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 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…

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!

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……………….

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!

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).

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)

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!

Coupe du Monde

World Cup

Copa Mundial

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……………………

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 !

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’m attempting a Brewski, leave us alone.

It’s 22:03 it’s a school night and we’ve just come in and I’m feeling chust sublime.

I’ll be honest straight off. I’ve had a couple. Those days when you stop at the pub ion the way home, Mrs Maroon sees the car and comes in as well and every thing just works out fine for once.

I miss Barney.
I identified with him, and have been hanging about Twenty Major’s instead, but it’s not the same.

Firstly, the A380. Fucking brilliant.

Kim’s daughter won a medal for swimming! I have an imagination, if I had a daughter, and she won a medal, there would be no stopping me. Not only that, I can’t swim! It’s a double whammy!

Secondly my American cousins over last week, top bloody notch. The best.

Have you ever seen Scotland looking so good? Scotland is the most beautiful country in the world* unfortunately populated by a total shower of shite. I include myself.

I’ve been hanging around with corporeal friends recently. It’s been great!

* I arrived over the hill once to see sunrise over Kotor Lake in the old Yugoslavia which is breathtaking, so I know what I’m talking about.

Fatmammycat’s getting hitched! What a bastard life can be. If she is one tenth of what I believe she is, we passed in the ether too soon. It’s her loss.

Aandraste’s kicking about again which is heartening and If I could I would go back in time and sweep young Lindy off her feet it’d be great. Don’t panic L-K, our chance for eternal bliss has passed us. Damn abnd blast it all to Hell.

We see now why Brewski is a class act.

Stop Press ++ Stop Press ++

Fab feline to tie knot with manly-armed Lothario!!!

Ms Fatmammycat, well known trendsetter, raconteur and gay icon is to wed.

The society diva announced her betrothal in a shock statement to her legion of broken-hearted fans late this afternoon. As the nuptial news spread, crowds of well-wishers gathered outside the delightfully ankled star’s Dublin penthouse.

“There’s no fucking way I’m burning that football shirt now!” exclaimed one tearful fan who wished to remain anonymous, before adding, “and that git Thierry Henry is a miserable, whining poove.”

Déclarations Diverses

The Trent 900 is the best engine in the world.

Gordon Brown is a very nice man who if left alone with people like me, would probably take a good bucket.

Développements autre

Miguel Indurain is my sporting hero (everyone knows that.)

There is another. A Swede. A 34 YEAR OLD footballing colossus who came to Glasgow nearly 10 years ago and left in 2004. (F C B)

If SHE demands it, and if it will ease HER suffering, I shall burn his Barcelona shirt (named and numbered and the third most popular at the Barca shop) with petrol on the front lawn or ‘backs’ in a naked man-ritual.
Damn the ASBO.
There now. You can’t say fairer than that.

The Frigate 2

As they wrestled their prisoner to his feet, a priest bustled into the cell and pushed his way through the soldiers to the front.
He strode up to the major.

“Last rites for the condemned. You surely won‘t deny him the Holy Offices Major?”

The major, annoyed by the interruption, looked the cleric over. Beretta, rosary, cassock, prayer book.

“He’s not dead yet,” said the major, after a pause adding, “Padre.”
“Good.” said the priest, “I have time to hear his confession then.”

Without waiting for permission, he turned to the captive and continued in the professional business of a parish priest preparing a man for execution.

“Son,” he said, “your soul is in mortal jeopardy, I will hear your Last Confession now.”

Barnacle, First Lieutenant (Acting), the ‘Cap’n Barney’ of long repute, looked at the priest. A more sanctimonious devil he had never seen in his life.

“I’m, I’m not sure Father,” he began, “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

The priest nodded, clasped the prayer book in Barney’s hands and made a cross on his forehead with a thumb as rough as a rasp.

“ipso facto…incognito…modus operandi…“ he began, and led the Captain into a dark corner of the cell to hear his confession in as much privacy as the situation would allow.


* * *

Outside on the street, two men of seafaring bearing were pushing a handcart towards the fretful sentry at the gate. A small crowd of women had gathered at the news of Captain Barney’s imminent demise and were milling around in shawl worrying despair. As the two approached, they heard the sentry assailed for news.
“Is it true they’ll be shooting Barney this morning?
Why can’t they hang him like an honest Catholic?
Feckin’ English!”

With some shoving, they got through to the gate and the sentry.

“We’ve come for his remains.” said one of the sailors. And a broader, hairier, swarthier master of sail, was not on this earth.
“Who’s would that be?” asked the sentry, staring.
“Our captain’s. Have they shot him dead yet?”
“Ah, No. They have not.”
“It’s gone half past nine, I thought they were shooting him at dawn.”
“There was a problem with the shooting party.”
“What sort of problem?”
“There was none of the regulars that felt up to shooting him. The major had to grab the first six recruits he could lay hands on. They’re as raw as mutton.”
“Oh Oh” said Ayres, the ship‘s botanist, “that could upset the plan considerably.”
“What plan?” asked the sentry.
“The plan for the wake of course!” said bo’sun Bananas smoothly, “we wanted an open coffin you see.”
“Oh Right. Well you can wait over by the wall. You’ll see it all from there.”
“Well thank-ee colonel,” said Ayres touching his three cornered hat.
“All right, don’t overdo it man,” hissed the bo’sun, as they scampered into the barracks.


* * *


Major Twenty watched as the priest continued his liturgy, sprinkling the holy water on him, anointing him, making rapid signs of the cross, and finally adjusting the captain’s uniform jacket and two pointed hat, the better to be shot in.
His mission accomplished the priest stood back to admire his handiwork.
“Oh, eh,…quid pro…status quo…amo amas amat.” he said with a nod.

“Padre, I couldn’t help but notice you’re a Scotchman.” said the major.
“I am indeed, but none the worse for that. There’s some of us keeps the true flame burning over there yet.” replied the priest.
“Forgive me for asking,” smiled the major, “but I also notice you cross yourself from right to left.”
“God has blessed you with a keen eye my son.” answered the priest, “God bless us all, I must remember that, yes. I’m a Knight of Saint Columba Major Twenty. We always do it that way. It’s a papal dispensation.”

To prove the point, the priest crossed himself again, saying as he did so;
“Ace, king, queen, jock. You see?”

Major Twenty, a staunch Anglican and unsure of his ground, nodded. “Hocus pocus.” he muttered, then turning to his marines, he gave the order. “Right lets get this over with. Take him out men!”

As the ragtag line of marines lined up to take their aim, Barney stood like an admiral on an unseen deck. Legs apart, chest out, his hat into the wind. He looked magnificent. From the corner of his eye, he saw the waiting handcart, the priest beside it, and Ayres giving him an encouraging double thumbs up.
In front of him, Major Twenty took out his sabre and raised it to the sky.
So far so good.

In the nature of these events, time slowed like treacle for the condemned man…Never had the air smelt sweeter, the muskets being heavy, and the shooting party being terrified new recruits, their barrels swung and wavered, in the silence he heard the beautiful screeching of the gulls, he saw the wonderful glitter of the sabre as it fell, he saw the softest puffs of smoke from the muskets…then it speeded up again.

On the command to fire, they let out the most ragged fusillade the captain had ever heard. He felt a musket ball pass between his legs, heard another smack the wall by his head, another took his hat with a swipe, but one, at least one, struck home.
As he plunged into the dark, he heard the evil major shout “Bulls-eye!”

* * *

He shuddered as the nightmare that was the last few days came slowly back to him, the shudders themselves causing even more pain to his tormented body. Using his fingers he forced first one eye, then the other, blinking painfully as he tried to focus in the darkness until a dizzy nausea overcame him and he lapsed into unconsciousness

* * *

The force threw Barnacle against the whitewashed stonework like a rag doll, where he lay, quite lifeless. First on the scene was the priest who swooped down upon him like a crow, opening his jacket to reveal the red stain spreading over his heart.
The major stooped to look then waved the handcart over. “He’s all yours” he said, and turning on his heel, marched the shooting party off the ground.


A half hour later, back in the privacy of his office, Major Twenty threw the letter with the Admiralty Pardon for FL (A) Barnacle, onto the fire and watched thoughtfully from his window as the trio in the distance rushed over the cobbles to the dock with their corpse, First Mate McShae’s cassock flying in the wind, for all the world just like a padre’s.

A knock on the door brought him back to himself. It was another priest.

“Father Doherty,” he puffed, “I had a sudden death, have I missed the shootin?”
“You’ve missed it this time I think Padre, but not the next. We won’t miss that one.”

On board the Shannon riding peacefully at anchor, Barney lay in trussed up pain, but in his own berth, on his own ship.
Close by on his nightstand was a prayer book, all but obliterated by musket fire.

Gothic
Part Fifteen

I had returned to our suite and was pleased to see that the vulgar butler Eater had effected a temporary repair to the burst pipe and had removed himself to his duties. I was about to give my associates a full account of my skilful handling of the affair and my conversation with Doctor Evil, when there came a soft knocking on our door.
It was Evil himself.
He took the seat opposite Ayres, and addressing him in tones of the utmost solicitude, enquired after his health.

“Your associate Dr Maroon, told me all about your unfortunate um sufferings in the em closet.” he said, nodding towards the bathroom door.

Ayres and Bananas swung their accusing gaze upon me immediately but I shook my head and tapped my nose to allay their fears.

“I had thought my butler would be here.” continued the doctor looking round.
“He bunged a cork in it and left.” explained Ayres.
“A cork?”
“A champagne cork actually.”
“A champagne cork?”
“It wouldn’t go in at first, but he whacked it with something.”
“He whacked it?”
“With a croquet mallet I think. I couldn’t see.”
“And are you comfortable with this?”
“It was really all he had to hand. Resourceful, I thought.”

Dr Evil’s lip trembled as he stood, and with watering eyes, regarded the calm Ayres.

“Such bravery!” he whispered, “such stoicism, no wonder you English have an empire!”
He took a shuddering breath and continued;
“Well, help is at hand Sir Kim! Noble fellow! I have instructed cook that it’s the vegetarian options for you, no, it’s the least I can do.” he said, raising a hand to silence objections. “in addition, I have brought you some special ointment, and also this, my own invention.”
he said, producing a small ring like a ship’s lifebelt, made of India rubber and inflated with air, “I call it Doctor Evil’s Pneumatic Ring of Peace.”

“What do I do with it?” asked Ayres.
“Why, you sit on it my good fellow.” said the doctor.
“And why should I wish to do that?”
“Come come, Sir Kim, try it, you’ll see.” encouraged the doctor.

Reluctantly, Ayres did as he was bid, perching himself on the ring like a great unhappy bird hatching an egg.

“How’s that? Much better I’ll warrant.” suggested Dr Evil, in his best bedside manner.

Ayres looked first to me then Gorilla Bananas for some explanation.
The marvellous ape opened his mouth as if to speak, but thinking better, closed it and examined the pattern on the carpet. For once the greatest of detectives was at a loss.

As he took his leave, Doctor Evil gently placed the jar of salve on the table.

“My cousin Von Williams swears by it.” he said. “Funny how you cannot get limes here yet the shops are full of this stuff. Perhaps now I know.” he added thoughtfully.




“The man’s a maniac!” exclaimed Ayres as the door closed. “Why am I to be fed only vegetables and why must I sit on this ridiculous contraption? Tell me why, Bananas.”

But Mr Gorilla Bananas I noticed, was examining me so closely that it was becoming uncomfortable and I was suddenly fatigued by all the day’s events.

“GB, I’m going to have a swing on my trapeze and a doze in the hammock before dinner.“ I said. “Do you wish a banana or two, there’s hundreds of them in my room you know?”

“Yes Maroon, have a lie down. It will do us all good.” said the gorilla.

Not for the first time, did the superior workings of that remarkable ape’s intellect leave me feeling as if I was somewhat wanting.

The Frigate.

His eyelids were stuck, his throat was dry, every bone in his body ached and his tongue felt like a cow camel's clitoris after a sand-storm. He had, he thought, the worst hangover in history, the mother of all hangovers and as the first waves of customary guilt mixed with feelings of stupidity began to wash over him, he remembered with a shock that he hadn't been drinking last night.

He heard the long iron pin drawn and the steps of his gaolers as they drew near.

“Is he awake?”
“I’d bet my pension.”
“He looks spent to me.”
“More fool you then. Stand clear lads, while I rouse the blackguard.”

Still blind, he caught the kick at his ribs but released the foot when a cold pistol was pressed to his brow.

“Easy there Lieutenant. You wouldn’t want to miss the show.” whispered a voice at his ear, a voice hated throughout the city.

There was nothing for it. He prised his eyes to take in the ugly twisted face of Major Twenty, captain of marines.

“Well don’t just stand there,“ said the major to his escort, “help Lieutenant Barnacle to his feet. We can’t shoot him lying down.”

* * *

Call me Ack.
For such is the name given me at the font those long years past.
Achilles Hector Kenneth.
At your service.

If you remember, it was back in 1798. Revolution was sweeping Europe and the New World and I was a hand on the old Shannon, a sixteen gunner, lying up in Dublin Bay. Our Master, Captain Barnacle, aye, him himself it was, was to be shot dead at dawn one morning. Not for the sedition, that came later, but for his general thievery and his disgraceful war conduct and so on. Piracy they called it. Well I ask you. The whole of colonial Ireland about to blow and those stuffed shirts worrying about the odd barrel o rum or sack or brandy or whatever we could get. Spoils of war he called it.

Brewski’s back, thank goodness. So is El Beardy.

Foot Eater’s thinking about it.

Binty and Barney (70’s sitcom) are on sabbatical still.

Pity really, because The Vaporiser would’ve liked this I think.

It’s Steve Marriott from a while back.


Links update.

GB found a good blog, http://kellius.blogspot.com/

And with Mr McGuinness that makes three to top up the missing ones.

Obviously if Binty et al return, then these last two newcomers will be scrubbed forthwith without a moment’s hesitation and with no guilt whatsoever.

I’m tough but fair.

A chance to put the record straight.

LindyK asserts that she “…went to a polytechnic university, so the student body was full of engineers, and all of them were hopeless nerds...

And Mr Gorilla Bananas says, “you've proved you've seen him, but I still don't think you know him very well”

While both statements may indeed be quite true, their very truth hides the lies concealed within.

Lets start with a nice snap of Jason King. Aka Peter Wyngarde. Note trim cuffs and hankie. Nice knot in tie.

You may not know this, but both Peter (Wyngarde) and I, are alumni of Trinity College. Not Dublin nor Oxford neither, but Cambridge, England.
Trinity is the biggest (and best) college of that fair campus. The majority of engineers at Cambridge are Trinity Men (even if they have breasts and cha-chas, and are therefore classed as women).

Here’s Peter in a very smart, tweed three-piecer (dressed to left), showing his flair and versatility. It takes panache to carry off such an ensemble. Remember, a carelessly crossed leg will push one of your testicles into the lower atrium of your abdomen. Tricky. Note the Dunhill Superking.

I WAS a nerd but that’s because I’m working class and everyone else at Cambridge was middle class. Even the porters recognised this. Well boo hoo! Did I mope and feel sorry for myself? No, I was living the life too much to even notice. While the wastrel sons of stockbrokers drank non-vintage champers on the green, I was lost in the delights of simultaneous differential equations, (don’t you try them, you won’t be able to solve them), and now look at me. Where are THEY? Why struggling to make their way in their father’s firms probably. Poor sods!

Here's Peter in a totally different rig-out. Nice gnashers. Again, good tie knot. (All engineers pay attention to detail.)

What you may not know is that Peter’s postgraduate work in fluid dynamics is still talked about. These developments coupled with advances made in heat resistant coatings for turbine components, enable YOU to fly to Barcelona for 20 Euro ($20), so we’ll have no sniggering at the back thank you very much.

Here’s Peter in more thoughtful pose. Probably musing on compressibility effects in turbulent flow. Good grooming, and silk neckerchief - class!

So then, that’s both theories successfully de-bunked! QED! You can have a successful career in industry AND wear nice togs.
The women thing…well Lindy’s maybe got a point.

Update: If I'd known how much of a shit time he'd had,( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Wyngarde ) I wouldn't have been so beastly. He never mentioned it.

Who will speak for the missing?

The Anti-Barney Vaporiser.
Ask Anti (Agony).
The Foot Eater.
Brewski.
Binty McShae. (New)
El Barbudo.

These, the flower of western democratic blogging, ripped up by the townie children of indifference, and trampled into the dog fouled pavement of evermore.


Who will speak for the confused?

Kim fucking Ayres. (unsure about this one)
Justin fucking Barker.
Monstee.
Binty McShae (again)
El Barbudo (again)

These individuals who have given so much that they know not now who they are and are leading us all to think that perhaps there is no one out there at all. It’s all a big bastard hoax perpetrated by my many bosses and superiors to catch me out and sack me.


I have not added SafeT/27 inches to the list of the confused as I assumed that was his steady state.

I shall expound on this matter further.

Crime of the century


Now they're planning the crime of the century
Well what will it be?
Read all about their schemes and adventuring
It's well worth a fee
So roll up and see
How they rape the universe
How they've gone from bad to worse
Who are these men of lust, greed, and glory?
Rip off the masks and let see.
But that's not right - oh no, what's the story?
And there's you and there's me
That can't be right


Edit: "It's a song by 'Supertramp', a popular rock combo of the nineteen seventies, so I'm told m'lud, refering in this case, I believe your honour, to the theft of identities and blogsites by anonymous felons."

"My word yes, I see what you mean. This bodes evil for the ID card thingy."