There’s a small boy in the street. He’s leaning way over, trying to make himself immovable. His free hand is pointing at the toyshop window. His other is held fast in the lady‘s glove. She is the irresistible force. She’s moving down the street, late for something. As the tantrum starts, she conjures a ‘present for a good boy’ from her handbag. The small boy is entranced and follows to heel.
That’s me that is. The small boy.
This place, and all us lot, we happy band of convivial souls, are the toyshop, do you see?
And the irresistible lady with the entrancing presents for a good boy, that would lead me away from you for so long?
Is an irresistible lady with entrancing presents for a good boy.

Anyway, enough….

The Beggars’ Banquet.




Come, gentles all, for our table is near set. Soon the platters will be brought, piled high with all you could want. What is more, the curtain is about to lift on something that you should see. So a quick group hug, huddle in, and we’re off!

This time our stage is set in the summer heat of Castile, in a particularly hot summer, this very one in fact. We shall be as unobtrusive as an English tour group out at noon. I shall play the tour guide and you shall follow my raised umbrella. It will be our standard. Only eat the tapas if it’s cooked. We’ve seen the city walls, we’ve seen the old Moorish town, we’ve seen the cathedrals old and new. How about a lunchtime reviver? Let’s step from the loud heat echoing off the pavement, into the quiet cool of this charming establishment. We shall sit here, where we can watch everything. Oh look, how lucky, just in time for midday happy hour. Come, fill both your cups, and we’ll see what’s to be seen.

“Look into my eyes. The eyes. The eyes. Don’t look around the eyes. Look into my eyes.

Three, two, one…….
You’re under!

When you wake, you will feel refreshed and revitalised.
World poverty will be a thing of the past.
You will realise that the people of Iraq and Afghanistan are glad we came.
The weapons of mass destruction were found and destroyed.
The minor differences between Israel and her neighbours are not your concern…

Three, two, one……….
You’re back in the room!“

From Wickypedia;

Testosterone in athletes
Testosterone may be administered to an athlete in order to increase performance, and is considered to be a form of doping in most sports. In males, a testosterone patch is applied to the scrotum for several hours before activity.

What was that?
A patch is applied to your scroatty for several hours? Is there no easier way in this day and age? What about chafing? Chafing is a big problem for us cyclists, surely a patch on your two veg would exacerbate this. Have you seen the saddles we get now? I mean come on.

Give big Floyd his medal, he deserves it. He was one of those Amish when he grew up you know. Probably nearly fainted when he saw a cycle being ridden for the first time. Now he’s sticking stuff to himself. It’s always the quiet ones.

My hero, Miguel would never have done that.

Or big Eddie Merckx? Can you imagine?

“Oh what’s this?”
“Never mind that now Eddie, just slap it on your sac for an hour or two.”

Sir Bufton Maroon writes, after an agreeable afternoon in the front bar.

Notes and queries;

F sharp and Harry Hutton.

BTW, Harry Hutton called me a toady then demonstrated correct semi colon use.
You’ve got to love him.

British Justice

is the best in the world. Ask any Irishman. However, we are quickly sliding down the league table towards the likes of Burma and the United States.
In an atmosphere of panicky public terror, two armed police killed the wrong man by shooting him 26 times point blank with dum-dum bullets.
Not only was he the wrong man, but there never was a right man that the poor unfortunate might have resembled.
Such incompetence must be tested in court, surely?
Well no.
Not only that, but they are both back on firearms duty!
Now this might be handy.
The metropolitan force are to be prosecuted under the 1974 HASAWA*. Surely having these two myopics armed, locked and loaded, walking the streets of our fair capital constitutes a hazard?

Israel and the Palestinians and the Lebanese.

I can’t be arsed. I’ve only so much adrenalin.

Number crunching.

There’s about six million Israelis (6,276,883) [CIA] and so far, they have drawn down six billion dollars worth of the current (Bush Administration) military aid grant of ten billion. That’s about $1000 dollars per Israeli, of American tax revenue. I wouldn’t mind, but the United States is running its foreign deficit at about $90,000 for every man woman and child in their country.
That is, the American population, is in hawk to us, to the tune of 90 grand each, yet they’re still chucking it about like they own the place.

If you don’t believe me, may I point out that I’m Scottish, like the first secretary of the US Treasury, a man called Alexander Hamilton, and if there’s one thing we Scotch understand, it’s cash!

I’m off to slur some comments on others’ blogs now.

* Health and Safety at Work Act.

Breaking news!

Congratulations to Joe Whited, aka SafeTinspector. He is a father again!
New daughter (Riley) and mother doing fine.
Firstborn daughter and Big Joe himself, fine also.


More pictures and full story here : http://safetinspector.blogspot.com/



Last Sunday, the plan was to sit quiet and update myself re all your blogging affairs, just like reading the Sunday papers. I was looking forward to it so much that every time I thought about it, I had a pleasant tickle in my stomach. But the good weather intervened, and I was extolled thus;
“come out, come out Maroon. Leave the ghostly words alone, turn your back on them, come with ussss…to Mordor we will take you…come on Maroon, don’t be ignorant…come feel the sun on your back…beer will be provided…ah, there you are.”

Other Recent and Current Diversions.

World Cup. Won by Zidane, no question.

Company firefighting or crisis management or troubleshooting…
(That’s what THEY call it. It’s complete bollocks.)

[What you actually do is go to an unfamiliar town, talk to someone for an hour, 2 hours max, get shown something, then bum about drinking and eating for two days making the best of it, while they sort it out, go back for another hour to see what they’ve done, get a lift to the airport/train station, drink again and arrive back at night, knackered and half sozzled and not a little smelly, only to repeat the process the following week.
It’s total utter crap and can be done over the phone.
It’s a device to get the loose cannon out the plant for a day or two.
I’m not stupid, I know what’s going on here.]

I don’t know what’s going here half the time

Farnborough, (Old RAE as was)

Tour de France (won by Floyd Landis, USA)

Celtic Vs Manchester United. (Live from Paradise tonight! Channel 5)

Weather. (Uncommon good)

So, there you have it. My situation in a nutshell.

Late Update.

Remember I said that Israel had asked the US for early delivery of those laser guided bombs? Well they landed in two planes at Prestwick outside Glasgow (favourite Scottish airport of USAF and CIA) a day or so ago for a rest on there way to Jerusalem.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2006/07/26/wmid26.xml

Some have been put to use already, with the news that they have blown up a UN obs post in Lebanon with one of these Bunkerbusters, killing 4 UN military observers, a Canuk, a Finn, A Chinaman and a Austrian. Can’t have those pesky UN watching what’s going on.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/5215366.stm

Small world eh? I will be writing to my MP soon. As soon as I have some tea and muffins in fact. (elevenses).

About this time a few days ago, you may be surprised to know, I was standing looking at a field in Ireland.
By any standards, a generous field.
Good grass, but the bulldozer will take care of that.
I was having a bit of an epiphany.
The Irish and their fields.
Did intoxicating Maeve, Queen of Connaught, attack Cuchulainn for dominion of this field?
No.
And neither was it The Field, the one coddled with kelp by that old Hellraiser Harris with Sean Bean his incongruous son.
No, not that one.
And while we’re on the subject, not the one where the playboy of the western world riz the loy in exasperation at his puir fadder.
Perhaps, you ask, it was the one that you enter between dusk and daybreak to make a shortcut but can never find your way out, or maybe a small laughing man with shamrock in his lapel and a green bowler hat on his head lives there guarding his crock?
I doubt it.
Did a lorry load of volunteers crouch in wet anxiety behind the dry stones, waiting for the Tans?
Had Éamon de Valera this green field in mind, when he revealed his dream of hearty free young Irish returning to their homes across the field at sunset, too spent by wholesome labour for fornication?
Maybe.
Perhaps then, it was the field where all those years ago my dear mama and pater camped on their chaste tour of Ireland, to wake finding potatoes and milk in a can left for them beside the tandem?

Like the Irish, we differentiate between poor on the land and poor in the town.
Ground, however meagre, gives status as well as subsistence.

Gramps to Mater: Has he any grun? (ground)
Mater replies: No, but there’s a firm with premises on the South Side specialising in light to medium engineering with a successful motor factors really taking off.
Gramps to Mater again: : Harumph. Has the femly (family) any grun then?
Pater, speaking for himself: Forfeit after Culloden.
Gramps: My Cot! Why did ye no’ say? Ye’ll be off the True Auld Faith then? One o’ us? (Papist)
Pater: Well I wouldn’t say…
Gramps: Come away in Maroon and sit yourself here by the fire. Efter ye’re merritt, ye must name yer third born ‘Achilles’, efter me. Eh, ye’ll have had yer tea but ye‘ll take a dram maybe?

The rest is history.

“You better not be writing about that field.” An unpleasant voice at my side says.

It is the ugly chinless Finance Director. (he really over-achieved finding that wife of his).

“You’re not the boss of me.” I reply, “you wouldn’t understand anyway, to you the world is a series of numbers. Remove some from here, add them to there, and your day’s work is done. I pity you. It’s soulless existence. You never see the world. Never smell the grass. It’s an cruel and unnatural punishment.”

“As it is to you.” He rejoins with an unattractive smirk.

“You are quite wrong. My numbers are the language of the elemental forces that surround us. My numbers do something.” I point out with patient reason.

“So do mine.” He retorts, missing the point. “Mine provide Audi A-Fours with all the trimmings, Tuscan holidays and the like. It’s all numbers too.
Anyway, come on Maroon, leave the blog alone.”

“…‘koff” I mutter in cowardly softness, at his hideous back.

How times change.

How it is today:

G.B: Oh hello, is that Israel? Oh good, so glad we caught you. Listen, we’ve got some nationals in Lebanon just now that want to come home.

Israel : So?

G.B. : Only you’ve blown up the airport, the bridges, and anything moving on the roads, so we’ll have to send some ships to take them off.

Israel : And?

G.B. : Well, sorry to ask, but can we come on Tuesday? Will that be convenient? Can we have a window?

Israel : (sigh) Yeah, OK, but make it snappy, we’re blowing up a dairy later on Tuesday.

G.B. : Thank you so much, you’re too kind.


How it SHOULD be.

G.B. : Is that Israel? Good. Listen up. The Royal Navy will be arriving in Beirut to take off our nationals. If you try and blockade the port with gunboats, fly near us in your second hand American fighters, hinder, obstruct or even look at us in a funny way, we will blow you and anyone else out the sky/water.
Understand?

The Royal Navy is there to make its own windows. Everyone else should get the hell out the way. Any fire, even accidental friendly fire from short-sighted incompetent American pilots should be returned with total lethal force. They’d soon get their Godamned eyes tested.
And another thing, when we embark our nationals, there should be a band on deck playing Hearts of Oak and Rule Britannia. We shouldn't slink off like theives being kicked out the country.

Dr Maroon is truly one of the greatest bloggers on the net

FUCKLESTOPPED.

This week in the motor I has been mainly listening to a Chilli Peppers cd and an A-HA tape. Remember them? Brilliant. You know the one that goes

“It wasn't the rain that washed away...
Rinsed out the colours of your eyes
Putting the gun down on the bedside table
I must have realized…”

I can’t stopp singing this song. God help me I can‘t. I had to look up the lyrics because after the first line, you can’t hardly make out the guy’s phonetic mumblings, [Scandinavian I think). So it goes.

I sing it thusly,

“It wasn't the rain that washed away...
Rinsed out the colours of your eyes
Dada dee dee dum te tum dee-dum,
Ah musta realized…”

I just can’t stopp!

And as for the Peppers, I’m driving at a legal 78 mph, toddling along, then I join in with the song at the bit where it goes,

“UNDER THE BRIDGE DOWNTOWN,
IS WHERE I DREW SOME BLOOD
UNDER THE BRIDGE DOWNTOWN,
I COULD NOT GET ENOUGH,
UNDER THE BRIDGE DOWNTOWN,
I GAVE MY LIFE AWAAAAAYYYYYY…..”

And before you know it I’m up at 120, head banging just like Wayne’s World!

Richard the Finance Ditrector, and the two SNECMA reps in the back asked if I was OK.

Saps.

At times like these,
my mind often returns to my beloved mountains. The crunch of the crampons, the sneck of the ice-axe, yes, perhaps I shouldn’t take them to the bar at weekends, but for me, out on the Wild, they are my right arm, and feet, obviously.

If you could only come with me and smell the wind blasting down Corrie An Sneachta or feel the sweet soft rain take your face off, why, man it’s so grand I can hardly talk.

Scotland is not like England. Down there, they argue over rights of access to the countryside, and laws of trespass, and get orf moi land type of stuff. In Scotland it would be hard to get hill walkers and the like to even understand the concept of the argument. They’d just look at you.

Scotland is small too, which means you can get out into the wilderness quickly. Mr Gorilla Bananas would be a great hill walker. What a team we’d make. Tramping the glens, eating off the land, a lamb here, a stoat there. Magic.

Just dreams though, just dreams.

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.