it’s really a four kilometre strip with a white box at the side of it. The white box has something international airport written on it, but they’re not kidding anyone.
Their mission, which they have chosen to accept, is not unadjacent to the one that is being explained to our hero some 600 miles to the south west.
As the more astute of you will have realised, our hero is indeed Ronnie Hennessy, the Free State’s danger man.
Every country has them, of course they do: their man for a tight spot.
Equally at home in a white dinner jacket on the Cote d'Azur or a black donkey jacket in the Russian oilfields, when the going gets tough, you send in Hennessy.
***
Out on the Spanish terrace, the two men sat sipping their drinks in the sunshine. Just two family men off the hook for an hour, chewing the fat, smiling at waiter and passer-by alike.
“No way Max. I’m retired. You said so yourself.” started Hennessy.
“It doesn’t work that way and you know it.” replied Max.
“Why me anyway?” Hennessy asked, waving over more drinks. A cognac for him and a kir for Max.
“You were requested by name. Noel and Bertie were specific.”
said Max,
all the while avoiding eye contact by rummaging in his satchel. From it, he took a folder and placed it tantalisingly on the table next to his kir. Hennessy noted it was government green with the embossed golden harp on the cover. He saw too the unbroken security tabs.
You should have been an angler, Max. he thought.
Out loud, he said,
“Oh, Noel and Bertie is it now? My, haven’t we come up in the world? It wasn’t that long ago you needed my help with…”
“Look Ronnie,” said Max, interrupting, “we both know you’re going to do it, so why don’t we skip to the end?”
Hennessy smiled his best disarming smile and reached out for the proffered folder.
“Show.” he said.
***
As the plane ground to a halt at its stand far from the terminal, the older of the two defenders of the peace woke up and stared out the window at the shimmering heat.
“Where, in the name of Christ, is this?” he asked.
The younger of the two looked at his inflight map for a second before answering his superior.
“France?”
“Mally you are one fucking eedjit and that’s a fact!”
At one of the more regional airports of our fine European Union, a plane has landed. On board, are two important people. From the thousands of hard working professional men and women who make up that august organisation, An Garda Siochana, they have been most carefully selected for this mission.
I’m calling it an airport, but it’s really a four kilometre strip with a white box at the side of it. The white box has something international airport written on it, but they’re not kidding anyone.
Their mission, which they have chosen to accept, is not unadjacent to the one that is being explained to our hero some 600 miles to the south west.
As the more astute of you will have realised, our hero is indeed Ronnie Hennessy, the Free State’s danger man.
Every country has them, of course they do: their man for a tight spot.
Equally at home in a white dinner jacket on the Cote d'Azur or a black donkey jacket in the Russian oilfields, when the going gets tough, you send in Hennessy.
***
Out on the Spanish terrace, the two men sat sipping their drinks in the sunshine. Just two family men off the hook for an hour, chewing the fat, smiling at waiter and passer-by alike.
“No way Max. I’m retired. You said so yourself.” started Hennessy.
“It doesn’t work that way and you know it.” replied Max.
“Why me anyway?” Hennessy asked, waving over more drinks. A cognac for him and a kir for Max.
“You were requested by name. Noel and Bertie were specific.”
said Max,
all the while avoiding eye contact by rummaging in his satchel. From it, he took a folder and placed it tantalisingly on the table next to his kir. Hennessy noted it was government green with the embossed golden harp on the cover. He saw too the unbroken security tabs.
You should have been an angler, Max. he thought.
Out loud, he said,
“Oh, Noel and Bertie is it now? My, haven’t we come up in the world? It wasn’t that long ago you needed my help with…”
“Look Ronnie,” said Max, interrupting, “we both know you’re going to do it, so why don’t we skip to the end?”
Hennessy smiled his best disarming smile and reached out for the proffered folder.
“Show.” he said.
***
As the plane ground to a halt at its stand far from the terminal, the older of the two defenders of the peace woke up and stared out the window at the shimmering heat.
“Where, in the name of Christ, is this?” he asked.
The younger of the two looked at his inflight map for a second before answering his superior.
“France?”
“Mally you are one fucking eedjit and that’s a fact!”
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
The Beggars' Banquet
Now the dust has settled and our thirst is slaked for the time being, we can turn our attention back on our hero. He has taken himself here in search of quiet and inspiration. He has a tale, and for now, his tale is ours. We shall walk the path with him, for a little way at least. Until we see some promising attraction, up a side street maybe. Does everyone have a drink? Because I think happy hour may be drawing to a close.
How often have we mislaid a loved one in the confusion of the city? We try and think. Concentrate. What was she wearing? Oh yes, that old red anorak and blue jeans, well that shouldn’t be too hard to spot…and immediately we see them, miles away through the crowd, and the funny thing is, they’re not wearing red at all, or jeans for that matter.
No, we recognise them by their totality. Their height, the way they move on the street, their habit of weaving, or whatever it might be.
So it is that our man recognises a figure from his past moving in the crowd. Moving up the hill towards this very inn. A figure it has to be said, that he’d hoped never to see again.
“Max.”
It is undoubtedly Max, for no matter what disguise he employs and today it appears to be ‘tee shirted holidaymaker’, to our hero’s eyes, he always has the look of a lost man in a suit. Our hero’s eyes, as we shall see, have been well sharpened.
He watches as the tourist wanders up the road, taking his time, looking in the windows, smiling, ever the sightseer. This display he knows, is not for his benefit. This performance is for others who may be watching. To our hero, that thought alone is enough to chill him, even in this heat.
With his heart beating now, he watches as the tourist wanders past the entrance, strolls up the street and suddenly stops. He watches as the tourist apparently decides that he will have that drink after all, and meanders all the way back to the tavern. His eyes never leave the tourist as he walks straight up to his table and drops with a sigh into the seat opposite.
“Max.”
“Ronnie.”
Now the dust has settled and our thirst is slaked for the time being, we can turn our attention back on our hero. He has taken himself here in search of quiet and inspiration. He has a tale, and for now, his tale is ours. We shall walk the path with him, for a little way at least. Until we see some promising attraction, up a side street maybe. Does everyone have a drink? Because I think happy hour may be drawing to a close.
How often have we mislaid a loved one in the confusion of the city? We try and think. Concentrate. What was she wearing? Oh yes, that old red anorak and blue jeans, well that shouldn’t be too hard to spot…and immediately we see them, miles away through the crowd, and the funny thing is, they’re not wearing red at all, or jeans for that matter.
No, we recognise them by their totality. Their height, the way they move on the street, their habit of weaving, or whatever it might be.
So it is that our man recognises a figure from his past moving in the crowd. Moving up the hill towards this very inn. A figure it has to be said, that he’d hoped never to see again.
“Max.”
It is undoubtedly Max, for no matter what disguise he employs and today it appears to be ‘tee shirted holidaymaker’, to our hero’s eyes, he always has the look of a lost man in a suit. Our hero’s eyes, as we shall see, have been well sharpened.
He watches as the tourist wanders up the road, taking his time, looking in the windows, smiling, ever the sightseer. This display he knows, is not for his benefit. This performance is for others who may be watching. To our hero, that thought alone is enough to chill him, even in this heat.
With his heart beating now, he watches as the tourist wanders past the entrance, strolls up the street and suddenly stops. He watches as the tourist apparently decides that he will have that drink after all, and meanders all the way back to the tavern. His eyes never leave the tourist as he walks straight up to his table and drops with a sigh into the seat opposite.
“Max.”
“Ronnie.”
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Part 18
Gothic
No sooner had Ayres hit the grass in an ungainly jumble of limbs, than the grimy tramp pulled a glass vial from his filthy rags, and, smashing it on the ground in front of us, disappeared in a cloud of green smoke.
When the smoke had cleared, he was in the firm clutch of our leader and coughing most wretchedly.
“Haven’t quite…got that formula right…too much sulphur.” he spluttered.
“With what foul bane have you assailed our confederate?” demanded Bananas.
“What? Oh, just vitamin B12 complex.” coughed the grubby vagrant.
“Not Amazonian poison dart venom then?” I asked, only slightly disappointed.
“Sorry, ‘fraid not. Can’t get the frogs you see.” wheezed the heaving hobo.
“I feel magnificent.” said Ayres from the ground, where he had stretched out with his hands behind his head.
The greatest of detectives released the disgraceful bundle of filth, whereupon the dapper little monkey scampered up his arm to sit on his shoulder scowling at us.
“Clever little chap” I said in admiration.
“Capuchin.” Said our supreme sleuth.
“I didn’t think to bring coffee G.B. but there’s some Darjeeling in a flask.” I offered.
“A White-headed Capuchin to be more precise.” continued Bananas, pointing at the monkey, “the preferred companion of organ grinders, mendicants and burglars.”
“Whatever else I’ve been, I was never a mendicant, and that’s a fact!” said the tramp hotly.
“Let’s eat.” said Ayres.
In Castle Alucard, the spiky haired comedian was coaching Mr McShae the Scotsman on the finer points of the English double entendre. (He was to provide the comic relief during the intermission.)
“So you see McShea, all baked goods are a safe bet. For example, dumplings, baps, éclair…
“Éclair?” Asked McShae
“It’s to do with the shape. Look don’t worry about it McShea.”
“It’s McShae actually.” said McShae
“That’s what I said” replied the comedian.
“No, you said McShea,” said McShae “but never mind. So, I’d rather have a French stick than an éclair?”
“You’re almost there McShea.” clapped Jokey.
“It’s McShae!”
Gothic
No sooner had Ayres hit the grass in an ungainly jumble of limbs, than the grimy tramp pulled a glass vial from his filthy rags, and, smashing it on the ground in front of us, disappeared in a cloud of green smoke.
When the smoke had cleared, he was in the firm clutch of our leader and coughing most wretchedly.
“Haven’t quite…got that formula right…too much sulphur.” he spluttered.
“With what foul bane have you assailed our confederate?” demanded Bananas.
“What? Oh, just vitamin B12 complex.” coughed the grubby vagrant.
“Not Amazonian poison dart venom then?” I asked, only slightly disappointed.
“Sorry, ‘fraid not. Can’t get the frogs you see.” wheezed the heaving hobo.
“I feel magnificent.” said Ayres from the ground, where he had stretched out with his hands behind his head.
The greatest of detectives released the disgraceful bundle of filth, whereupon the dapper little monkey scampered up his arm to sit on his shoulder scowling at us.
“Clever little chap” I said in admiration.
“Capuchin.” Said our supreme sleuth.
“I didn’t think to bring coffee G.B. but there’s some Darjeeling in a flask.” I offered.
“A White-headed Capuchin to be more precise.” continued Bananas, pointing at the monkey, “the preferred companion of organ grinders, mendicants and burglars.”
“Whatever else I’ve been, I was never a mendicant, and that’s a fact!” said the tramp hotly.
“Let’s eat.” said Ayres.
In Castle Alucard, the spiky haired comedian was coaching Mr McShae the Scotsman on the finer points of the English double entendre. (He was to provide the comic relief during the intermission.)
“So you see McShea, all baked goods are a safe bet. For example, dumplings, baps, éclair…
“Éclair?” Asked McShae
“It’s to do with the shape. Look don’t worry about it McShea.”
“It’s McShae actually.” said McShae
“That’s what I said” replied the comedian.
“No, you said McShea,” said McShae “but never mind. So, I’d rather have a French stick than an éclair?”
“You’re almost there McShea.” clapped Jokey.
“It’s McShae!”
Monday, August 21, 2006
Part 17
Gothic
A s we stood and stared in the direction of our leader’s outstretched finger, sure enough I fancied I could make out a dark shape and a curious flash of red trailing it, moving among the stand of elms and poplar.
“What is it?” asked Ayres, “is it the Beast of Bodmin?”
“Barbudo?” I asked, “I thought he was getting treatment.”
“Quick men, the game’s afoot! We must be swift. The tors are riddled with caves and our quarry must not slip our grasp!” Shouted that most magnificent of detectives and with purposeful strides he was off up the slope.
We followed in his wake, in no small measure hampered by our provisions. As Ayres’ sturdy young legs pumped up the hill like pistons, they struck the hamper at every step.
“Mind the crockery Ayres,” I admonished, “and we should try not to shake the Burgundy if we can help it.”
***
Back at Castle Alucard, Dr Evil’s daughter Sarah had decided to liven proceedings by ‘putting on a show’.
Guest and servant alike had been dragooned into rehearsing a unique amateur production cobbled together from Lady Windermere’s Fan with bits of Charlie’s Aunt. The released safety inspector had just loped in through the French windows with a cricket bat exclaiming “Anyone for tennis?”
“No No NO!” shouted Sarah.
Of course the fabulously wealthy Dr Evil could have hired the English National Opera to stage Aida on the lawn, but Sarah who was up on these things had stamped her dainty foot saying that was the point. The old money made their own entertainment with nothing more than the dressing up box from the attic.
Evil had agreed, although it went against all his aesthetic sensibilities.
Sarah on the other hand had no such doubts and had appointed herself director of the piece.
Look at the rubbish I have to work with, she thought, and noticing an unnatural bulge in the Inspector’s flannels asked,
“are you wearing a box by the way?”
“A what?”
“A protector. A cricketer’s box?”
“No. Where do you wear them?” asked the inspector.
“On the pitch, look never mind. You’re quite sure are you?”
“Yes quite sure thank you.”
“See me after rehearsals then,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse.
As the run-through continued, Sarah mouthed the lines in time with the actors‘ delivery.
“…is this an oriental dagger I see before me, it’s squiggly blade pointed toward my breast?…”
***
Back out on the moor, we had gained the summit in time to see an old dirty vagabond disappearing into a thicket dragging an evil looking monkey after him on a chain. The monkey, dressed in a miniature bandsman’s uniform was screaming in bare-fanged terror at our approach. The vile chattering little beast adjusted his little pillbox hat and suddenly lifted a blowpipe to his lips, sending a feathered dart towards Ayres.
I tried to warn him.
“Ayres! Watch out!” I shouted, “You’ll upset the trifle!”
But Ayres now quite deaf to my entreaties, stood silent for a second then fell smiling onto the grass.
Gothic
A s we stood and stared in the direction of our leader’s outstretched finger, sure enough I fancied I could make out a dark shape and a curious flash of red trailing it, moving among the stand of elms and poplar.
“What is it?” asked Ayres, “is it the Beast of Bodmin?”
“Barbudo?” I asked, “I thought he was getting treatment.”
“Quick men, the game’s afoot! We must be swift. The tors are riddled with caves and our quarry must not slip our grasp!” Shouted that most magnificent of detectives and with purposeful strides he was off up the slope.
We followed in his wake, in no small measure hampered by our provisions. As Ayres’ sturdy young legs pumped up the hill like pistons, they struck the hamper at every step.
“Mind the crockery Ayres,” I admonished, “and we should try not to shake the Burgundy if we can help it.”
***
Back at Castle Alucard, Dr Evil’s daughter Sarah had decided to liven proceedings by ‘putting on a show’.
Guest and servant alike had been dragooned into rehearsing a unique amateur production cobbled together from Lady Windermere’s Fan with bits of Charlie’s Aunt. The released safety inspector had just loped in through the French windows with a cricket bat exclaiming “Anyone for tennis?”
“No No NO!” shouted Sarah.
Of course the fabulously wealthy Dr Evil could have hired the English National Opera to stage Aida on the lawn, but Sarah who was up on these things had stamped her dainty foot saying that was the point. The old money made their own entertainment with nothing more than the dressing up box from the attic.
Evil had agreed, although it went against all his aesthetic sensibilities.
Sarah on the other hand had no such doubts and had appointed herself director of the piece.
Look at the rubbish I have to work with, she thought, and noticing an unnatural bulge in the Inspector’s flannels asked,
“are you wearing a box by the way?”
“A what?”
“A protector. A cricketer’s box?”
“No. Where do you wear them?” asked the inspector.
“On the pitch, look never mind. You’re quite sure are you?”
“Yes quite sure thank you.”
“See me after rehearsals then,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse.
As the run-through continued, Sarah mouthed the lines in time with the actors‘ delivery.
“…is this an oriental dagger I see before me, it’s squiggly blade pointed toward my breast?…”
***
Back out on the moor, we had gained the summit in time to see an old dirty vagabond disappearing into a thicket dragging an evil looking monkey after him on a chain. The monkey, dressed in a miniature bandsman’s uniform was screaming in bare-fanged terror at our approach. The vile chattering little beast adjusted his little pillbox hat and suddenly lifted a blowpipe to his lips, sending a feathered dart towards Ayres.
I tried to warn him.
“Ayres! Watch out!” I shouted, “You’ll upset the trifle!”
But Ayres now quite deaf to my entreaties, stood silent for a second then fell smiling onto the grass.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Part 16
Gothic
We had been some days at Castle Alucard and I had not finished my morning routine on the trapeze when Mr Gorilla Bananas, friend and foremost of detectives, bustled into my room.
In my green drawers and stripy Henley vest, I fancy I cut a virile figure as I hung there by my toes.
“Are you mocking me Maroon?” he asked.
“Whatever do you mean Bananas?” I replied, not for the first time lost by the superior workings of his fascinating intellect.
“Never mind.” he continued in some excitement, “We must get out on the moor forthwith and investigate those strange lights we saw last night. I’ve looked at the map and I calculate they emanated not a mile distant, from a place called Gibbet Wood on Gallows Hill.”
With our friend and associate Ayres, we made our hurried plans and by half past three that afternoon, Gorilla Bananas drew us up in the castle courtyard to inspect our equipment. In order to travel light, we had foregone our alpenstocks, climbing gear and the religious accoutrements in favour of a generous hamper of provisions, lest we should get caught on the moor and miss supper.
Ayres and I were to carry the hamper between us while Bananas would orienteer with map and compass.
The weather had dramatically lifted and was now at its Devon best: damp sunshine with the promise of early evening drizzle.
Satisfied with our preparations, the remarkable ape declared we were ready for departure and our trio set off across the moor, bickering, as is the English tradition, about who should have brought the mustard spoon and who the first aid kit.
We had not gone three furlongs from the castle gate when we encountered our first disquieting experience.
There in a delightful hollow was the reprobate butler, Eater, picnicking with the young American Miss Lindy. He the servant, was busily buttering her buns and spreading honey on her muffin with the back of a spoon.
Together, they had researched the meaning of the Japanese ideogram found in the American bibliophile’s book.
“quality inspected. # 23” was the puzzling translation.
Eater was far from pleased at our sudden arrival, and started back from his labours. Although his black eye had now subsided, he regarded Ayres with particular suspicion and pointedly remained out of the latter’s reach. I am afraid to confess that his familiar manner with Miss Lindy and his insolent attitude to us, his betters, infuriated me.
He addressed us with a mouth full of jam and crumpet.
“Forgive me Sir Kim, I hardly recognised you with your trousers on.”
His remark brought forth the most delightful chuckle from Miss Lindy-K. This was too much. I had to score a point back for Ayres’ honour.
“Yes, well, you were privileged, Mr Eater,” I returned in hot indignation, “his legs although short, were often remarked as the finest at college! Especially his thighs. Weren’t they Ayres?”
I was immediately rewarded by another chuckle from Miss Lindy, this time obviously at the butler’s expense, who now seemed to be choking on his teabread. I turned in humble triumph to my companions but Ayres and Bananas merely looked at me in silence, too gallant to press home our advantage.
“If you would point us to our path” said Bananas smiling, “we’ll trouble you no longer.”
We had not gone a further furlong and I was engaging Ayres in conversation to lighten the burden that hung between us, perhaps two hampers would have been better;
“Taught that fellow a lesson in life I fancy,” I said brightly.
“Why on earth did you mention my legs Maroon?” he asked.
“Don’t be so modest Ayres,” I replied.
“Yes but now he thinks…”
“Stop!” said Bananas lifting his leathery palm, “Look. Up at that copse. Do you see it?”
He was pointing to a coppice on the skyline, his nostrils flaring in that way of his.
“There. Moving through the trees!” he exclaimed.
Gothic
We had been some days at Castle Alucard and I had not finished my morning routine on the trapeze when Mr Gorilla Bananas, friend and foremost of detectives, bustled into my room.
In my green drawers and stripy Henley vest, I fancy I cut a virile figure as I hung there by my toes.
“Are you mocking me Maroon?” he asked.
“Whatever do you mean Bananas?” I replied, not for the first time lost by the superior workings of his fascinating intellect.
“Never mind.” he continued in some excitement, “We must get out on the moor forthwith and investigate those strange lights we saw last night. I’ve looked at the map and I calculate they emanated not a mile distant, from a place called Gibbet Wood on Gallows Hill.”
With our friend and associate Ayres, we made our hurried plans and by half past three that afternoon, Gorilla Bananas drew us up in the castle courtyard to inspect our equipment. In order to travel light, we had foregone our alpenstocks, climbing gear and the religious accoutrements in favour of a generous hamper of provisions, lest we should get caught on the moor and miss supper.
Ayres and I were to carry the hamper between us while Bananas would orienteer with map and compass.
The weather had dramatically lifted and was now at its Devon best: damp sunshine with the promise of early evening drizzle.
Satisfied with our preparations, the remarkable ape declared we were ready for departure and our trio set off across the moor, bickering, as is the English tradition, about who should have brought the mustard spoon and who the first aid kit.
We had not gone three furlongs from the castle gate when we encountered our first disquieting experience.
There in a delightful hollow was the reprobate butler, Eater, picnicking with the young American Miss Lindy. He the servant, was busily buttering her buns and spreading honey on her muffin with the back of a spoon.
Together, they had researched the meaning of the Japanese ideogram found in the American bibliophile’s book.
“quality inspected. # 23” was the puzzling translation.
Eater was far from pleased at our sudden arrival, and started back from his labours. Although his black eye had now subsided, he regarded Ayres with particular suspicion and pointedly remained out of the latter’s reach. I am afraid to confess that his familiar manner with Miss Lindy and his insolent attitude to us, his betters, infuriated me.
He addressed us with a mouth full of jam and crumpet.
“Forgive me Sir Kim, I hardly recognised you with your trousers on.”
His remark brought forth the most delightful chuckle from Miss Lindy-K. This was too much. I had to score a point back for Ayres’ honour.
“Yes, well, you were privileged, Mr Eater,” I returned in hot indignation, “his legs although short, were often remarked as the finest at college! Especially his thighs. Weren’t they Ayres?”
I was immediately rewarded by another chuckle from Miss Lindy, this time obviously at the butler’s expense, who now seemed to be choking on his teabread. I turned in humble triumph to my companions but Ayres and Bananas merely looked at me in silence, too gallant to press home our advantage.
“If you would point us to our path” said Bananas smiling, “we’ll trouble you no longer.”
We had not gone a further furlong and I was engaging Ayres in conversation to lighten the burden that hung between us, perhaps two hampers would have been better;
“Taught that fellow a lesson in life I fancy,” I said brightly.
“Why on earth did you mention my legs Maroon?” he asked.
“Don’t be so modest Ayres,” I replied.
“Yes but now he thinks…”
“Stop!” said Bananas lifting his leathery palm, “Look. Up at that copse. Do you see it?”
He was pointing to a coppice on the skyline, his nostrils flaring in that way of his.
“There. Moving through the trees!” he exclaimed.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The Beggars' Banquet
How fortunate we are in our position. Today being the 15th Day of August, it is the Feast of the Assumption, as I’m sure we all knew. Today we celebrate the passing of the Blessed Mother from this earth and her assumption into the Kingdom of Heaven. Now here, in this sun-bleached town, there will be a procession.
You’ve surely seen the films on Holiday ‘87 and so on. Frank Bough and Nestor watching in suburban bemusement as the firecrackers and the statue of Mary, carried shoulder high by handsome young men in white shirts, passes by, and all the while unknown to us, Frank was thinking of cocaine and getting tied up by nubile girls! Beastly Frank and his tank tops.
Anyway I digress. A procession will wind past this most agreeable of oases on its way to the tiny church up the road. It’s one of the biggest days in the year for this little town and like all the best religious feasts, we, along with the population, will feel an honest purity for the couple of hours that the procession and quick Mass will take. But even in our state of grace, we will know in the dark kernel of our mortal hearts, just like Frank, that the feasting will begin soon after, and then all bets are off.
Can you hear the drumbeats? Look there! They are coming round the corner and making their way up the hill towards us.
All eyes have turned in the direction of the saintly clamour. All eyes that is, except for two.
Out on the white desolation of the flagged patio, under a huge golden parasol advertising the holy brew of St Miguel, sits an exiled Irishman reading last night’s results from Limerick.
At specific points on the journey, the statue stops, takes a bow, turns around amid the firecrackers and rockets, and starts up again. It seems to be floating in the crowd on its own. It’s drawing near now, the rhythmic singing and the incence and the foreign faces and the rockets. Native and visitor alike are swaying, being drawn into the ceremonial, on some innate level it’s all making sense.
The moment is only a little spoiled by the bustling arrival of a Scotsman (judging by the tartan scarf and the heather sellotaped to his rucksack.) His feast started at 10:30 this morning.
Prompt.
He is tearfully reading a text message on his infernal cellphone. He is singing: “If you hate the Glasgow Polis, clap your hands…”.
How fortunate we are in our position. Today being the 15th Day of August, it is the Feast of the Assumption, as I’m sure we all knew. Today we celebrate the passing of the Blessed Mother from this earth and her assumption into the Kingdom of Heaven. Now here, in this sun-bleached town, there will be a procession.
You’ve surely seen the films on Holiday ‘87 and so on. Frank Bough and Nestor watching in suburban bemusement as the firecrackers and the statue of Mary, carried shoulder high by handsome young men in white shirts, passes by, and all the while unknown to us, Frank was thinking of cocaine and getting tied up by nubile girls! Beastly Frank and his tank tops.
Anyway I digress. A procession will wind past this most agreeable of oases on its way to the tiny church up the road. It’s one of the biggest days in the year for this little town and like all the best religious feasts, we, along with the population, will feel an honest purity for the couple of hours that the procession and quick Mass will take. But even in our state of grace, we will know in the dark kernel of our mortal hearts, just like Frank, that the feasting will begin soon after, and then all bets are off.
Can you hear the drumbeats? Look there! They are coming round the corner and making their way up the hill towards us.
All eyes have turned in the direction of the saintly clamour. All eyes that is, except for two.
Out on the white desolation of the flagged patio, under a huge golden parasol advertising the holy brew of St Miguel, sits an exiled Irishman reading last night’s results from Limerick.
At specific points on the journey, the statue stops, takes a bow, turns around amid the firecrackers and rockets, and starts up again. It seems to be floating in the crowd on its own. It’s drawing near now, the rhythmic singing and the incence and the foreign faces and the rockets. Native and visitor alike are swaying, being drawn into the ceremonial, on some innate level it’s all making sense.
The moment is only a little spoiled by the bustling arrival of a Scotsman (judging by the tartan scarf and the heather sellotaped to his rucksack.) His feast started at 10:30 this morning.
Prompt.
He is tearfully reading a text message on his infernal cellphone. He is singing: “If you hate the Glasgow Polis, clap your hands…”.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
There’s a small boy in the street. He’s leaning way over, trying to make himself immovable. His free hand is pointing at the toyshop window. His other is held fast in the lady‘s glove. She is the irresistible force. She’s moving down the street, late for something. As the tantrum starts, she conjures a ‘present for a good boy’ from her handbag. The small boy is entranced and follows to heel.
That’s me that is. The small boy.
This place, and all us lot, we happy band of convivial souls, are the toyshop, do you see?
And the irresistible lady with the entrancing presents for a good boy, that would lead me away from you for so long?
Is an irresistible lady with entrancing presents for a good boy.
Anyway, enough….
The Beggars’ Banquet.
Come, gentles all, for our table is near set. Soon the platters will be brought, piled high with all you could want. What is more, the curtain is about to lift on something that you should see. So a quick group hug, huddle in, and we’re off!
This time our stage is set in the summer heat of Castile, in a particularly hot summer, this very one in fact. We shall be as unobtrusive as an English tour group out at noon. I shall play the tour guide and you shall follow my raised umbrella. It will be our standard. Only eat the tapas if it’s cooked. We’ve seen the city walls, we’ve seen the old Moorish town, we’ve seen the cathedrals old and new. How about a lunchtime reviver? Let’s step from the loud heat echoing off the pavement, into the quiet cool of this charming establishment. We shall sit here, where we can watch everything. Oh look, how lucky, just in time for midday happy hour. Come, fill both your cups, and we’ll see what’s to be seen.
That’s me that is. The small boy.
This place, and all us lot, we happy band of convivial souls, are the toyshop, do you see?
And the irresistible lady with the entrancing presents for a good boy, that would lead me away from you for so long?
Is an irresistible lady with entrancing presents for a good boy.
Anyway, enough….
The Beggars’ Banquet.
Come, gentles all, for our table is near set. Soon the platters will be brought, piled high with all you could want. What is more, the curtain is about to lift on something that you should see. So a quick group hug, huddle in, and we’re off!
This time our stage is set in the summer heat of Castile, in a particularly hot summer, this very one in fact. We shall be as unobtrusive as an English tour group out at noon. I shall play the tour guide and you shall follow my raised umbrella. It will be our standard. Only eat the tapas if it’s cooked. We’ve seen the city walls, we’ve seen the old Moorish town, we’ve seen the cathedrals old and new. How about a lunchtime reviver? Let’s step from the loud heat echoing off the pavement, into the quiet cool of this charming establishment. We shall sit here, where we can watch everything. Oh look, how lucky, just in time for midday happy hour. Come, fill both your cups, and we’ll see what’s to be seen.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
“Look into my eyes. The eyes. The eyes. Don’t look around the eyes. Look into my eyes.
Three, two, one…….
You’re under!
When you wake, you will feel refreshed and revitalised.
World poverty will be a thing of the past.
You will realise that the people of Iraq and Afghanistan are glad we came.
The weapons of mass destruction were found and destroyed.
The minor differences between Israel and her neighbours are not your concern…
Three, two, one……….
You’re back in the room!“
Monday, July 31, 2006
From Wickypedia;
Testosterone in athletes
Testosterone may be administered to an athlete in order to increase performance, and is considered to be a form of doping in most sports. In males, a testosterone patch is applied to the scrotum for several hours before activity.
What was that?
A patch is applied to your scroatty for several hours? Is there no easier way in this day and age? What about chafing? Chafing is a big problem for us cyclists, surely a patch on your two veg would exacerbate this. Have you seen the saddles we get now? I mean come on.
Give big Floyd his medal, he deserves it. He was one of those Amish when he grew up you know. Probably nearly fainted when he saw a cycle being ridden for the first time. Now he’s sticking stuff to himself. It’s always the quiet ones.
My hero, Miguel would never have done that.
Or big Eddie Merckx? Can you imagine?
“Oh what’s this?”
“Never mind that now Eddie, just slap it on your sac for an hour or two.”
Testosterone in athletes
Testosterone may be administered to an athlete in order to increase performance, and is considered to be a form of doping in most sports. In males, a testosterone patch is applied to the scrotum for several hours before activity.
What was that?
A patch is applied to your scroatty for several hours? Is there no easier way in this day and age? What about chafing? Chafing is a big problem for us cyclists, surely a patch on your two veg would exacerbate this. Have you seen the saddles we get now? I mean come on.
Give big Floyd his medal, he deserves it. He was one of those Amish when he grew up you know. Probably nearly fainted when he saw a cycle being ridden for the first time. Now he’s sticking stuff to himself. It’s always the quiet ones.
My hero, Miguel would never have done that.
Or big Eddie Merckx? Can you imagine?
“Oh what’s this?”
“Never mind that now Eddie, just slap it on your sac for an hour or two.”
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Sir Bufton Maroon writes, after an agreeable afternoon in the front bar.
Notes and queries;
F sharp and Harry Hutton.
BTW, Harry Hutton called me a toady then demonstrated correct semi colon use.
You’ve got to love him.
British Justice
is the best in the world. Ask any Irishman. However, we are quickly sliding down the league table towards the likes of Burma and the United States.
In an atmosphere of panicky public terror, two armed police killed the wrong man by shooting him 26 times point blank with dum-dum bullets.
Not only was he the wrong man, but there never was a right man that the poor unfortunate might have resembled.
Such incompetence must be tested in court, surely?
Well no.
Not only that, but they are both back on firearms duty!
Now this might be handy.
The metropolitan force are to be prosecuted under the 1974 HASAWA*. Surely having these two myopics armed, locked and loaded, walking the streets of our fair capital constitutes a hazard?
Israel and the Palestinians and the Lebanese.
I can’t be arsed. I’ve only so much adrenalin.
Number crunching.
There’s about six million Israelis (6,276,883) [CIA] and so far, they have drawn down six billion dollars worth of the current (Bush Administration) military aid grant of ten billion. That’s about $1000 dollars per Israeli, of American tax revenue. I wouldn’t mind, but the United States is running its foreign deficit at about $90,000 for every man woman and child in their country.
That is, the American population, is in hawk to us, to the tune of 90 grand each, yet they’re still chucking it about like they own the place.
If you don’t believe me, may I point out that I’m Scottish, like the first secretary of the US Treasury, a man called Alexander Hamilton, and if there’s one thing we Scotch understand, it’s cash!
I’m off to slur some comments on others’ blogs now.
* Health and Safety at Work Act.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Breaking news!
Congratulations to Joe Whited, aka SafeTinspector. He is a father again!
New daughter (Riley) and mother doing fine.
Firstborn daughter and Big Joe himself, fine also.
More pictures and full story here : http://safetinspector.blogspot.com/
Last Sunday, the plan was to sit quiet and update myself re all your blogging affairs, just like reading the Sunday papers. I was looking forward to it so much that every time I thought about it, I had a pleasant tickle in my stomach. But the good weather intervened, and I was extolled thus;
“come out, come out Maroon. Leave the ghostly words alone, turn your back on them, come with ussss…to Mordor we will take you…come on Maroon, don’t be ignorant…come feel the sun on your back…beer will be provided…ah, there you are.”
Other Recent and Current Diversions.
World Cup. Won by Zidane, no question.
Company firefighting or crisis management or troubleshooting…
(That’s what THEY call it. It’s complete bollocks.)
[What you actually do is go to an unfamiliar town, talk to someone for an hour, 2 hours max, get shown something, then bum about drinking and eating for two days making the best of it, while they sort it out, go back for another hour to see what they’ve done, get a lift to the airport/train station, drink again and arrive back at night, knackered and half sozzled and not a little smelly, only to repeat the process the following week.
It’s total utter crap and can be done over the phone.
It’s a device to get the loose cannon out the plant for a day or two.
I’m not stupid, I know what’s going on here.]
I don’t know what’s going here half the time
Farnborough, (Old RAE as was)
Tour de France (won by Floyd Landis, USA)
Celtic Vs Manchester United. (Live from Paradise tonight! Channel 5)
Weather. (Uncommon good)
So, there you have it. My situation in a nutshell.
Late Update.
Remember I said that Israel had asked the US for early delivery of those laser guided bombs? Well they landed in two planes at Prestwick outside Glasgow (favourite Scottish airport of USAF and CIA) a day or so ago for a rest on there way to Jerusalem.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2006/07/26/wmid26.xml
Some have been put to use already, with the news that they have blown up a UN obs post in Lebanon with one of these Bunkerbusters, killing 4 UN military observers, a Canuk, a Finn, A Chinaman and a Austrian. Can’t have those pesky UN watching what’s going on.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/5215366.stm
Small world eh? I will be writing to my MP soon. As soon as I have some tea and muffins in fact. (elevenses).
Thursday, July 20, 2006
About this time a few days ago, you may be surprised to know, I was standing looking at a field in Ireland.
By any standards, a generous field.
Good grass, but the bulldozer will take care of that.
I was having a bit of an epiphany.
The Irish and their fields.
Did intoxicating Maeve, Queen of Connaught, attack Cuchulainn for dominion of this field?
No.
And neither was it The Field, the one coddled with kelp by that old Hellraiser Harris with Sean Bean his incongruous son.
No, not that one.
And while we’re on the subject, not the one where the playboy of the western world riz the loy in exasperation at his puir fadder.
Perhaps, you ask, it was the one that you enter between dusk and daybreak to make a shortcut but can never find your way out, or maybe a small laughing man with shamrock in his lapel and a green bowler hat on his head lives there guarding his crock?
I doubt it.
Did a lorry load of volunteers crouch in wet anxiety behind the dry stones, waiting for the Tans?
Had Éamon de Valera this green field in mind, when he revealed his dream of hearty free young Irish returning to their homes across the field at sunset, too spent by wholesome labour for fornication?
Maybe.
Perhaps then, it was the field where all those years ago my dear mama and pater camped on their chaste tour of Ireland, to wake finding potatoes and milk in a can left for them beside the tandem?
Like the Irish, we differentiate between poor on the land and poor in the town.
Ground, however meagre, gives status as well as subsistence.
Gramps to Mater: Has he any grun? (ground)
Mater replies: No, but there’s a firm with premises on the South Side specialising in light to medium engineering with a successful motor factors really taking off.
Gramps to Mater again: : Harumph. Has the femly (family) any grun then?
Pater, speaking for himself: Forfeit after Culloden.
Gramps: My Cot! Why did ye no’ say? Ye’ll be off the True Auld Faith then? One o’ us? (Papist)
Pater: Well I wouldn’t say…
Gramps: Come away in Maroon and sit yourself here by the fire. Efter ye’re merritt, ye must name yer third born ‘Achilles’, efter me. Eh, ye’ll have had yer tea but ye‘ll take a dram maybe?
The rest is history.
“You better not be writing about that field.” An unpleasant voice at my side says.
It is the ugly chinless Finance Director. (he really over-achieved finding that wife of his).
“You’re not the boss of me.” I reply, “you wouldn’t understand anyway, to you the world is a series of numbers. Remove some from here, add them to there, and your day’s work is done. I pity you. It’s soulless existence. You never see the world. Never smell the grass. It’s an cruel and unnatural punishment.”
“As it is to you.” He rejoins with an unattractive smirk.
“You are quite wrong. My numbers are the language of the elemental forces that surround us. My numbers do something.” I point out with patient reason.
“So do mine.” He retorts, missing the point. “Mine provide Audi A-Fours with all the trimmings, Tuscan holidays and the like. It’s all numbers too.
Anyway, come on Maroon, leave the blog alone.”
“…‘koff” I mutter in cowardly softness, at his hideous back.
By any standards, a generous field.
Good grass, but the bulldozer will take care of that.
I was having a bit of an epiphany.
The Irish and their fields.
Did intoxicating Maeve, Queen of Connaught, attack Cuchulainn for dominion of this field?
No.
And neither was it The Field, the one coddled with kelp by that old Hellraiser Harris with Sean Bean his incongruous son.
No, not that one.
And while we’re on the subject, not the one where the playboy of the western world riz the loy in exasperation at his puir fadder.
Perhaps, you ask, it was the one that you enter between dusk and daybreak to make a shortcut but can never find your way out, or maybe a small laughing man with shamrock in his lapel and a green bowler hat on his head lives there guarding his crock?
I doubt it.
Did a lorry load of volunteers crouch in wet anxiety behind the dry stones, waiting for the Tans?
Had Éamon de Valera this green field in mind, when he revealed his dream of hearty free young Irish returning to their homes across the field at sunset, too spent by wholesome labour for fornication?
Maybe.
Perhaps then, it was the field where all those years ago my dear mama and pater camped on their chaste tour of Ireland, to wake finding potatoes and milk in a can left for them beside the tandem?
Like the Irish, we differentiate between poor on the land and poor in the town.
Ground, however meagre, gives status as well as subsistence.
Gramps to Mater: Has he any grun? (ground)
Mater replies: No, but there’s a firm with premises on the South Side specialising in light to medium engineering with a successful motor factors really taking off.
Gramps to Mater again: : Harumph. Has the femly (family) any grun then?
Pater, speaking for himself: Forfeit after Culloden.
Gramps: My Cot! Why did ye no’ say? Ye’ll be off the True Auld Faith then? One o’ us? (Papist)
Pater: Well I wouldn’t say…
Gramps: Come away in Maroon and sit yourself here by the fire. Efter ye’re merritt, ye must name yer third born ‘Achilles’, efter me. Eh, ye’ll have had yer tea but ye‘ll take a dram maybe?
The rest is history.
“You better not be writing about that field.” An unpleasant voice at my side says.
It is the ugly chinless Finance Director. (he really over-achieved finding that wife of his).
“You’re not the boss of me.” I reply, “you wouldn’t understand anyway, to you the world is a series of numbers. Remove some from here, add them to there, and your day’s work is done. I pity you. It’s soulless existence. You never see the world. Never smell the grass. It’s an cruel and unnatural punishment.”
“As it is to you.” He rejoins with an unattractive smirk.
“You are quite wrong. My numbers are the language of the elemental forces that surround us. My numbers do something.” I point out with patient reason.
“So do mine.” He retorts, missing the point. “Mine provide Audi A-Fours with all the trimmings, Tuscan holidays and the like. It’s all numbers too.
Anyway, come on Maroon, leave the blog alone.”
“…‘koff” I mutter in cowardly softness, at his hideous back.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
How times change.
How it is today:
G.B: Oh hello, is that Israel? Oh good, so glad we caught you. Listen, we’ve got some nationals in Lebanon just now that want to come home.
Israel : So?
G.B. : Only you’ve blown up the airport, the bridges, and anything moving on the roads, so we’ll have to send some ships to take them off.
Israel : And?
G.B. : Well, sorry to ask, but can we come on Tuesday? Will that be convenient? Can we have a window?
Israel : (sigh) Yeah, OK, but make it snappy, we’re blowing up a dairy later on Tuesday.
G.B. : Thank you so much, you’re too kind.
How it SHOULD be.
G.B. : Is that Israel? Good. Listen up. The Royal Navy will be arriving in Beirut to take off our nationals. If you try and blockade the port with gunboats, fly near us in your second hand American fighters, hinder, obstruct or even look at us in a funny way, we will blow you and anyone else out the sky/water.
Understand?
The Royal Navy is there to make its own windows. Everyone else should get the hell out the way. Any fire, even accidental friendly fire from short-sighted incompetent American pilots should be returned with total lethal force. They’d soon get their Godamned eyes tested.
And another thing, when we embark our nationals, there should be a band on deck playing Hearts of Oak and Rule Britannia. We shouldn't slink off like theives being kicked out the country.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Dr Maroon is truly one of the greatest bloggers on the net
FUCKLESTOPPED.
This week in the motor I has been mainly listening to a Chilli Peppers cd and an A-HA tape. Remember them? Brilliant. You know the one that goes
“It wasn't the rain that washed away...
Rinsed out the colours of your eyes
Putting the gun down on the bedside table
I must have realized…”
I can’t stopp singing this song. God help me I can‘t. I had to look up the lyrics because after the first line, you can’t hardly make out the guy’s phonetic mumblings, [Scandinavian I think). So it goes.
I sing it thusly,
“It wasn't the rain that washed away...
Rinsed out the colours of your eyes
Dada dee dee dum te tum dee-dum,
Ah musta realized…”
I just can’t stopp!
And as for the Peppers, I’m driving at a legal 78 mph, toddling along, then I join in with the song at the bit where it goes,
“UNDER THE BRIDGE DOWNTOWN,
IS WHERE I DREW SOME BLOOD
UNDER THE BRIDGE DOWNTOWN,
I COULD NOT GET ENOUGH,
UNDER THE BRIDGE DOWNTOWN,
I GAVE MY LIFE AWAAAAAYYYYYY…..”
And before you know it I’m up at 120, head banging just like Wayne’s World!
Richard the Finance Ditrector, and the two SNECMA reps in the back asked if I was OK.
Saps.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
At times like these,
my mind often returns to my beloved mountains. The crunch of the crampons, the sneck of the ice-axe, yes, perhaps I shouldn’t take them to the bar at weekends, but for me, out on the Wild, they are my right arm, and feet, obviously.
If you could only come with me and smell the wind blasting down Corrie An Sneachta or feel the sweet soft rain take your face off, why, man it’s so grand I can hardly talk.
Scotland is not like England. Down there, they argue over rights of access to the countryside, and laws of trespass, and get orf moi land type of stuff. In Scotland it would be hard to get hill walkers and the like to even understand the concept of the argument. They’d just look at you.
Scotland is small too, which means you can get out into the wilderness quickly. Mr Gorilla Bananas would be a great hill walker. What a team we’d make. Tramping the glens, eating off the land, a lamb here, a stoat there. Magic.
Just dreams though, just dreams.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Name yer poison.
I’ve always had a moral empathy with the drug cartels in Colombia. Why? I’ll tell you.
The whisky industry in Scotland is huge. We export it all over the world. Our marketing in this area is second to none. We market it as an adjunct to the sophisticated lifestyle. I’ve travelled quite a bit, and no matter what dusty airstrip you arrive at, the first sign you see is Cutty Sark or Vat 69 or Glenfiddoch, long before you see one for Coca Cola or ‘arrivals’ or customs.
For a Scotsman, it’s quite comforting.
Whisky kills more people than cocaine.
But, are we being bombed? Defoliated? Held up to the world as a pariah?
No.
It’s grand to have a scotch or two after dinner or a round of golf with your friends. Have another afore ye go, you can always take the back roads home, so there’s no danger of you ploughing into those school kids waiting for a bus like last time.
Colombia on the other hand grows cocaine which we also want to consume in large amounts.
Oh dear. I don’t think so. Stop it at source.
So what, if our efforts and the huge amounts of money totally destabilises what is a poor developing country? WE shall decide the recreational drugs of choice for the population, not the population.
The same goes for the dirt poor farmers growing poppies or hash.
I tried cocaine a couple of times. Doan liche it. It was maybe mixed with Vim or Ajax or something.
Rant over.
Not quite.
There's also that man that's the new president of Peru or somewhere.
"We've chewed coca leaves for generations and we ain't stopping now." says he, "We prefer it to your gringo Budweisers and Jack Danielses and fine Virginia tobaccos thank you very much Uncle Sam."
He's right!
Rant over.
I’ve always had a moral empathy with the drug cartels in Colombia. Why? I’ll tell you.
The whisky industry in Scotland is huge. We export it all over the world. Our marketing in this area is second to none. We market it as an adjunct to the sophisticated lifestyle. I’ve travelled quite a bit, and no matter what dusty airstrip you arrive at, the first sign you see is Cutty Sark or Vat 69 or Glenfiddoch, long before you see one for Coca Cola or ‘arrivals’ or customs.
For a Scotsman, it’s quite comforting.
Whisky kills more people than cocaine.
But, are we being bombed? Defoliated? Held up to the world as a pariah?
No.
It’s grand to have a scotch or two after dinner or a round of golf with your friends. Have another afore ye go, you can always take the back roads home, so there’s no danger of you ploughing into those school kids waiting for a bus like last time.
Colombia on the other hand grows cocaine which we also want to consume in large amounts.
Oh dear. I don’t think so. Stop it at source.
So what, if our efforts and the huge amounts of money totally destabilises what is a poor developing country? WE shall decide the recreational drugs of choice for the population, not the population.
The same goes for the dirt poor farmers growing poppies or hash.
I tried cocaine a couple of times. Doan liche it. It was maybe mixed with Vim or Ajax or something.
Rant over.
Not quite.
There's also that man that's the new president of Peru or somewhere.
"We've chewed coca leaves for generations and we ain't stopping now." says he, "We prefer it to your gringo Budweisers and Jack Danielses and fine Virginia tobaccos thank you very much Uncle Sam."
He's right!
Rant over.
Monday, June 26, 2006
I TAINT DEAD (YET)
I'm just terribly busy-busykins what with this and that and all that other stuff you don't wanna know about, believe me you don't.
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it.
If you wait then your plate I will fill…
As we stumbled dumbstruck from that hellish pinnacle, down those many hundred steps, each rough-hewn from the living rock by the giants of yore when Magnus the Mighty walked the land and held all the north for Thorfinn the Stern against the Pictish king Langstaad the Lame…
With a sigh I put down my book at the calamitous rapping upon the door…
I'm just terribly busy-busykins what with this and that and all that other stuff you don't wanna know about, believe me you don't.
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it.
If you wait then your plate I will fill…
As we stumbled dumbstruck from that hellish pinnacle, down those many hundred steps, each rough-hewn from the living rock by the giants of yore when Magnus the Mighty walked the land and held all the north for Thorfinn the Stern against the Pictish king Langstaad the Lame…
With a sigh I put down my book at the calamitous rapping upon the door…
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Now then, lessfugginsee.
The updates.
It’s all sort of merging into one endless game now. Always happens at this stage, and you say down the pub;
“….that right back for Costa Rica no, Ivory Coast, Christ, he had a game eh?, lost 3 - 0 right enough, but what a fucking player, WHAT a fucking player, no I’ll just have lager, cheers…………..oh two-one was it? Yeah you’re right, it was,…Holland ARE shit, big Van-Nistleroy’s just a poacher, that’s all he can do, here pet, put a vodka in that would you? Pep it up a bit,…..And that big Crouch, what-the-fuck is he like, eh? Eh?… he’s scoring for them though, fair’s fair, the big lanky bastard can score a goal,….no she’s working tomorrow, just the morning, but, you know,…Yeah that Mexican Manager, he looks a mean hombre!…bit like wee Bobby MacDonnell…If you hate the fucking English clap your hands, if you hate the fucking English clap your ha…oh sorry Denise, Harry, didn’t see you there, no offence…well just the one, better get up the road, it’s nearly 10 o’clock….”
Research:
Tennents Lager, £8 for 20 x 425 ml cans!!! Morrisons.
Here are the two players that Sam The Problem Child Bride FANCIES!!!!!
Hey Sam, Gercha telly looked at!
The updates.
It’s all sort of merging into one endless game now. Always happens at this stage, and you say down the pub;
“….that right back for Costa Rica no, Ivory Coast, Christ, he had a game eh?, lost 3 - 0 right enough, but what a fucking player, WHAT a fucking player, no I’ll just have lager, cheers…………..oh two-one was it? Yeah you’re right, it was,…Holland ARE shit, big Van-Nistleroy’s just a poacher, that’s all he can do, here pet, put a vodka in that would you? Pep it up a bit,…..And that big Crouch, what-the-fuck is he like, eh? Eh?… he’s scoring for them though, fair’s fair, the big lanky bastard can score a goal,….no she’s working tomorrow, just the morning, but, you know,…Yeah that Mexican Manager, he looks a mean hombre!…bit like wee Bobby MacDonnell…If you hate the fucking English clap your hands, if you hate the fucking English clap your ha…oh sorry Denise, Harry, didn’t see you there, no offence…well just the one, better get up the road, it’s nearly 10 o’clock….”
Research:
Tennents Lager, £8 for 20 x 425 ml cans!!! Morrisons.
Here are the two players that Sam The Problem Child Bride FANCIES!!!!!
Hey Sam, Gercha telly looked at!
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Kim Ayres’ hilarious memories of sports days and other miseries at school made me think.
I’ve never had rose tinted specs about my own school days. In general, I found the whole thing mildly unpleasant from start to finish, but only mildly. It’s impossible to pinpoint why.
The kids were fine, and so were the teachers, but the whole thing was somehow less than the sum of its parts. But the Sports Day at primary was a favourite.
I now realise that the parents must have suffered much more than the kids. We had a ball. Our primary school had the best part of 400 pupils so it was very much a production line. You did your run, then your sack, or egg and spoon, or wheelbarrow or three-legged race, then the rest of the afternoon was your own. We all loved it.
The three-legged race was good. If you got into a rhythm, there was no stopping you, but if your partner fell, or started laughing, you were buggered. Same with the sack race, long after the smallest boy had won it by putting his feet in the corners and just sprinting, the rest of us would still be trying to get up having been toppled in a domino chain reaction. The egg and spoon always caused debate among ourselves, as to whether a big spoon or snug close fitting one was best, but once the race was underway, I don’t think any of us gave a flying fig, it was just much better than sitting doing long division, or fractions.
The plain running was always won by the biggest and probably not the bonniest kids (in primary the gap between biggest and smallest is wide) and the novelty races were a complete lottery.
Anyway at the end of the track there was a trestle table with a couple of teachers taking notes and handing out the badges. All cheats were disqualified, which must have mortified the parents, but never bothered us at all. Kids although terribly cruel (allegedly), also have a well developed sense of justice and a 10 minute attention span, and the next event was probably about to start, so it was off to the ice cream van to discuss Jack McLean’s fantastic nosebleed.
All the parents were there of course, but we never mixed. It was two distinct groups. They were there only for money, or handy andys, or to hold your spoon till you were ready for it. There was none of that bonding crap. I think any parent shouting specific encouragement, like “Come on Jennifer, you can do it Jenny” would have stuck out like a sore thumb. You see, back then, SUVs hadn’t been invented.
Of course if I had kids, and they were cheated out of a badge at Sports Day by that smarmy little……………….
I’ve never had rose tinted specs about my own school days. In general, I found the whole thing mildly unpleasant from start to finish, but only mildly. It’s impossible to pinpoint why.
The kids were fine, and so were the teachers, but the whole thing was somehow less than the sum of its parts. But the Sports Day at primary was a favourite.
I now realise that the parents must have suffered much more than the kids. We had a ball. Our primary school had the best part of 400 pupils so it was very much a production line. You did your run, then your sack, or egg and spoon, or wheelbarrow or three-legged race, then the rest of the afternoon was your own. We all loved it.
The three-legged race was good. If you got into a rhythm, there was no stopping you, but if your partner fell, or started laughing, you were buggered. Same with the sack race, long after the smallest boy had won it by putting his feet in the corners and just sprinting, the rest of us would still be trying to get up having been toppled in a domino chain reaction. The egg and spoon always caused debate among ourselves, as to whether a big spoon or snug close fitting one was best, but once the race was underway, I don’t think any of us gave a flying fig, it was just much better than sitting doing long division, or fractions.
The plain running was always won by the biggest and probably not the bonniest kids (in primary the gap between biggest and smallest is wide) and the novelty races were a complete lottery.
Anyway at the end of the track there was a trestle table with a couple of teachers taking notes and handing out the badges. All cheats were disqualified, which must have mortified the parents, but never bothered us at all. Kids although terribly cruel (allegedly), also have a well developed sense of justice and a 10 minute attention span, and the next event was probably about to start, so it was off to the ice cream van to discuss Jack McLean’s fantastic nosebleed.
All the parents were there of course, but we never mixed. It was two distinct groups. They were there only for money, or handy andys, or to hold your spoon till you were ready for it. There was none of that bonding crap. I think any parent shouting specific encouragement, like “Come on Jennifer, you can do it Jenny” would have stuck out like a sore thumb. You see, back then, SUVs hadn’t been invented.
Of course if I had kids, and they were cheated out of a badge at Sports Day by that smarmy little……………….
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
World Cup stroke War II
Europe’s ghastly history, usually at the hands of the Germanics, always throws up some tremendous grudge games and venues.
So far we’ve played games in Nuremberg and the Olympic Stadium in Berlin.
Nuremberg, onetime Mecca for swastika flag manufacturers, and Berlin, where the English team gave the Nazi salute* before their game in 1938, and where Herr Hitler walked out in 1936 having seen his Master Race theories rolled up and shoved down his throat by the exploits of American athletes, not least the great Jesse Owens below.
*Sir Stanley Matthews CBE, perhaps the all-time best English player, always bitterly regretted the FA’s decision to force the players to do the old Zeig Heil for the toothbrush moustached maniac, but as he later said in his memoirs;
“…in those days you did what you were told, and we didn’t want to offend them in case they invaded the Sudetenland or something.”
Well it’s all bloodstained water under the bridge too far and in the spirit of Europa, that classical goddess with the one tit showing, plucky Poland once again stands alone, knees knocking, hoping to repel the mighty Deutschland as their World Cup Extravaganza rolls on with the inevitability of a panzer division.
This is blitzkrieg football!
Last night, a desultory Brazil (me no like) did enough to beat Croatia (me no like either) in a prissy ‘we are Brazil’ sort of way.
Well maybe if they concentrated on reducing their foreign debt and tackling poverty and their own rapine police force instead of posing on Copacabana and playing soccer, the world would have more time for them. Just a thought.
Today's other Fixtures.
Tunisia V Saudi Arabia. Jesus! Miss in the penalty shoot-out and say cheerio to your foot.
First though it’s España versus Ukraine.
Who will I support? Let’s see. It’s where all Scots go on holiday at least once a year against a shady republic who have recently fought an “orange revolution”?
E VIVA ESPAÑA! ESPAÑA POR FAVOR!
Tunisia V Saudi Arabia. Jesus! Miss in the penalty shoot-out and say cheerio to your foot.
First though it’s España versus Ukraine.
Who will I support? Let’s see. It’s where all Scots go on holiday at least once a year against a shady republic who have recently fought an “orange revolution”?
E VIVA ESPAÑA! ESPAÑA POR FAVOR!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Maroon's silent World Cup podcast.
Angola v Portugal (Portugal) Portugal 1,0
Australia v Japan (Australia) Oz 3,1 Nakamura [Celtic]
USA v Czech Republic (USA) Czechs 3,0 oh dear!
Claudio Reyna, ex Rangers and now USA Capitan, Booked!
Dirty habits die hard.
You see what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass?
Is this your homework Danny?
You see what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass?
Italy v Ghana (Italy) Italy 2,0
Big fat hairy deal. I liked Ghana.
More football news………
Big Roy retires, (at last).
Angola v Portugal (Portugal) Portugal 1,0
Australia v Japan (Australia) Oz 3,1 Nakamura [Celtic]
USA v Czech Republic (USA) Czechs 3,0 oh dear!
Claudio Reyna, ex Rangers and now USA Capitan, Booked!
Dirty habits die hard.
You see what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass?
Is this your homework Danny?
You see what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass?
Italy v Ghana (Italy) Italy 2,0
Big fat hairy deal. I liked Ghana.
More football news………
Big Roy retires, (at last).
Even as an injury ridden old crock cast off who hardly played a game for his weekly 35 grand, Big Roy was worth every penny.
Why? You all ask in disinterested unison.
I’ll just tell you if you give me a minute.
He did the simple things with a faultless precision.
There is incredible pleasure to be had watching that; something simple executed perfectly. So few players in any league manage it.
South Korea v Togo (Togo)
France v Switzerland (Switzerland)
Brazil v Croatia (Brazil)
Sunday, June 11, 2006
FMC has kindly listed all the first round games for us. There seems to be tons of them. The Cup must be bigger this time.
The full list is here
I’m posting it in chunks, updated in red as we go.
Germany v Costa Rica (Costa Rica) -Germany won. G4, C2
Poland v Ecuador (Ecuador )- Ecuador won E2, P 0
England v Paraguay (England)- Engerland 1, 0 O.G.
Trinidad and Tobago v Sweden (Trinidad and Tobago)- Draw
Argentina v Ivory Coast (Argentina) Argybargies 2, 1
Serbia Mont. v Holland (Holland) Holland 1, 0
Mexico v Iran (Mexico) Mexico 3, 1
Angola v Portugal (Portugal)
Australia v Japan (Australia)
USA v Czech Republic (USA)
Best game so far was T&T versus Sweden last night. What a crackerjack old fashioned end to ender.
Obviously I was hoarse shouting on Trinidad and Tobago. Come on me bredren! They were heroic. Especially when reduced to ten.
Big Shaka was brilliant as was wee Yorkie.
Did anyone see that old tumshie Henrik Larsson get booked for cynically scything down one of the Johns?
He should have been sent back to Sweden in disgrace.
The game can do without that, thank you very much, Mr Dirty Player of the Year!
Keep your hacking Swedish feet to yourself!
Argentina won also and the English. You can’t have everything.
D’ya know what the commentators said after the Trinidad game?
“A fantastic result for England”
They are so partial I could spew.
This is what the fuss is about. 6 .5 kilos of solid gold! And yet the poster says 11 lbs!
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Coupe du MondeWorld Cup
Copa Mundial
Official FIFA Blog.
Official FIFA Blog.
David Beckham and Wayne Rooney relax after traning at the England Camp yesterday
Updates…
Germany 4, Costa Rica 2
(For Americans, Germany “beat” Costa Rica. They ‘scored’ more ‘goals’
We say: "they are cheating, German bastards".
Now you. Say it with me, “they are cheating….”
Good! and...…rest.)
Next up,
Poland 0, Ecuador 2
(Again, for my American friends, Ecuador is a small country on the equator, hence the name. Not to be confused with Eriador, which is in Middle Earth.)
Now this is BAD. I don’t like Poland that much but there were two CELTIC players on the field last night, the Poles' inept striker and their goalie.
Sack them NOW Mr. Strachan!!
The Poles' manager is a dick! Why play with a single man up front in the World Cup? This is your only chance! They were there for the taking.
And finally,
Tennents 6+, Skol 0. (slow start)
Stay tuned……………………
Friday, June 09, 2006
Celtic, Scotland and whoever happens to be playing England.
(except Germany)
In that order. It starts tonight. Hooray! Should I buy a Swedish No11 (should be 7) Larsson shirt? It would complete the set. I’ll ponder. They’re all over the shops. That and Trinidad and Tobago jerseys.
I love the World Cup me. It’s got everything. It gives you something to talk about down the pub. Everyone’s an expert. Beer and football. Is there, in this wide world, any better combination? And it lasts a month. At each of the last two, I’ve bought a bigger flatter TV. (not this time) You can even talk about TVs in the bar.
“mine’s better…”
“why don’t you go home and watch it then Maroon?”
Classic. If Larsson scores the winning goal against England, they’ll make him a Knight of the Thistle. Oh wouldn’t that be fantastic?
Sir Henrik Larsson KT
The supermarkets are going mad with beer deals. It just keeps getting better and better. Luckily I am not a beer snob. Tennents is my favourite. Followed by Skol (weak) my other favourite.
What about Paraguay? I’ve supported them for years.
Come on the Guaraníes,
or La Albirroja !
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Synchronicity and solipsism.
I had started this update before I had a look at the comments. The whole Blog area is weird for this kind of thing. Here’s what I was saying and was about to post.
“The book’s finished. (unsatisfactory ending). 4 1/2 weeks till the re-write!
SheBah, our very own SexyBeauty as was, was right! She advised a creative writing course. I did the next best thing and got a coupla books out the library.
One was “Write and Publish Your Novel” by Marina Oliver and the other was David Lodge’s crackerjack “The Art of Fiction“.
Justin Barker remarked via Nabokov about fancy prose. I am taking it as a compliment.
Lo Lee Tah.
I recognised the quote from somewhere recent and realised it was also in Lodge’s book! How synchronous is that?
Hummingbird hummingbird hummingbird is another of Barker’s that’s ringing a bell but I can’t think from where.
An advantage of age is that one can fry an egg properly. (one of mine).
It’s rude and dilatory of me not to reply to the comments so I’m going to right now!……”
And when I went to the comments, I found SB’s question!
I had started this update before I had a look at the comments. The whole Blog area is weird for this kind of thing. Here’s what I was saying and was about to post.
“The book’s finished. (unsatisfactory ending). 4 1/2 weeks till the re-write!
SheBah, our very own SexyBeauty as was, was right! She advised a creative writing course. I did the next best thing and got a coupla books out the library.
One was “Write and Publish Your Novel” by Marina Oliver and the other was David Lodge’s crackerjack “The Art of Fiction“.
Justin Barker remarked via Nabokov about fancy prose. I am taking it as a compliment.
Lo Lee Tah.
I recognised the quote from somewhere recent and realised it was also in Lodge’s book! How synchronous is that?
Hummingbird hummingbird hummingbird is another of Barker’s that’s ringing a bell but I can’t think from where.
An advantage of age is that one can fry an egg properly. (one of mine).
It’s rude and dilatory of me not to reply to the comments so I’m going to right now!……”
And when I went to the comments, I found SB’s question!
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