Ok, that was good ol' Blondie.
This one's going out to a 'very good friend of mine, Mr Conan Drumm, I think he'll preciate it.
and also anyone else who's tryin' to get a handle on the ol' doctor, (yrs truly) here.

LETS ROCK!

Please stay tooned for Ella Fitzgerald,. (the best singer ever.)

"No, I don't believe in luck..."

This week I have been mainly listening to Blondie and that little teaser who says she kissed a girl and liked it- the taste of her cherry chapstick. Well I ask you.

I had forgotten just how beautiful Debbie Harry was, so here she is.

Well it was either going to be her or Rick Wakeman.

Doctor Maroon’s Hangover Cures Number 1

(There IS no number 2. Trust me, I’m a fucking Doctor)

Take 500 mg Paracetamol
Take 500mg ibuprofen
Take 500 mg aspirin BP
Take 1 Beecham’s powder.

Wash down with copious shambuie.
An Auld Alliance of Scotch and French, d’ye see?
Liqueur and champagne
You mix it 4:1 champagne to liqueur.
Put the champagne in the glass first you dolts!

(That carpet was cleaned last month.)

Swallow!

Just had a call from Mater. I was expecting it; they have a quality much prized by secret intelligence services around the world. They can pick up the slightest nuance, careless word, pause, anything and then focus on it with forensic ruthlessness using every lever in the toolbox to get IT out of you. It’s intrusive telepathy like in that film The Village of the Damned.

Hi mum,

Achilles, it’s your mother

Yeah I know, it tells me before I answer

How is everyone?

Fine thanks

How are you? How was your day? Still busy?

Well not so much…

Still having to work away overnight?

It’s tailing off now, we…

And what about within yourself?

What?

How are you, within yourself?

Is everything all right mum?

I am perfectly fine, it’s you I’m worried about.

Why are you worried about me?

How did you get on last Saturday at the dockyard?

It was fucking awful

That, is a terrible way to speak to your mother. Anyone could be listening.

Everyone’s out.

Someone could be listening at the exchange.

Really? I don't think so.

Hmmm

What. What is it?

Something’s different.

I’ve got to go mum there’s someone at the door.

Please keep in touch.

Right-mum-bye.

That was close.

Shite for shore eyes.

What’s the old clown thinking about? Not only has he produced a bewk, but also called it “Being a Scot” Pass the sickbag Alice. Here’s a tip for you Shir Shean, STOP.
‘kin Hell. I mean, getting your nutty wife to ghost write your autobiography; why, that would be like me writing a tedious pisspoor tale about the True Cross being found in Scotland (Pilate’s birthplace) in a weak formulaic attempt to jump on the Da Vinci Code bandwagon…
Oh.

Hi everyone, it’s time for MIDWEEK ROUNDUP! Foot Eater is in Sood Effrika (mid winter there) and is moaning that Cape to Rio is rotgut. Well of course the FIRST one is, but after that there is no finer raw white spirit currently on the market in Southern Africa.. I like mine with ice and bitter lemon, -ZESTY! Talking of which, our zesty southern belle Savannah, and Kitchen Bitch Eryl apparently visit our good friend Mr Gorilla Bananas, (Best Blog yeah, yeah, get on with it) but both remain silent. See that? Mr Bananas? I’ve still got it mate. Me an’ Sav go way back, back to the days of Dick Headley, and quite often we’ll burn the midnight oil with a tincture or two, And Eryl said she would spit in the Vice Chancellor's crème brulee if it came to it, so, you maybe get the awards chum, but I get the burds. Talking of which, Kim Ayres is moving in on Pat when we had an agreement, - he took an oath the bastard, - that he wouldn’t. The future of the Blogosphere is at stake! Funny how life in the unreal world of Russia and Georgia (not that one Sugar) is mirroring life as we know it here. Back off man, I’m a scientist. You’ve been warned. Conan Drumm, Chipping Norton MUST be a corruption of the French. Which brings me back to Foot Eater, and his solipstic claim that I was never further south than Kirkintilloch; Johannesburg mate! That’s the furthest south I’ve been. Any further south and you’re in Shackleton territory, which brings us back to… Nearly forgot. Harry Hutton (leader of our Order) posted the perfect post on the death of Solzhenitsyn. It was exactly what I wanted to say but was too crap to manage . It begins; "Champion bore Alexander Solzhenitsyn has died." That's the spirit.

Down the hatch! Now!

Live, on videotape, from the stardust room of the British Legion, Chipping Norton…

It’s the MAROONS!

Before we open the envelope,

[and…clear! Two minutes everybody!].]

Some of you may have noticed recently that a new blogger has turned up. Mrs Pincer or Pounder or something, I can’t remember, I’ve hardly exchanged a word with her. Still, nonetheless, it would be inhospitable not to welcome new blood to the group, so to this end I’m off to Edinburgh to have a tryst.

What about Mrs Maroon? I hear you call. That is a problem I’ll admit, but I had a brainwave - I’m not going to tell her! She would only get the idea into her head that I was somehow dissatisfied and had decided to “play away” and this sort of thought can be disturbing to a woman so I thought it better to make up some tale about overnight project meetings, hey! It could happen, the globalised 24/7 world we live in…
I’m much more worried about Fatmammycat, my Ether Soul Mate and focus of all my hopes; but she seems determined to fall in love and live happily ever after, so I’ll just have to sit out the next 25 years (I have the patience of the Sphinx, well who wouldn’t with such a prize on offer?)
So that’s what I’m going to do.
In the meantime, because SafeT and Binty have turned up again, I am going to do the Maroons and for a change, there is going to be only one winner and we all know who it is. It’s like the football league, we know at the start of the season who’s going to be there at the end. MY DECISION IS FINAL.
I had planned to increase the tension by some means but couldn’t think of anything.
What I will say is this. The women bloggers are much, much better writers than the men. None of them can drive a car to save their lives but they all write better than any of us; Harry Hutton included [Leader of our Order]
I’ve wondered about this, whether blogging is a medium that particularly suits women for some reason, whatever it is, their quality of writing is ahead of ours by a country mile. Having said that, you get a bloody good laugh with the men, it’s a testosterone thing, the godam wimmin wouldn’t understand, right…

[back in 5, 4, 3, 2…]

Welcome back everyone. The winner of the Maroon 2008 for getting everything right and being the best of bloggers, like, all the time, is neither man nor woman but Mr Gorilla Bananas!

Tarra!

Mr Gorilla Bananas, couldn’t be with us tonight so his good friend Mynah Bird will accept the award on his behalf…

Quick, turn it over, I think Morse is starting on channel 10.

Ivan Denisovich. Yeah, you and me both, mate.

O.K.

Here's the skinny for all you budding ranchers out there.

You take the top one and breed it with the bottom one, then let them loose on the wide prairee.

The secret of blogging!
This is my theory and it belongs to me (I own it).

When you’re at work you’re obsessing almost non stop about crap. You can’t turn it off. You have weird meetings about nothing and instead of tackling whatever it is we’re all there for, you’re wondering:
“Is my position strengthened or weakened by this? What did Dick mean by that last remark? Is he having a laugh? He won’t be laughing when I give him a fat lip for his trouble. Hmmm, Geraldine’s looking well these days, has she lost weight? SHE dressed in a hurry this morning hmmm… What was that? Maroon pay attention! Did I say that out loud?...”

It’s endless noise and then when you get into this world, the blogging world, all the noise stops, and it’s a bit silly; it’s a dinner party without having to feed anyone or polish the table.

That’s the secret.

We’re off to Perth Show today. It is a bit “county” but the show jumping at the end can be fun as can the guest of honour, who is always some American rancher called Hiram Pipesucker the Third…“who has come all this way, to buy a bull.”
Where else is he gonna get one? Wal Mart?

Haloscan and blogger are shit.

I'm tryin to have a conbersation here and the comments are all over the shop.
the level of servive offered by British isps is bloody awfyul

Bon appétit Mrs Pouncer.

(haloscan won't let me reply.)

I want to tell you a story; a creepy, true story.

Two weeks ago last Monday, so that would have been Monday 14th inst., I found a fairy ring in Dundee.

A fairy ring is the superstitious name given to rings made in grass by toadstools and mushrooms. The fungi expand out like a ripple in a pond getting bigger over time until there is a ring of them. The one I found was about 10 feet across and most impressive. So in the Jungian tradition* of science meets superstition, I stood in the middle of it, turned three times round widdershins and made three wishes out loud. The whole event was witnessed by a sneering colleague who said “For fuck’s sake” (just shows you the calibre of people I have to work with.) One of the wishes was to meet another pig of 1959 vintage. This is all true. I had come independently to the conclusion that ‘59 for whatever reason, was a vintage year for pigs, then lo and behold, Mrs Pouncer drops out the ether like Mary Bloody Poppins.
I had my suspicions, for it was none other than Dick who was the witness and for a decent bloke, he can be an asshole of epic proportions. The other two wishes were lesser personal ones which would probably have come true anyway which they did. For other’s privacy, I won’t be specific, but they were trivial wishes, like I wish it would rain on Wednesday, that sort of thing.

* Jung as you will know got into all sorts of bother investigating this sort of stuff by carrying out proper statistical analysis of his results. Coincidence such as this appears to be, is only significant because we look at it from the result backwards.

i.e. I would not be creeped out if nothing had happened.
Wrong numbers only happen when someone answers the phone; do you see? But the episode WAS weird especially the shared experiences, which looked suspicious until one realises that everyone our age would have similar tales to tell.

From ‘Once Upon a Time in America’:

“Life, is stranger than shit!”

Finally; a bit of recognition for us blokes in the Harris jackets with the pens in the top pocket. Until yesterday, I thought my life would pass in a blur of cigarettes and whisky, my value to society known only to the cognoscenti, just like oh, what’s her name?-Princess Margaret! But Mr Gorilla Bananas has set the record straight, and you can like it or lump it but the truth is out there and that’s all that matters.

One tiny fly in the ointment.
Mr Bananas’ correspondents would rather not have sex with engineers.

Who can blame them: I’m repulsed by the idea too, but if I were a lady, I’d rather do it with an engineer than a gynaecologist say, or worse, a lawyer!

Oh – my - God, think on that: a big, hairy-arsed lawyer a-huffing and a-puffing all over you with his chalk stripe trousers neatly folded over the chair.
And if we, the doers and shapers, wear tank tops in the summer, so what?
They wear blue shirts with white collars! I mean, who the hell are they kidding? That is like so Eighties.
That’s the trouble with us engineers, we see things with such clarity, things that ordinary people (no offence) just can’t.

Dr.Seymour Bush

Mark Cavendish

- Great Human

Englishman wins FOUR stages?...never thought I’d see the day…English cycling back on the map…old Scotsman can die happy…jumpers for goalposts…Saturday afternoons…watching the wrestling on the box with Dad …Mum making custard…15-a-side in the park…grumpy old Parkie having his sandwiches…mustn’t go into his hut mind…not after little Bobby…marvellous…

For Ronnie.



1976 was a hot summer and overnight we changed into punks.
On the Monday we sang along with the Brutus advert and on the Tuesday we had slashed our T Shirts with razor blades, made our hair spikey with brylcreme and bought drainpipe jeans from an old fashioned man's shop in the Gallowgate. It was that fast and spontanious.
We played the Ramones especially "Havana Affair" non stop. We were the only people we knew, wearing all the mad gear. We learned the chords (3) and rehearsed in the scout hut. The girls loved us.
By 1977 everyone was on the bandwagon. By 1981 we were young fogeys, complete with tweed jackets and brogues and our fathers' cravats for christsakes!

For Eryl.



For everyone else, sing, "my Brutus jeans on"
for "my old blue jeans on"

There is more joy in heaven over one sinner who repenteth etc.
Stack overflow at line 0 and so on...

SafeTinspector’s back!

That’s right! The Michigan familyman, polymath, musician, erstwhile time traveller and anonymous 28 inches is still kicking.

Actually I knew he was. I was over at his bit a couple of months ago. I hesitated to leave a calling card as it seemed to me he had moved on and would not relish a visit from his past. You know how it is. You start a family, put on a few pounds, join a golf club, start voting Republican, then your hippy pals from college turn up looking for drugs and asking whatever happened to that girl with the big boobs.
Nay, I couldna do it to him Captain, ah jist couldna.

However, he broke cover first, so hell mend him.

SafeT! WAZZUP!?

Happy Treasion Day to all our American friends.

I've seen this picture in New York and it's almost like a mural, and who was the first person in the boat I noticed? That's right, Old Hamish Maroon (enlarge photo to spot him) and I thought, might have known there'd be a bloody Scotchman in it somewhere stirring the shit. I had a snigger to myself but the reverential people around me at the time misinterpreted and told me to move on while I still had my teeth (lousey limey bastard).