Call me Ishmael.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

Winston Smith opened the door to Victory Mansions and lit a woodbine or something.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. The point is, these are all the first lines from books.
Not the best of starts I think you’ll agree and personally I think those books would have been better if they’d grabbed you right away instead of making you work for your enjoyment.

Lets consider the opening line from another piece. This one really gets you going - right from the off.

Fatmammycat gunned the Maserati round the cobbles in an ecstasy of squeals.

That line’s got everything. It’s exciting, glamorous, cool. There’s a top notch dolly bird in a branded sports car driving too fast for the road conditions pertaining at the time. What more do you want? As a first line, it’s a tipper. A belter in fact.

For example, it’s much better than this line, isn‘t it not?

“Mr Jones the cannibal came home and ate someone’s leg.”

I mean that line’s got nothing. Nyente. Nada.

I bet no-one outside their immediate family has bought that rednose book.
Oh, and if any of you writes a book that starts “Mr Jones the cannibal came home and ate someone’s leg.”, I’ll fucking sue.

Book your tickets now.

At Hampden Park Glasgow, our universally admired Tartan Army saw the gallant Lion Rampants of Bonny Scotland, thrash Joe Stalin’s evil ape men of Georgia, sending them back to the gulag in a two-one drubbing they won’t forget in a hurry.
Meanwhile in a humiliating disaster of utter proportions, the soccer maestros of the English premiership were humiliated last night by the footballing Jews of Tel Aviv. As the useless millionaire failures slumped to their worst ever nil-nil defeat, cries of “strangle him” rang out around the Moshe Dayan stadium when legions of thuggish England fans bayed for the death of their manager Steve Whatshisname.
Meanwhile across the water, both sets of troublesome Irish somehow notched up victories against totally substandard opposition.
The sportsdesk team can reveal exclusively today that the Irish have also taken up the unnatural English game of English Cricket, beating the shopkeepers of Pakistan in a competition laughingly called “The World Cup”.
No good will come of it.

Tennis news.

Andy Thingmibob is Scottish, as is the game of golf.

At Saint Alphonso’s Pancake Breakfast (where I stole the margarine)

So like that Twenty Major says he’s got a book deal. My heart is filled with like total utter joy for him.
It’s what I’ve always said: the doers do and the don’ters don’t.

I’ve been away in London Town myself as it so happens, talking with other very important people like me about the consequences of this new finger quotes cross pond open skies thing end finger quotes. It was that kind of crowd. We were all terribly agreed that Boeing has been working George Bush with wires, although there is no evidence whatsoever to suggest such a thing. You see, you might not know this, but while useless A.I. has been trying to get it’s super elephant plane off the ground, Boeing went the other way with a point to pointer called “The Dreamliner”. Cooool. So what? Well, only the big national hubs can cope with French Fatso, whereas Yankee Dreamliner will take you direct to Nevada from Nuneaton.

The upshot is, we don’t care, because in true English style, we backed them both.

Ha Ha

Think I’ll have a Bloody Mary for a change.

There’s no vodka so I’ll substitute Bacardi and I don’t think I’ve any tomato juice but coca cola will do.

Down the hatch. Here’s to you Twenny! God, that’s the worst Bloody Mary I’ve had in years.

The ‘Forfar’ Way.

That Daphne Wayne-Bough reminded me about a young lad that comes in the front bar now and then. Big Bob’s his name and he’s from Forfar but he’s awful Heilan’ and he was in the other night, telling us all about his weekend away in Paris. To let you know, he’s never harmed a living thing in his life but he could snap you in two like a Kit Kat. You’ll know the type of lad I mean. He’s strong on the likes of John Deere over the likes of International Harvester, but he couldn’t buy underpants out of a Marks and Spencer if there was a girl on the till. To be honest, he’s not the brightest but you want to see the size of him. He gives us something to talk about when he’s not there.

“It’s as well he’s good natured…” says Alec the Dalek.
“I would not like to tackle him,” nods Pally Ally. “strong as a bullock he is…”
“Aye, and twice as thick…“ says Mortal Dan.
“Och, there’s not an ounce of guile in him…” say I, sticking up for the boy.

Well, the other night we’re all lined up at the bar chewing the fat and thinking about death and on the TV comes some girl band not wearing enough clothes, making us feel worse, when up pipes the big soft lad himself.

“Hey, Professor, I met a lass on the trip there, that was better looking than any o’ them.”

They sometimes call me Professor, but not in a good way.

“Oh ?” I asked, “was she an air hostess on the plane?”
“She was a hostess all right, but no’ on the plane…”

Well! We’ve never seen him so animated about something you couldn’t bolt to a tractor, so Alec sets them up, adding a double for Big Bob to keep him talking.

So he continues, telling us that before the game, the other three give him the ticket money to keep because he is as straight as a die and no one in their right minds would try and rob him. The young lad was put together by John Browns of Clydebank, I’m not kidding. But they never saw the game, nor a ticket neither, for big as he is, didn’t they go an lose him in the crowds? So there he is, wandering lost in the opposite direction, but slow as he is, he doesn’t panic because he’s got the ticket money and that’ll see him through any little emergencies…

“Holy frost!” says Ally, Perth being his idea of a big town, and gettin in another round, asks: “so what did ye do then?”

Well he takes himself into some wee dive just off the main drag, to have a think and maybe something for the heat. So he’s sitting there with his big rosette on and his rolled up flag and his woolly tartan scarf round his neck drinking French beer when what looks like the girl from the Renault Clio advert comes over and starts chatting away right friendly. Three or four drinks later they’ve clicked and she’s taking him back to hers for ‘coffee’. But when they get there, he’s no sooner planted his flag in the lobby press, when the young girl’s tone changes and now she’s rhyming off a pricelist all business like, rolling off all the things she’ll do to him, but for a price.
Holy Moly! he thinks and he’s squirming a bit because it’s a shock and he doesn’t know what to say and him built like a Sherman tank…

“Never!” exclaims Dan, waving over refills for everyone. “Are you sayin’ she was a…ho…a…who..”
“Hostess! That‘s right.” interrupts Big Bob, nodding, lifting his glass.

So the girl’s standing there, all sophisticated, waiting for an answer.

“Well mon cheri…” and Big Bob swears that’s what the girl said to him, “Well mon cheri, what’s it to be? Voolly-voo want a good time avec moi? oui?”

He’s just a country lad and although he’s Heilan’ he’s no’ as Heilan’ as that, so, seeing which way the wind’s blowing, he stalls for time to sort out his thoughts. I’m telling you, a Glaswegian would spot he was new in off the fields, in a minute, no, in a second even. You know the sort of plain simple lad I mean, but a physique like the jolly green giant.

“So long as we do it the Forfar way,” he blurts out, sitting there with his tartan scarf near choking him…

When Big Bob gets to this bit, I rap the bar for more refills all round, mainly to cover my ignorance. I’m pretty straight when it comes to all that and this sounds a bit kinky to me.

Anyway, the young lass is also brought up short by this, for although she’s quite young and no’ the size of tuppence ha’penny, she was sure she knew all the ways to make love that are in the book. And some that aren’t.

“Zees Forfar way,” she says, ”Jinny say pah, explain please.”
“Oh, I just ken it as the Forfar Way” he manages to say, now desperate to take his damned rosette off but the safety pin is stuck fast in his jumper.
The girl can do the karma sutra backwards but she has never heard of the Forfar way.

“Ees it like ze Eskimo Way?” she asks.
“What way’s that then?” says he.
“Ze Eskimo, zay do eet weeth zare clothes on.” she explains.
“Would it no’ get awful hot?” he reasons.
“Do you mean maybe zee Catholic way? Through zee ‘ole in the bedsheet?” she tries.
“No No!” he says, quite scandalised, “It’s the Forfar way for me, or nothing.”
“Per’aps eet’s like ze Chinese Way?” she suggests.
“What, you want more twenty minutes later?” he asks puzzled.

Now the girl laughs at this. She is warming to him in spite of his clumsy clothes and his big honest sonsy face and his silly big hands like shovels. She thinks for a minute.

“Môn sewer Bob,” she says, “I am expert at more ways than you can imagine, but never ‘ave I ‘eard of zees Forfar way. If you show me, I shall do eet for free.”
Finally, the big lump of a lad relaxes and sighs: “aye, that’s the Forfar way.”


Now he’s finished his tale, the poor big soul sees the pub clock and slams down his empty tumbler, rushing off just like a wee vexed boy, to catch his bus, which isn’t even due for another fifteen minutes.

In the silence after the bar doors slam shut, it’s Alec the Dalek who speaks first.
“I can’t imagine how you’d lose such a big lump in a crowd.” he says shaking his head.
“Imagine him getting it for free in Paris.” says Pally Ally in admiration.
“I can’t imagine him getting it for free in fucking Greenock.” says Mortal Dan.
“Och, he’s just a big daft boy…” say I, sticking up for him.

“Aye, he’s daft the right way when it’s his round!” shouts Black Jack from the corner, which is rich coming from him, the miserable little ferret.

So, Mother’s Day was a washout. The singing mailman wasn’t well received. Grandmother said he looked consumptive. Things brightened later on when the family gathered. My brother has one of those Japanese SUVs and his wife managed to scrape it down the wall on the way in. Ha Ha. Mother said nothing good ever came out of the east and she was looking at my brother’s wife when she said it. I said maybe driveways are wider in Cambodia.
Then we had sherry and took tea and smiled when Mother told us about how they only had one clog which is a barefaced lie and my sister and her life partner showed us their tongue studs. Mother winced a bit at the tattoos but she hid it well.
Us siblings have always competed for Mum’s affections, so knowing her love for English first editions, I trumped everyone with a mint copy of Rogers and Mayhew’s “Fundamentals of Thermodynamics”.

It’s got a fifties space rocket on the sleeve and is signed by Mayhew!
(Rogers tragically died in a jet engine at Farnborough. His widow had to bury him in an oil drum)
Then we beetled across town to repeat the whole thing with Mrs Maroon’s Mother.
Mrs Maroon is an only child so her parents hate my guts. When her father looks at me like that, I feel cheap and dirty.
Her mother made old fashioned salad for tea. You know, lettuce, tomato, half a boiled egg and an extra slice of spam for Dad. Her mother was delighted with the Black Magic (presentation box) but then Pop said I, “was driving“, so we left after the arctic roll.
To cap it all, I forgot to leave the Rogers and Mayhew at Mum’s.

By now my friends, you will have heard the hellish news.

Excuse me a second.

I'm OK.

I said I was OK, don't fucking touch me right?

In what can only be described as a total utter travesty of utterly Titanic proportions, Mike Atkinson has cobbled together a concoction of blog wanabees and other derelicts of the blogosphere into some vanity publishing affair. I of course refused to allow Cape to Rio to be associated with this tawdry exercise in petty self aggrandisement. Others, perhaps without the necessary self respect, were only too eager to prostitute their art to the lowest bidder. Don't worry, I'm naming no names Foot Eater, I'm just disappointed, and not a little nauseous.

Each day, in every way I'm getting better and better. So Mum says.

Kim, why don't we contact all the rejects and compile a book of the 101 most vitriolic, bitter, sour, witty reactions and keep the money to ourselves.

Oh me miserum, the airplane has crashed into the fucking mountainside.

OK, that's it.

Over.

I'm fine,...honest.


I mean rejection, alright, I can take that, I'm used to it, but Christ, to take Foot Eater in my place? Come on people. He didn't make that cannibal stuff up, the man's ill.

I
won’t forget you. I may be moving on to an higher intellectual plane but I have honour. I have chosen my desert island discs which are all classical even though I don’t get it and my book will be Proust or Goethe in foreign.
I wonder if “Bling Wraiths” will be put at the front, to get the anthology off to a flyer, or perhaps a tasteful centre spread feature? Who can tell?
Melvin and John Humphries are welcome to interview me but I shall not tolerate Jim Nauchtie who is a plank.
Some have suggested I should wait until I find out if it’s actually going in, but to those I say:
“Rome was built on seven hills”.
You will all still be welcome chez Maroon anytime, although perhaps you should phone first, I’m sure you understand.
Mrs Maroon and I discussed it all last night and we decided that she should stay with her mother for a couple of years. Well, she’s getting older now, as indeed is her mother. Laika, our young daily from Zenda, has kindly agreed to take on more of my quirky little Maroon tasks and stand in for the pop shots. Is that the term? Publicity photos. She loves it.
“Doctor, sometimes I think you crazy mad.” she’ll say.
Anyway, I truly can’t say any more right now. I’m expecting a call from Mike Atherton or Atkins, probably to discuss layouts and so on, (between you and me, he’s a little green) and my muse must come first.

That Bob and Bono Backlash.

Even though he’s turned into a git, I have great difficulty in slagging off Bono. You see, I liked U2 before anyone else, and even had the Bono boots to prove it. Remember them? They were dead gay and had leather straps and other paraphernalia attached to them -what were we thinking? But Bob Geldof went to shit years ago, like1980 or something. Face it, he couldn’t even sing God bless him. But what gets my chowdah rising, is that he, and his talentless, bland daughter Peaches are never off the Godamn TV, telling me how white my shirts should be and I can’t be a man cos I mustn’t smoke and my mere existence is causing death on a scale unimaginable across the third world. If I was rich he’d have a point, but I ain’t, so he hasn’t.

Here’s the trick Bob. Put your hand in your own deep pockets and shut the f**k up.

He’s a Londoner now like Madonna, so they’ll be all over our screens, berating us come the Telethon, then it’ll be off to Maxim’s for a righteous coke fest with naked women and everything, just like ancient Rome.

I do a lot of work for charity me, but I don’t like to talk about it.
So like I sent that nice man Mike Atkinson a post from last September for his charity book. If any of you want to send him something, this is the link. He’s not fussy, but you mustn’t be Irish, and why not? Because of Bob and Bono that’s why. It’s a backlash. Maybe he’s frightened of a repeat, or maybe he’s a xenophobic, fascist, Little Englander, or maybe it‘s copyright, we may never know.

http://troubled-diva.com/labels/rednoseday.html


Obviously if he doesn’t choose me for inclusion, I’ll scrub every reference to him. It will be as if he never existed.
Actually, It wasn’t nearly as funny as I’d remembered it.
Don’t you think life’s a bit like that ?

Best fit polygon and controlling variables as a means of quality assurance.

Kim’s last post but one has spurred me to bend my wits upon a conjecture he has propounded.

‘Best fit polygon’ is an engineering technique (surprise surprise) to help in the evaluation of component design.
Bear with me, there’s no test at the end.*

Imagine if you will, a component of a machine that must achieve 4 criteria and each of these criteria is of equal importance. If we were to describe these requirements graphically [draw them out on graph paper] it might look like a square. Still with me? Good. Now imagine that 2 of the requirements were each twice as important as the other two, the resultant shape would now be a rectangle twice as long as it’s broad. OK still? Fine.
Well in reality there might be 10 or more important qualities that the thing must have and each of varying importance, so you end up with a complicated shape.
What you then do is go through the alternatives until you find a design that best fits that shape. We call that the ‘optimum’ design.
Of course some qualities might totally override others and therefore must be achieved whatever the cost, so you can end up with some pretty funny shapes I can tell you. We had one once that looked for all the world like a great big
I digress.

It’s all done on computers by low paid graduate trainees, the point is, it is a system of compromise. It has to be.

Stick with me Ayres, I beg you.

The next thing is ‘controlling the variables‘. Formalised by the Americans in the second world war, they realised that if you removed the variables from the manufacturing process, then any resultant deviation was due to random chance and not worth crying about. The trick being separating out what you must and what you can’t control.

Phew! Now we’re at the bone.

If, and it’s only a proposition mind, we apply these trusted techniques to our own life situation, do we,-

a) end up in an optimum world?
b) end up in an ideal world?

And

c) which is the world described by the philosopher Ayres?
d) are the two worlds equivalent?

Answers in by Founder’s Day please, one side of the paper only and two inch margins.

* I totally lied.

Baile atha Cliath

Yesterday in Glasgow, I was behind an Irish car at traffic lights, its plate started 91-D-something and had Baile atha Cliath written on it, so presumably a Dublin registration from 1991.
So what?
Well, not 20 minutes later, I was behind another one!
There’s a name for this.
Either it’s a ‘sign’ or that other thing where you think it’s a ‘sign’ but it isn’t. You only notice it because you’ve noticed it. Like wrong phone numbers. If they didn’t answer, you wouldn’t know that you’d dialled a wrong number. I might have passed a dozen Polish cars in the same time for all we know, but being Polish, they don’t count and wouldn’t be a ‘sign‘.
Obviously.
Don’t you think that this explains the argument against intelligent design much better than Richard Dorkins and all his mathematics? Apart from the Polish cars of course. They ARE an anomaly.
They are a gift from God.

‘Never explain or apologise’

That’s what Hitler used to say. These days that don’t wash the diapers!


Edited technical bit. (I must be careful.)

I canna blog from work Caaptain, - They would find me and beat me.

Besides, they pay half my phone bill, although that’s neither here nor there since the only company calls I make at home are to call in sick.
But one of my access numbers WAS dial up! Ooh-er missus.

Before the 6th of February there was total separation, a paramount concern of my august employers, but now according to our IT man, it’s as if there is a huge, HUGE Favourites List and Cape to Rio isn’t on it.
Not that I was stupid enough to name it by name, but I feel I was imprudent in the first place and have maybe drawn unwelcome attention down upon my troubled head.

He IS a sneaky little bastard (and ill favoured to the point of ugliness.)

Orange, (or Wanadoo as was), have been charging me a hefty £17.99 over and above my regular subscription for the past three years!
That’s £647.64 give or take.
I live in hope to see it again…skip to the end…words were exchanged, tempers were lost and a plug was pulled.

Sods.

A name like ORANGE should have warned me.

NTL are the future!


Actual Weblog bit.

The past month’s been utter total Hell.
Been to the pictures, (Black Book, Notes on a Scandal, Garrison Keiller’s Radio Show, Hot Fuzz and The Number 23), have eaten out, and I’m talking proper restaurants here, not Cap’n Jack’s Pirate Platter (Kim’s favourite), I mean total prawn cocktail, steak and seasonal veg selection with black forest gateaux for afters and all washed down with a pert Lambrusco.

We asked for kir once. What a laugh.

What else? Let’s see,
went to Glasgow a couple of times, { Horseshoe Bar, Transport Museum, The Art Galleries, Italian dinner }

What else
Did Ben Imie, then did the one I forget its name, at the top of the Rest And Be Thankful the next day while it snowed!

Well hark at her!

I’m getting to the point.

It got so bad, I dragged Madam Maroon along to an internet café. I took her because she looks respectable. The plan being she would bugger off once she’d paid the nice man. There wasn’t a free terminal!

Now, rather than say,

“OK dude, bring us two mocha frappochinos with cinnamon sprinkles and we shall wait”…

We both just bolted in unexpected embarrassment. The place was full of inert weirdos anyway. Why don’t they get their own computers? And a wash for God’s sake?. Their fingernails were a disgrace.


The point.

Even with all this activity, and people getting sacked all over the place because of those French nincompoops at A.I., you’d think I’d have enough to think about, well you’d be wrong.

I am a total empty shell without you. It’s been awful.

So, like, Kim gave me this pill yeah? well, it was two pills actually, a green one and a blue one, so I was like, well I ain’t takin’ the blue one no way, but then I thought , that’s what he wants me to think, so I spat out the green one an’ took the blue one………………………….that was like, a lifetime ago.




The TRUTH.
I have no personal internet provider just now. Fell out (big time) with Orange, [scumbags], at the end of January, and until I get NTL’d up, which may be another month!, I might not be around much!

My dearest dearest friends, I miss you all terribly.

Pip pip.

AHK Maroon.

The first LP I ever bought, (that is, I said to my dear mama, “I want that one”) was “Oliver”.
That’s right! The Lionel Bart musical.
Family pictures of the time show a cherubic little Maroon smiling into the camera with his face washed. I really thought those songs were the pinnacle of musical development and surely the best music ever. I was eleven years old.

Not three months later, I had turned twelve and bought my next LP.

It was Masters of Reality by Black Sabbath.
Back then, this stuff was called “underground music”. At first I thought it had something to do with the subway, no kidding.
I put it on my father’s gramophone, which had valves and up till then had only played Deutsch Gramophone records or Richard Crooks or Bing Crosby or Bob Newhart [v funny], anyhoo, I cranked it up a bit, and stuck on the record.

It took out three windows across the road and the police were called. Best day of my life.

I wonder if any of you remember such landmarks. Perhaps it was the day you put away your dinky cars and action man (with the bionic eye) and went cycling with the girl next door instead, or maybe you slung your Sindy doll in her box, and decided to hang about the park, or chip shop, or corner, chewing gum in a provocative manner…

Do tell.

I must be careful, but the Burns Night what I went to, just there, was totally garbage.
The H, Ns, &Ts were fine, but throw in a 30cc measure of Grouse and that was it!
It was like school dinners.
I should have known by the cheap price of the tickets that something was up.

A proper organised Burns Night follows a pattern.
The pattern is always the same.
That’s why it’s called a pattern.
It’s just like weddings, they follow a pattern.
Firstly, there’s a top table just like a wedding.
The singer(s) and MC sit here along with the host, the pub landlord, club committee or whoever.
We sit at one of the other tables, then there’s a toast and a welcome.
The MC, usually a minister or even a priest, but in this instance the Presbyterians do it better, will say a short poem of welcome,
Then The Selkirk Grace.
Then you start on your starter, whatever it is. It’s not usually anything fancy like freshwater crayfish in raspberry sauce.
Then the haggis is piped in,
by a piper,
on a platter,
carried by a cook,
in a chef’s hat,
And the MC does The Address and waves a bread knife about before cutting open the bloody thing, at which point, young waitresses in the traditional long tartan skirts and white waitressy blouses come in an distribute plated up dinners as fast as possible.
There may or may not be a pudding, usually trifle, then oatcakes and cheese then shortbread and whisky.
Ah, Whisky.
Aquam igne et aquam haurio.
Then replete, the fun starts.
The singer [s] will sing love songs, and A Man’s A Man For A’ That, and Scots Wahay!
It sounds corny, but if you get a good singer singing unaccompanied, it’s really quite stirring. Sometimes there is piano accompaniment but that’s it.
No fal de rals with Burns.

A Burns Night isn’t the White Heather Club with accordions and Donald where’s yer troosers, in fact there may be the odd kilt, and some tasteful tartan kitsch, but it’s a LOWLAND night on the piss, NOT a Heilan‘ one. Ask Sam if you don’t believe me.

Any way, interspersed with the singin’ and the drinkin’ and the poems, Tam o’ Shanter etc., the MC will tell funny stories about Burns, or what happened on his way to the pub, you know the sort of thing, but it’s about Burns. It’s his night.
A good MC is a bit like a protestant Borscht Belt comedian.
A good one would convert you, so I always carry a rosary in my breast pocket. I’m no’ daft altogether.

Anyway, after all that, there’s the toast to his immortal memory, and Auld Lang Syne etc.
A great night if you ever get the chance.

So what was that, three spheres of food on plate, thank you and goodnight rubbish we got the other night?

As the whaler neared the shore, they passed another at a cable’s length, rowing out into the bay. In many ways, the image of their own, there was one conspicuous difference. Instead of a nervous man of letters gripping the gunwales, there stood a fearless midshipman, his brass buttons ablaze in the setting sun: for all the world, General Washington Crossing the Delaware.
They looked upon him with admiration.

“That’ll be our new officer.” remarked Bananas, spitting into the wind for luck.
“What a splendid young gentleman.” said Ayres, “he‘ll shake up the ratings for sure.”
McShae, who had the keenest sight of the three and was examining the young man closely, simply nodded.

In a half dozen strokes the whaler had beached, and Ayres leaping out with the little wooden box, managed to put a buckled shoe in the salty water as he always did.
The other two followed and soon they were surrounded by the nets and spars of Sam’s Chandlery.
McShae was pushed and prodded over to the counter to arrange things with Mistress Sam while Ayres and Bananas wandered the store, innocently examining binnacles and cleats.

“Fine open weather we’re havin’ if it wasna for the fogs.” he said.
“What can I get you? We’ve some Jamaica just new arrived.” said Sam, ignoring preliminaries.
“No, I’m not right wanting a drink today.” he said, blushing.
“Are you well McShae?” asked Sam in genuine concern.
“Look I’ll come to the point.” said he, “We’ve a friend of ours called Foot Eater who we haven’t seen for a week and who’s not in the jail and our botanist, that‘s him over there wi’ the wet foot, thinks he may be drow-ned. He’s cook on the Shannon, not him over there, the one that’s missin’, could you not throw one of those trances for us and ask Bloody Mary whether he’s on deck or under hatches?”

A bargain was struck and Mistress Sam led them to an airless store room where she lit a sooty lamp and turned it down to a peep.
From a shelf, she took down a green glass fishing float and stared into it, occasionally parting unseen mists with elaborate waves of her hand.

“You are seeking a friend.” she said at last, “He is a sailorman. He has the initials F. E. He has travelled a lot in boats. Whiles he drank and his language was coarse.”

“Holystone the decks! That‘s him exactly.” exclaimed Ayres in amazement clutching the little box.
“Did ah not tell ye?” beamed McShae, “Pure science. None o’ yer hurdy gurdys here.”

Satisfied with how things were going, Sam now pulled a small table and four chairs into the middle of the floor.

“Help yourselves,” she said, indicating the seats.

To the eternal embarrassment of McShae the shipwright, bo’sun Bananas misunderstood but spoke up for all three:

“Please Mistress, there’s no need to put yourself out. We’ve just had a splendid tea…”
“It’s a séance you're getting, not your dinner,” she interrupted, ”now, all of you, sit down with me and join hands.”

The men were reluctant. It was one thing to cross the threshold of the occult and risk their souls, but to sit holding hands…

“How else can I contact the other world?” cajoled Mistress Sam. “Now do as I say; we don’t want to make Her angry.”

“We maybe shouldn’t vex her at all.” suggested Bananas, “Bonnie Mary of Argyll is too grand for the like of us. Is there not somebody cheaper? A plain dead sailor would do.”

“Man, yer makin’ a cod o’ the whole thing!” exclaimed McShae in disgust, “will ye no’ sit yersel’ down bo’sun and stay at peace.”

“It’s too late anyway!” intoned Sam, shutting her eyes, “She’s comin’ through…quick everyone, shut yer eyes tight, and keep yer hands joined…good evening your majesty…”

And in a startling Scotch accent, using Mistress Sam as her earthly conduit, the tragic queen related the fate of poor Foot Eater who had indeed drowned the week previous. It had been merciful quick and he was now at rest among Drake’s Drummers.

There was silence in the room at the dreadful news.

“He had the lend of my penknife, did he take it wi him?” Asked McShae.
“Now that I remember, he had a half crown off me.” said Bananas.

Mistress Sam hesitated and opened an eye to check on her clients, but they were still eyes shut and gripping each others’ hands as if their lives depended on it.

“He doesnae say,” she continued, “all he says is, you’ve no’ tae worry aboot sich matters and that he’ll be suppin’ wi’ one o’ ye, afore the month’s oot!”

“Holy frost! Stop there Mistress!” said Ayres in a panic, before adding - “how much do we owe ye?”

For whatever reason, both the bo’sun and the shipwright tried to kick Ayres under the table, but it was the little mahogany box that took the blows. At any rate, the séance was over. As Mistress Sam tidied up her spiritual accoutrements, the three men withdrew to a corner, where with a bitter argument conducted in whispers, the one and ninepence was made up between them.


It was a sad little trio that climbed aboard the Shannon that night. They were subdued not only by the loss of their shipmate but also by the grim reality that one of their number would soon be joining him. They were therefore astounded when who should they see but the cook himself, large as life and sitting on a barrel peeling potatoes.

“Great God Almighty! where ye been Eater?” asked McShae.
“Oh, just perusin' the docks o’ Dublin." said the cook mildly, “I fell in wi’ a lot of chaps. Did you not see me rowing out wi the new officer?”
“Of all the cheating, conivin’, lying tricksters, ” exclaimed bo‘sun Bananas, stamping on his pipe in a fury,
“the worst by far is that Mary Queen of Scots.”

I sing of a river I'm happy beside
The song that I sing is a song of the Clyde…

Oh the river Clyde, the wonderful Clyde
The name of it thrills me and fills me with pride
And I'm satisfied whate'er may betide
The sweetest of songs is the song of the Clyde

You may be interested to know, dear reader, that yesterday; Yours Truly was at the launch of D33, a type 45 destroyer! That’s right! Me! Well hurrah and three cheers for Maroon. There was free drink and vol-au-vents and hearts of oak.
There wasn’t hearts of oak, which was a disappointment, but I did meet the Commodore Home Fleet that I slagged off way back at the start of Cape to Rio.
A unexpected surge of patriotic jingoism forbids me to tell you how wonderful a ship it is. Suffice to say that at full steam ahead, it would move too fast to water ski. In fact, it may well be the fastest ship afloat.
There, I’ve let the cat out.
Can’t help it.

You can see the launch here:


BBC news


Video.


wikipedia HMS_Dauntless_(D33)


.wikipedia. WR-21

Naval Tradition.

Four handsome oarsmen pull for the shore, in long, sweeping, arcs.
Bo’sun Bananas has the tiller, softly calling the strokes.
McShae the shipwright sits beside him as the whaler surfs in on the grey tide.
While hunched at the prow with a small mahogany box on his knees, is Ayres, the ship’s botanist and confirmed landsman, counting the yards to the shingle.
These three are on an errand of their own concern.



It’s 1796 and in Dublin Bay, HMS Shannon, at this time still His Majesty’s Ship, in name anyway, has taken up her usual anchorage after an uncommon good four-day voyage. Uncommon good that is, for her captain and crew. Two nights previous, a rendezvous had been made with a fat ketch definitely not flying the colours of revolutionary France. The two vessels had lashed themselves together and in the first unrecorded instance of replenishment at sea, had transferred their cargoes.
In a transaction worthy of his reputation, Captain Barney had negotiated the exchange of all the Admiralty powder he held in his magazine for every ounce of brandy and claret that the Shannon would hold.
And now, back in home waters, and below in his cabin, and feeling magnificent after his shave, he turns his eye to the finest of ankles dangling from his bunk and is moved to song;

‘There once was a band, of Irish dragoons,
Come marchin’ down through Fyvie-O…..’

“Who’s that wailing?” asks a sleepy voice from under the bedclothes.

Undeterred, he sings on;

‘…And the captain fell in love, wi' a bonnie bonnie lass
And he called her by name, pretty Catty-O…’




McShae the shipwright it was, who first reported the intelligence to his shipmates that the owner of the most disreputable shebeen this side of Wicklow conducted heathen communication with the spirits. And not the spirits that sailors were commonly in heathen communication with either: these didn’t come in a bottle, - Madam Sam spoke with the dead!

“Mother of God! You don’t say“. said Bananas lighting his pipe.
“As true as eight bells on a Hamburg cutter!” affirmed McShae.
“Smoke and oakum.” muttered Ayres.
“There’s maybe something in it,” remarked the bo’sun, “for I once heard a knockin’ in a kitchen dresser I couldn’t explain.”
“Of course there is.” continued McShae, drawing his stool closer to his two confederates.
“Ah’m telling’ ye. That last time we were berthed waitin’ orders, I was ashore and ah went into Sam’s Chandlery for a bit o rope. Anyway, they didna ha’e the right kind, but seein’ ah was there, I stepped into the back shop for just the one wee refreshment no‘ worth talkin‘ about.”

Both bo’sun and botanist examined the deck planks.

“Ye needna worry,” said McShae, sensing some doubt in his companions, “it all took place before I had ma ration. Onyway, the mistress, that Sam hersel’, flung a trance and spoke tae Mery Queen O’ Scoats, passin‘ messages from the dear deperted to the locals for a shillin‘.”

At the mention of money, the bo’sun and botanist crossed themselves although neither was catholic.

“Messages from the departed?” asked Bananas.
“She had Bloody Mery to the life!” attested McShae.
“A shilling?” asked Ayres.

It was therefore decided among the three, that at the next chance, they would avail themselves of Mistress Sam’s uncanny gift, to see what had become of their friend Eater, the ship’s cook, now missing this past week, feared drowned upon the rolling billow.

I’ve done my voting
in the Irish Blog Awards thing, so we won’t see Major for another year.
Is it a year? They seem to come round faster than Christmas.
I remember the first ones, when all this were just fields and kids was respectful to their elders.
Back then, The Vaporiser got my nominations but the organisers pulled him, so ‘stuff that’ I thought.
Then they started disappearing up their own backsides with all their categories.
Best use of Irish patois in a non-political-group-singing-blog, etc.
Remember The Maroons, the antidote to awards?
Anyhoo, I’ve voted.

If there’s any justice, The Swearing Lady will win best blog, TM will be invited to the ceremony and go this time, but not win anything and be beaten up by some or other group he’s slagged off in the last year, [which is why he sends his gophers to collect on his behalf] and Fatmammycat will sweep the board and become Irish President and appoint me her “special secretary of state with unfettered personal access” and we will fly round the world in Aer Lingus’ best jet spreading love and goodwill among the poor and ignorant.
If there’s any justice.

I see from my new clustermap that there is a significant blob on what I believe is Washington State.
I wonder if they will make themselves known to us. It’s always nice to see a new face.
No pressure.
You’ll have had your tea?

I taint dead.

10 or so days ago, I had some coffee from Klatch.

That’s right! I drank from that bitter chalice.
Fool Maroon.
FOOL!

“…and, when the angel with his darker draught draws near, shrink not, but boldly grasp the cup …and drink your fill…”

So it goes.

In actual fact, it doesn’t.

It goes thusly. (depending on translations)

XLIII.

So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.


Anyways, the fabulous world of jet engines has its hold upon me, but you are all uppermost in my thoughts.

Apart from SafeTinspector and that other one.

On with the motley….

Klatchian coffee.
You take too much and you come out the other side. You see the world for what it is.
What it is, is a terrible struggle where the fishes of the sea, the fowls of the air and the beasts of the field are tearing open anything that moves to get at the soft fatty offal within.
You can’t get it in Starbucks.
Well, there’s a blessing.
We are not greedy.
That’s a Godamn lie. We are not overly greedy is what I mean. If we had as much money as we needed, we wouldn’t want for more.
Today might be a good day to sit and stare out the window.
Might see a goldfinch or two, might see a cat or sparrow hawk grasping it and biting it and spitting its blood over its beautiful plumage.
I’ll be as right as rain come Burns Night.

“For the love of Christ! Are you still playing with that thing?”
I hate blasphemy, and it a Sunday too.
“What the f**k are you doing anyway?”
Sorry for the language Pat, I’m quoting you know who.
“I am sending out my e-greetings” I replied.
“For f**ks sake! There’s tons to be done. Wrap it up. Jesus!”
She’s got a mouth on her you wouldn’t believe.

Therefore, may I wish you all a wonderful New Year?

Good.

Is it an addiction? Or a failing? A want? A personality disorder? What?
I’ve been back in since Half three, I’ve completed all my allotted tasks, Christmas has gone really well, everything’s arranged for New Year, and here I am, online, checking everyone’s blogs. I’ve got a ‘free’ night and instead of writing that opera or repointing the brickwork round that dodgy chimney, I’m drinking and pen-pal-ing to everyone out there.
What’s more, I’m a bit sentimental about it.
Now that IS odd.
Perhaps we can say anything here, that’s what we crave, there’s no judgement.
It is addictive.

A merry Christmas to all our readers.

Cinderella and the Beanstalk will resume on Wednesday or summat. If there are good films on, it might be later. Morecambe and Wise were on the other night in That Riviera Feeling or touch or something. Brilliant.

“About those mice Pat, do you have to keep them in the kitchen?”
“They like the warmth.”
“One of them looked at me funny…”

But Pat was on her fairy cell phone and held up a hand.

“Gotta go.” she said, and in a trice had made the secret sign with her wand.

FRITTERZIP!

She was gone, leaving a sensation of glittering motes in the air.

“I hate it when she’s on call.” he muttered, and went to feed the mice some weetabix.
While he was fishing in the cupboard for the packet, Pat was arcing through the firmament to a thin girl called Mandy in Nuneaton.
“Here we are lads, make you strong,” he said, as he dropped the cereal into their box. They really were the strangest little creatures. He could swear they were listening to him, especially that one with the ear. He examined the box. There was something stencilled on the side.

H Hutton Life Sciences S.A.
Bogota.
Colombia.

FOOMPH!

She was back in the room.

“Young gels today, such a poverty of ambition.” Pat declared, slumping into an armchair, “Do they want the gilded coach drawn by six white chargers? Do they heck as like! They want a stretch limo like Puff Daddy. They want bling and belly rings and butterfly tattoos on their bare backsides, well not on my shift Dearie! I told her! Here, be a darling and pep this up, will you?” she paused, handing her kir to Her True Love.
“ ‘I wants, don’t get.’ I said,” she continued, warming up, “ I said, ‘it’s the tiara, the glass slippers and the coach or you stay in and do your A level revision.’ That sorted her out! ”
“So she’s doing her algebra tonight then?” he asked, handing back the kir, now fully pepped up.
“Oh no. She turned on the waterworks didn‘t she? Niagara. So of course I relented. Gave her the full Monty.”
“Butterfly tattoo?” he asked.
“Even that. I warned her, mind. ‘Be home by 4 am’ I said, ‘or that butterfly will fly off and your clothes will transform.’ ”
“Back to rags?”
“No, into a sensible tweed skirt and twin set. She looked terrified.”

* * *

Maroon, painfully aware that the day is no longer his, sighs himself, and putting his paper down, rises to answer the door.
It is his neighbour’s manservant, ‘Buttons’.

Deep and crisp and eeeeeven…

It’s Sunday morning and we find Maroon in his favourite seat beside the stove in the kitchen. Still dressed in his childish tartan pyjamas, he’s on his second kir and has decided to ‘slob out’ this fine Perthshire day. In his little number-crammed brain, he has mapped out a day of wasteful pleasures for himself. The very thought gives him anticipatory butterflies of self-gratification. In celebration, he takes another sip.

Out on the periphery of his senses, way out on the lower boundary, past his self absorption, by the broken fence, where the ground never drains properly, there is a sigh and a metallic ‘clank’.

He continues reading his Sunday paper all about a couple who sold their modest home in Holland Park and bought the Romanian State Railways with the proceeds.
Sigh, CLANK.
There it is again. A fingernail being dragged across the blackboard of his dreams.
He puts down his Observer to focus on the source of this outrageous disturbance.

Not three feet away, his daughter Sarah is polishing the stove with much sighing and clanking. She is wearing an old apron and her arms are streaked with soot to the elbows. With care, she has applied some to her nose and cheeks as well. The effect is pleasing to the eye.
Maroon wonders where she got the soot.

“I thought you were going into town with your mother…” he begins.
“Stepmother..” she interrupts.
“Stepmother and sisters…” he continues.
“Stepsisters…” she corrects.
“Stepsisters then, to get something nice-to-wear-for-the-Christmas-do-up-at-the-big-house.” he finishes in a rush.
Sarah sighs.
“Oh I’d love to, but there is so much cleaning and mending and drudging and scrimping to be done…”
“Scrimping? Are we still on that? I thought scrimping was last month.”
“You don’t understand,” sighs Sarah and with another sigh continues, “nobody does.”

Before Maroon can answer, the kitchen door is flung wide to admit his two beautiful stepdaughters Footsie and Kimski. I say beautiful, for their beauty is there for all to see. An inner beauty. An unkind misanthrope may remark on the robust strength of their wrists, or their breadth of shoulder but clean country air and lots of hockey will do that to two hearty girls.

* * *

Far, far away, in the cold land of the English, a semi retired fairy godmother is dusting her welsh dresser with her magic wand with the star on the end in preparation to putting her feet up. She too is having a kir.

“Alakazoo and fizzy fizzou and hippity hoppity bop…” she sings as she works.

Her True Love stomps into the room

“You’ll never believe it!” says he in consternation.
“Whatever is the matter?” asks Pat (for it is she).
“My prize pumpkins!” he exclaims, “Three of them. Stolen out the greenhouse right under our noses while we slept abed.”
“Oh my. Oh dear.” says Pat, her singing now on hold.

Pat’s True Love eyes her with dawning suspicion.

“Pat you didn’t! You promised! Anyway, I thought you‘d retired.” He says.
“I’m locum this year,” says Pat, deciding to come clean, “and nobody has pumpkins these days. I had to raid an animal testing lab for the white mice, goodness knows, I hope they’re not infectious…”

My natural joi de vivre is alive and kicking.
I’ve just the tiniest, hardly worth mentioning, head cold.
It’s definitely NOT flu.
How?
I’ll just tell you.
Because cabin air is totally crap, that‘s how, no matter what the brochures tell you.
Cabin air’s been through seven people and four compressor stages by the time YOU breath it in.

“Oh but our air-con systems are second to none. The filters are small enough to catch microbes and radio isotopes and everything…”

When were they last changed?
That’s all I’m asking.
These marvels of air purity, who looked at them last?
Yeah, I thought so.

There’s a picture of Pat on a boat that will bring cheer to anyone who dosen't have flu, like what I haven't got.

It's over at her bit,( http://patspastimperfect.blogspot.com/ ). Very reviving. It‘s so rare to see such quality.

The workmanship on that mahogany taffrail, sublime! And the deck planking, Magnifique!

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Apparently she can cook as well.

Result.


Mr Gorilla Bananas put his unopposable thumb right on it.
Do you remember Mark Thatcher and his chums were going to invade some country, set themselves up as rulers, then sell the oil - only they were caught on the plane and lucky not to be shot? Exact same with Bonny Prince Charlie, although there were no planes, obviously. The notion of stable flight through an invisible fluid would have been witchcraft to the Jacobites.
Imagine: highlanders strafing Cumberland’s ranks from tartan spitfires, why, the very idea is criminally insane!
Did you know that the British Aeronautical Society say we better get an Englishman on Mars quick, because they believe we will all be wiped out by a gigantic meteor?
They don’t tell you that over the loudspeakers in Wickes.
Don’t buy that kitchen unit, for you will all be as dust before the warranty’s up.

Might have a kir.
Or two.

Separatin’ the albumen.

Hoots Mon !


They’ll be celebratin’ in the streets of Raith tonight.

Och Aye the Noo!

Slavery & Famine & Elizabeth I & James I & Cromwell and 1746 and all that (but no Vikings) and apologies thereof.

Descendants of slaves from British Caribbean plantations often have Scottish names like McDonald, Fraser, Stewart and so on. They were owned by someone of that name. It was the same in 18th century Scotland. Feudal serfdom existed in the highlands until 1746. Your chief owned you in a system that hadn’t changed since the 11th century. Even the hero of ‘Kidnapped’ set in the aftermath of 1746, is sold into slavery.

Half my lot came to Scotland in 1840 something to escape starvation in Ireland and the other lot were forfeit a hundred years earlier in 1746.
It’s all true. I’ve seen the mass grave and everything.
It was the way of the world in 1746. If you were on the winning side you got land. If you were on the losing side it was taken off you.

150-200 years earlier, to pick up Conan’s point, Elizabeth then James had distributed land especially in Ireland to their cronies as a reward and to stop further rebellion from Irish lords. The land grab was on in Scotland at the same time. Mary, her followers and opponents alike, carved up the place to suit themselves. We the serfs, were just the chattel that went with the fixtures.

The Indian economist Amartya Sen* showed that famine has an economic cause not related to a physical shortage of food.

In Ireland, the population was halved by famine. The cause is still given as a crop disease, which is convenient as it brings Fate and God into it but the cause of the starvation was deliberate economics. The people were left to starve while food exports from Ireland were encouraged by a government hostile to the people who were starving. A government that had abolished slavery 40 years before.

There is some debate as to whether Blair should apologise for this, and Elizabethan Planters, and pitchcapping, and the Black and Tans and so on.
I’m unsure.
Would he be apologising on MY behalf? I hope not. I’m a product of that famine and a decendant of serfs.
BUT, the likes of the Dukes of Hamilton, Buccleuch, Argyll, etc., they should get down on their hands and knees.


*Amartya Sen won the Nobel prize and ended up Master at my old college. Small world eh?

Deep sorrow

Tony Blair has expressed his ‘deep sorrow’ at Britain’s slave trade.
What an arse.
Everyone knows that Tony feels no deep sorrow whatsoever on the matter.
It’s a mockery of the whole thing.
Po-faced Tony apologising for a criminal activity which was banned 200 years ago.
What an insult.

Here are some comments that I didn’t reply to and was feeling guilty about.

Someone was telling me the other day that you can get a degree in call centre communications or some shit. I thank my lucky stars that I have neither an education, nor do I have to work in a call centre.
Jagd Kunst Homepage 11.19.06 - 9:35 pm #

they keep telling us here in the states that we're transitioning to a service economy.
If we all serve eachother, who'll be able to afford it?
Its the snake eating its own tail, and no one sees that we're fast running out of snake.

Whatever. We once built our way through a world war we weren't strategically qualified to win, and now our American car companies TOGETHER can't even capture a majority of our own car market. Blech, depressing.
SafeTinspector Homepage 11.20.06 - 12:51 am #


Doc it looks to me like your boat is flying a Danish flag.
Also, Kissinger says we can't win Iraq.
Justin 11.20.06 - 8:17 am #


I heard someone say that a jet is just a propeller with an afterburner and I thought: "How Dr Maroon would pooh pooh that, Sir". Personally, I'd love to hear you discuss the contribution of Sir Frank Whipple. Didn't he invent an ice cream as well?
Gorilla Bananas Homepage 11.20.06 - 6:19 pm #


Not cocoa, as far as I know, but apparently they do a good cup of tea.
Foot Eater Homepage 11.20.06 - 8:09 pm #

Suck,Squeeze,Bang and Blow.All you need to know about jet engines.

oh...and they stop whining at shut down.Unlike most pilots.
Hanger Queen Homepage 11.20.06 - 9:12 pm #

Edinburgh people don't really have a Scottish accent, do they? It's more of an English accent with a bit of a twang on it. Twangers.
kav Homepage 11.21.06 - 9:45 am #


What is a Morningside accent?
Pat Homepage 11.23.06 - 7:29 pm #

Pat , In Morningside, sex is what they take the garbage out in. I hope that helps.
Kav, I feel terribly guilty that no one’s enlightened you yet. There are a half dozen counties in Scotland that must be avoided at all costs. They are, in order of hellishness, Lanarkshire, Ayrshire, Stirlingshire, The Borders, West Lothian, Dunbartonshire, Dumfriesshire and Fife maybe. Fife’s borderline. All the others are tolerable, with Perthshire the best. Obviously.
Get your family and stuff together and shift without delay. It’s a very small country so it won’t be too much of an upheaval.
Hangar Queen, you’re almost right but quite fundamentally mistaken. You are describing an Otto cycle. If you sign up for my home study course, I shall explain.
Foot Eater, I like the one the monkeys drink.
Mr Gorilla Bananas, Frank was in the great tradition of English inventors. A pioneer of remarkable talent. His engines were thermodynamically similar but mechanically different from the Metro Vickers design which is the type in universal use today.
Justin your eyesight is astounding. Kissinger’s a nasty piece of work. Very nasty.
SafeTinspector, your page has a myriad of popups and stuff which does not go down well with steam driven computers like this one. Sort it out boy.
Jagd don’t be so hard on yourself. You’d be great in a call centre. For a while anyway. I think you’d be sacked eventually. There’d be complaints.

But the wolves came,
and they ate him,
and they drank his beer.


This week, I have been experimenting with the effects of alpha, beta and gamma sources on the physiology of our Finance Director.
I have put the salts of various emitting metals into his lunchtime soup.

All together now,

There’s (deep breath) thallium and thorium, polonium and radium,
And strontium, uranium, plutonium and barium,
These are the only ones of which Maroon has give to Dick yet,
And there may be many others - but they haven't made him sick yet.

(to the tune of “the modern major general” with apologies to Tom Lehrer.)

Glasgow is the call centre capital of Britain.

That’s right! Those annoying people who phone you up at half eight at night when you’ve just started your second kir and are hoping for light relief on the TV, to ask you about your financial affairs, or your guttering or if you’ve got a conservatory.
Thoughtless weasels.

Reading Pat's Blog , I am reminded how high a fall that is.

Her husband, ( not HTL, the other one ) worked for Metropolitan Vickers.
Now it may interest you to know that among many other things, Metro Vickers in Manchester developed the first axial flow jet engine way back in 1938. It was a Metro Vickers jet engine that powered Campbell’s Bluebird speedboat, or one of them, anyway, 4000 h.p. in 1955.

Before ISO, when British Standards ruled the roost, it was companies like Vickers who wrote the book. They developed the test methods and so on that we still use today.

Manufacturing output in Britain has now fallen to it’s 1840 level. Our Christmas arrived last week on a super jumbo ship from China. Yeah, well, they can make you a microwave oven for £20 but can they make beer? Can they cocoa.!

My first meeting with Mr Gorilla Bananas in Central Park New York. Note the traditional clubs of welcome. It's like morris dancing.
Click on the picture to see us in our glory.

In England, land of Magna Carta, trial by jury, presumption of innocence - they’ve just sentenced a man to 40 years imprisonment in a way that would be difficult in Scotland. The man claimed to be “the top Al Qaeda operative in Britain.”
Yeah right, of course you are son.
The spooks say they have thwarted some wild terrorist attacks against us in our beds.
The terrifying plans were fantastic, literally.
The man had dreamt up all sorts of nonsensical rubbish. He had worked it all out in school jotters and the security services jumped at the chance to use him to frighten us into giving them more leeway than any government agency has a legal right to expect.

The law in Scotland is quite different. A conviction cannot be secured on an uncorroborated confession; in fact there can’t even be a prosecution. This saves the court’s time when fantasists crawl out the woodwork with schoolboy ideas about putting piranha fish in the Clyde in the hope that Jack McConnell will fall in and be eaten.
Even when these trainee sociopaths work it all out on paper and have diagrams of tankers with ‘nitro-glycerine’ written on them, or ‘poison cyanide gas cylinder here‘, the police, that is, the normal, world weary Glasgow polis, will ask the budding terrorist to prove it;

“ OK son, this bit here, where it says Strontium 90, have you actually got any? ”
“ Yes. ”
“ Where is it then, in your uncle’s lockup? Next to the strimmer? ”
“ It‘s on order, it‘ll come, you‘ll see, then you‘ll be sorry. ”
“ Alright son, alright, what about the explosives? Your ‘plans’, [winks at two way mirror] call for about 10 tonnes of the stuff. ”
“ I’m going to mix it myself. ” says the mass murderer to be.
“ That’s a lot of sugar and weed killer. What about setting it off? ”
“ I kept back some bangers from bonfire night…”
“ You seem to be taking your time about blowing anything up.”
“ What do you mean? ”
“ Well, some of these plans go back to the late nineties…”
“ I’m a meticulous planner.”
“…in fact, to around the time your girlfriend chucked you.”
“ It was amicable, we remained friends, a mutual decision, I chucked her actually…”

I don’t know, maybe he is an Al Qaeda terrorist, he certainly wants us to think he’s important, but there’s something fishy about it all, and the spooks have their excuse now to kneed the country into the shape they or their paymasters want and there ain’t eye-diddly-do you can do about it.

We were just talking there at dinnertime hahaha, you’ll love this, about foreign travel and how funny foreigners are, and I remembered my visit to Rome, waitaminute, sorry, but it is funny, I can hardly typre, anyway I was following these signs for the gents that seemed to lead nowhere and I ended up on a dual carriageway in the middle of town with a policeman on points duty har har glugg, so I asked him where the lavatory was and he “pointed” at a small bit of bent tin in the central reserve which covered you from chest to knee on three sides but it was totally open at the back and you peed against this tin thing in broad daylight and there was a rusty gutter affair that collected it and poured it out onto the road so I made a funny face when I was using it so that the photo would look interesting and zany when it came out so that’s what we were talking about at lunchtime here the strange toilet habits of our continental “cousins” that and the fact that interest rates are up to 5% I suppose once I decide on an actual method of killing myself I‘ll feel better more relaxed I hope so.

The most wonderful lesson I ever learned from the Jesuits, perhaps the only lesson, was in Calcutta in 1984. I quote.

Don’t for one minute think, that your presence here will be of any help whatsoever to the people you’re about to live with. You’ve been brought here for your benefit, not theirs.

I’m not 100% sure why I’m bringing it up now.

It was a kind of a gap year* thing and the school tradition was that you got your hands dirty in a semi-sanitised but also thrown into the deep end sort of way.

He said it conversationally, not to fire me up to better things but as a bald statement of fact. In an instant, a fool could see the honesty of it. The most wonderful lesson alluded to, was the accidental nature of our position. If it held for me, then it must hold for all.



* five months only in India then six in Australia.

T here’s no two ways about it, this blog is in a right guddle.

Strange people are wandering the Devon moors with mad monkeys on chains, fresh faces popping up like mushrooms everywhere and we haven’t had a gas flow lecture in ages, there’s a frigate somewhere out there on the foaming billow, Sarah and El Beardy have eloped to the anvil at Gretna without a spare set of handcuffs, there’s a cream Maserati (now a rich gold in the early sun) hammering down the Via Aurelia…the shortbread’s running low…duty free spirits of summer greatly depleted…nights are getting dark…black…bible black…must keep going…

Someone better get their act together and be damn smart about it.
Blogging’s not for the amateur.
You’re either in or out.

Ruth Archer is a two-timing Slag!

I’m sorry Pat, but I shall not be silenced!

Ruth Archer!
NO!
Rev up your tractor and **** off out of it!

Meeting

Kim Ayres.





Tradecraft it’s called. An ability much prized by western security agencies.

Scotland was pouring forth it’s bounty upon the land, upon the motorways and upon our undeserving heads in long vertical streams of soaking wet goodness.
So as I parked, there was not a soul to be seen. Noone, no dog, no birds no tumbleweed, no nothin‘.
I hopped out and bent back into the car for my jacket. I put it on and turned round.
Holy Mary Mother of Christ!
“Hi Ack.”
“Hi Kim.”
As we walked to the entrance of the licensed premise, I took note of the fact that there were no cars, side streets, doorways, lanes, shops, vennels, alleyways, from which he might have sprung.

Some hours later, as we parted, our plan of action agreed, I deliberately kept an eye on him as he stood there, inscrutable in the rain, watching me, even as I slung my jacket in the back.
I had to turn to get into the car, a matter of seconds only…and he was gone!

I stopped for petrol three times on the road, changing my route, doubling back, you know the drill. I had to be sure.

That Old Boolean Chestnut

The gates to Heaven and Hell are guarded by identical looking angels.
One always tells the truth, the heaven one, and one always lies, the beastly Hell one.
You must decide which portal to pass through.
You are allowed only one question, which you may ask of either of the guardian angels.

How can you be sure of passing through the portal of your choice?

Update: Old Knudsen has cleverly reminded me. The angels sometimes swop doors when they get a bit bored.

You know the kind of thing. All doormen do it. This often weeds out the fly men who turn up still wearing their bunnets! Put that in yer ectoplasm and smoke it Knudsen.

Late Update: We have a WINNER!

Tattieheid! Well done that man! First rate!

And my goodness Kav was touching the prize too. What clever people there are round here.

Peace In Our Time.

There is a common confusion between the terms democracy and majority rule.

Once in power, a government that panders only to those who voted for it quickly becomes divisive. Modern European governments fearful of this, and in realisation that they represent all their population, make sure that they keep their actual dogma quiet.

Margaret Thatcher was wonderful at posturing her right wing views to Tory voters but in cold economic analysis her years saw a massive expansion of public services and spending*. The similarity with the current Labour government is striking.

In Afghanistan and Iraq, we use the term “defending democratically elected governments” to explain our continuing occupation. No mention is made of any sizable minorities who may have a totally different outlook. THEY are insurgents.
650 000 killed and counting.

And so, on to that windswept but uninteresting town in Fife. Home of Scotland’s patron saint, inventor of golf and universities, that’s right! St Andrews, and that
historic peace agreement in full.

“If you, can forget the disenfranchisement, the army, the B Specials, the RUC, the Paras, any other instrument of state subjugation and killing of working class people for going to the wrong pub,

we, will forget the bombs and shootings and the intimidation and killing of working class people for going to the wrong pub.

From whence we may all proceed like modern nations the world over and worry about our mortgages and jobs and washing machines and Tuscan holidays…

Deal or No Deal?
Whatcha say? "

"Ummmm"

Bertie Ahern, leader of a government that has taken Ireland to the highest per capita income in the E.U. (purchasing power parity) must have been quaking in his boots.

“Please God, don’t give us the Ulstermen. You keep em Tony.”

And Tony would be thinking;

“Come on Bertie, take them, please, they’ll be no bother now, I promise. Look, I’ll give you my phone number and you can call me any time. We’re all in Europe now, the old borders are coming down, we’re homogenising. Christ man, you all LOOK the same! Perleease Bertie, don’t be sticking. Whatdya say?”

“Ummmm”



* The Thatcher government was at it’s most divisive when it allowed Conservative dogma to privatise public utilities and its criminal monetarist policies to mismanage the national economy. John Major’s government repaired some of that damage, was less divisive, and was re-elected on the strength of it.

STRING EM UP!

House values collapsed last night as the warlords and traffickers of third world Balkan republic Zenda, taught England a lesson in football ineptitude.
In the most humiliating display of amateur ineptitude for a generation, the English national side slumped to its most inept defeat for a generation.

“We were rubbish. Totally hopeless.” was what England manager whasisname (53) might have said.
“We were utterly bereft of any cogent idea of how the modern game is played.”
Was another.

When told of the result, the latest in a string of inept defeats for the millionaire superstars, ashen faced prime minister Blair declared:

“If Zenda had any hope of joining the European Union, they can **** right off!

At least until they learn how to lose like honest Englishmen.”

In other news, a corrupt referee helped slimy cheats Ukraine, defeat plucky Scotland by the slenderest of 2 : 0 margins.

The Mail says: NO to Europe and that Irishman ‘Dr.’ Paisley.

Part 18?


“Bananas, will our torment ever be at an end?” Asked Ayres piteously, while stretching out for the marmalade pot, from which he took a generous spoonful to spread on the remaining piece of toast.

We had returned to Baker Street by night sleeper, and were now restored by the ministrations of Mrs Hudson.

“Mrs Hudson,” I said, “once again we are replete. Now if Ayres would only give me a fill of shake for my pipe, I would deem the favour paid twice over and be forever in his grateful debt.”

She had done us proud. She had served the last of the summer cantaloupes as a refreshing fruit cocktail to clear our palate for the devilled kidneys.

"Why, thank you Doctor,” she smiled, “Dr Watson always says that my melons are the best he ever…”

The last words were lost as the kindly Scotch housekeeper shut the door.

That great detective had remained silent, but turned to us now, deep lines of concern on his noble brow.

“We must return to Alucard forthwith, before our absence is discovered.” he said.

At these alarming words, a vile hissing raspberry broke from Ayres end, of the table.
We both turned to him. He seemed to have shrunk an inch or two in his craven funk.

“Take heart Ayres,” I encouraged, “we shall face the dangers with you.”

Ayres slumped further and another loud, shameful emission met my stout words. It was most disconcerting watching the man shrink before us, losing control. I was on the point of opening a window when

“Your pneumatic peace-ring Ayres!” exclaimed Bananas. “It seems you have a puncture.”

Sure enough, the inflatable seat given him by Dr Evil, now lay flat and joyless beneath him.


Further conversation was interrupted however by Ayres’ apparatus in the corner, as the brass bell rang, the lights flashed and the paper tape issued from the slot designed solely for that purpose. With a sigh, Ayres went to investigate.


“Read it out, Ayres!” shouted The Finest Intellect in the Empire.

“It’s only the association football results, G.B.” muttered Ayres over his shoulder.
“Humour us Ayres, I’m expecting something over the wire this day.”

“…….Wales 1, Bohemia 5, ……Denmark nil, Ulster nil,…...Cyprus 5, Ireland 2,….England nil, Macedonia nil...... Scotland 1, France nil, ………..Have run off to Gretna with Miss Sarah Evil. Getting hitched….El. B.……”
“Say that again!” Exclaimed Bananas in great agitation.
“England nil Macedonia nil.”
“Not that bit you fool! The other bit!”
“Sorry G.B., em, where was I?...Scotland 1, France nil!”
“Give me that tape Ayres!” demanded the marvellous ape.

“I think this calls for a celebration.” I suggested.

It would seem that the doubters are correct. The cluster map people have a jiggered counter on their hands and are blaming me.

But man, I can’t explain it. For a minute there, I walked with the Huttons and all that lot. For the briefest fleeting seconds I was, I can’t explain, it was like….
Ah it’s all just vanity.
I should have known better.





Pat. I would advise that you get one. They’re great fun.

And Sarah, I’d forgotten about the monkey!

That really WAS some party!

I got this email!!!



SUMMARY: Your ClustrMaps daily visit limit has been exceeded multiple times, but here is an idea to help avoid repeated occurrences, since such occurrences may result in removal of your counter from our database.

DETAILS:

Dear ClustrMaps user,

Although we do not want to monitor the ClustrMaps service too heavily, we have noticed that the number of visits per day logged on your site http://capetorio.blogspot.com/ by our counter recently was 22532, which exceeds the normal daily allowed limit of 2500.

We try to treat the limit in a very lenient fashion, especially given that there can be local peaks or spikes in internet traffic. However, for anyone going over that limit on a fairly consistent basis, we send out this message.

….blahdeblahbla…….

PLEASE NOTE: Regrettably, under our current Terms of Service (see our Legal page), repeated occurrence of this situation may result in us REMOVING YOUR COUNTER from our database, in which case you will then start to see an empty map appearing. We try to avoid this whenever possible, which is why we send out these rather long emails first! However, if you suddenly start seeing empty thumbnail maps on your site, that is the reason.

ClustrMaps is has been designed to handle an enormous number of users for FREE, but this only works for users typically processing less than the normal daily limit of 2500 on their websites.

…..yaddablah….

Please feel free to get in touch directly if you have any specific questions.

All the best,

-The ClustrMaps team

OR is some computer literate person like Kim Ayres (just for arguments sake) pulling my chain with some sort of comment robot bomb internet thing?

Have any of you watched “Lost” on the telly?

I walked away from the very first, much hyped episode, to avoid domestic strife.
You see, the plane had just crashed big time onto a beach, yet there was one of the turbines still going strong, throttle stuck open at cruising rpm by the look of it.
Not only that, but some poor fellow then got sucked up the intake, whereupon the thing went off like an atom bomb.
Now, before I could offer my technical objections, Mrs Maroon had her hand up to cut me off:

“Don’t you say a word, not one fucking word, Maroon.”

She takes her willing suspension of disbelief too seriously that one. Anyway, I’ve seen bits in passing since. That wee hobbit’s in it. Not that one, the other one, and I saw a man get a portcullis thing come down on his leg.
Garbage.
The TV is rubbish since they stopped Stingray. That Mitchell and Webb look is good. (Thursdays 9:30 BBC2)

OK, more party games!

This time it’s quotes from films (sorta) We will just have to do our best and that’s that.

Ok, you start……………………………….......................................

Right!
I’ll do it!

1] “ We’re gonna need a bigger boat…”
Jaws! Andraste and monstee

You get the idea?
Meet me halfway here.

2] “..play it again Sham…”
Casablanket! Andraste Pat Kim Monstee

3] “...the namesh Bond, Jamesh Bond…”
Big Sean as Bond! Pat Monstee

4] “…Yeah Baby, yeah!…”
Austin Allegro! Sam Monstee

5] “…as God is my witness, I will never be hungry again…”
Gone with the wind! Andraste Pat Monstee

6] “Well, hey Boo,…Don’t call him that, Scout…”
To Kill a Mockingbird Andraste Monstee

7] “you ever been in a Turkish prison?”
Airplane! Kim Monstee

8] “…it’s like Mom’s apple pie!…”
American Pie! Monstee

9] “ Saigon. Shit! I’m still only in Saigon…”
Apocalypse Now! Kav and Monstee

10] “…Why am I Mr Brown? It sounds like shit or something…”
Resevoir Dawgs Kim and Monstee

11] “Did you ever pick your feet in Poughkeepsie? Did you?…”
F C U K! Monstee

12] “…Swim? Swim? Why the fall’ll probably kill you!…”

Butch Cassiday and the Sundown Kid Andraste Pat Sam & Monstee.

Good News Everyone!


They’re going to stay. Well hoooray!
When I think about it, that's all that matters.
I was surprised at Mrs director. “don’t you want to get back to your responsibilities?” I asked in all innocence.
“I’m sure everythings fine” she answered over the top of her kir, which we are all agreed is the best drink for ages.
There you have it, my experiment in fusion celebrations is working out fine.
Good.

Come on, try the lyrics quiz!!!!