That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.

Monday, October 31, 2005

Bonfire of the vanity units.

The Anti-Barney reminds us that it’s that time again. As the occupants of the big house, we have to let the village use the field for their ethnic rituals. This has always been a problem for us Maroons. Like all the best Scotch Families we are now probably 2/5 Irish and I don’t mean planters either. The Family, as Scotch as the bonnie purrrple heather, is riddled with Irish Sinn Fienners and American Fenians like worms in a cheese. We were forfeited in 47 and have never since bent the knee to the king, well not to them German-Hanover-Battenburg ones anyway.
Old Guido was probably a relative as well, on the distaff side, and to complicate matters considerably, my father still insists we celebrate St Andrew’s Night on the 30th with even more fireworks, gusto and extravagance - to “show them”.
So, when all the other kids were waving sparklers, putting jumping-jacks in peoples pockets, bangers in prams, and chanting Burn the Papists! like any other village across the country, I was forced to eat cold gruel and learn my Latin declensions, or so it seemed. My mother eventually allowed me to join in when I was 10 or 11, so long as I didn’t actually touch the grimy village kids, and kept my fingers crossed at the anti-catholic bits.
Back then, as the fire died down at about 11:30, we would throw in some potatoes, let them burn for 10 minutes then eat them, a grand end to a social evening. At highly organised events, like the scouts or whatever, if you got crisps and Irn Bru, you thought you were at a pretty sophisticated, flash bonfire.

TODAY, we as landlords, are expected to provide Bovril, baked tatties in foil with fillings no less, and maybe a nip for the dads with sugar free, organic fruit smoothies for the little Jocastas and Justins. The same, who are allowed to hold a sparkler if they’re wearing welding mitts, safety glasses and are standing in the sand pit.
And another thing, it was held on the FIFTH until midnight, no matter what fucking weekday it happened to fall on. “Fuck the school, I’m going out to the bonfire!” was what we muttered under our breaths.

Remember Remember, yeah well we fucking will. Garn!

Sunday, October 30, 2005



“She wants a swipe wi’ shite, that one!” A phrase familiar to those that have seen BBC TV’s Royle Family. It could also have been Hitchcock’s Golden Rule for his blond heroines.
I was mildly, only mildly irritated by LindyK’s offhand dismissal of my promotion of Tippy Hedren (see pictures) as top Hitchcock Heroine. She (Lindy) has not the benefit of manly testosterone washing about her system and therefore cannot hope to understand.
Tippy Hedren and Kim Novak (whoa down boy!) were every bit as ideal as saintly Grace for the escalating hellish circumstances so favoured by Hitchcock. But Hedren, or Tippy, as I like to call her, was more elegant and cool and yet worldly.
She was perfect.
Novak had the sex appeal but was too worldly; she would have coped with most situations straight off. Tippy would have to struggle a bit, while useless Grace would crumble and go to the gallows in innocent confusion. Git. And don’t tell me she didn’t get gassed and drive right into the fucking Med for a laugh, let’s face it, we’ve all done it.

Damn, the postscript! All this was leading to the fact that modern actors fucking can’t act. They have little if any presence or if they have, then they can’t act. For the past 6 visits we’ve watched utter shite at the local multiplex, walked out twice!

Update ! Here’s a quote from Kim, that’s NOVAK not Ayres but it could have come from either!
For every answer, I like to bring up a question. Maybe I'm related to Alfred Hitchcock or maybe I got to know him too well, but I think life should be that way. I don't think you want to give all the answers, but I think every answer you do give should bring up another question, and not all questions should be answered. Kim Novak

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Mountains come out of the sky and they stand there

We are our own harshest critics, we creative literary types, or so I thought.
In a moment of madness I allowed Mrs Maroon to view my musings, She thinks they’re fucking hilarious the cheeky bastard. It’s a fucking good job I’m thick skinned and she can cook. We’ll say no more on the matter. I mean fuck, I don’t have the time to draft and edit and all that shite. If fatmammycat’s dormant site had allowed non account holders in the first place, none of this would have happened, but too fucking bad. I’m a fighter not a quitter, we’re here for the long haul and that’s fucking that.

So I’m writing fuck all today, instead it’s Weekend Roundup !

Entertaining excerpts from the past week that I liked. As always the best bits are in the comments. We all know that. But these are from the postings.

From Jokemail on Friday : “When his .38-calibre revolver failed to fire at its intended victim during a hold-up in Long Beach, California, robber James Elliot did something that can only inspire wonder: he peered down the barrel and tried the trigger again. Happily for most concerned, this time it worked.”

From The Anti-Barney on Tuesday :“…deserve to be shot with balls of their own shite“.

Andraste (about me) : “…the fuckbag…Fuck 'im.

Dr Evil Scientist PhD : “….I do link to that Maroon bastard”

From Annie on Thursday : "good news and bad news…There is obviously a reason why they call it death row,….”

From El Barbudo : all of Sunday’s dialogue with FE. Classic.

From SafeTinspector on Tuesday : ”…you swab up my regularly occurring two-liter semen-slick off the bed-spread." (you need to read it all)

From HA HA HA on Friday :“As he raised the gun, the door gave way and a full-grown clown tumbled into the kitchen,…” 3rd episode!

From Kim Ayres on Wednesday :“The Echelon Surveillance Network” Oh bollocks

From G Bananas on Friday : “...handed me an envelope containing some photographs...” hmmm

There’s lots more but I’m knackered. Anyway I replied to GB et al re airscrews in Thursdays comments. I will be back. GB’s email dont work neither!

Friday, October 28, 2005

Other people’s holiday snaps

Fatmammycat over at El B’s, reminds me of an incident that I witnessed in Montenegro. It was the year before all hell broke loose, and a former Mrs Maroon and I were enjoying a cracking cheap holiday.

We were sitting as you do, drinking fantastic wine, watching The World.
We hadn’t spoken for a while, not because we had run out of things to say, that came later, but because our faces had gone numb, when in walked the English Family Abroad.

I’m not embellishing this. Ma and Pa, mid thirties smartly dressed, as identical twins, with the Boy and Girl 10,11? also identically dressed but to a different colour scheme. All four were wearing the same white sun-hats; adult versions of the ones babies wear.

As they arranged their impedimenta, Mrs M remarked, in the cruel funny way that women do: “Christ look Ack, it’s the Fit Family!” alluding to the TV advert for Ski yoghurt.

In truth, they were actually an attractive group and initially behaved like normal human beings: “This is a lovely spot. Mmm, those ice creams look good. Who’s got the camera?”

The waiter arrived and before he could ask, Pop stands up with the menu in his hand and declares like Anthony to the Senate:
“Eh two BEER-OES (gives waiter the vics) and two KOAH-KAH KOALAS (as in the bear, gives waiter the vics again), PERLEASE.” Sits down.
“POR FAVOR” says Mater confusingly.

he didn’t say “my good man“, but it was there, and his voice had changed into Peter Sellars doing his Scoutmaster routine.

The dam burst, I had foolishly looked over at Mrs Maroon who was staring at them with her glass halfway to her gaping mouth*.
“Oh fuck off, they have got to be at it”
She said, in the cruel way that women do.

* beautiful full ruby lips

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Birdie in the hand for life’s rich demand

…and when I opened the door, there she was, playing the trombone with…Oh hello again, we were just thinking about yesterday’s triumph.

A man can do it ! I am the living proof.
The secret is to cram your guts utterly with canap├ęs and savouries and limit yourself to white wine and use this mantra :
don’t get drunk don’t get drunk don’t get drunk.
We got an export award yesterday and the very sensible minister from the Executive said how wonderful we all were (he was looking at me when he said it). Like the priest leaving the wedding, we relaxed when he went and the Saturnalia began.
Later, on my way out, I was disgusted to see Dicksplash with pastry flakes on his chin chatting up one of the prodigies (the good looking one). He’s such a ridiculous figure now and him a father again.

Mynah Bird says he can’t report his findings because of Haloscan. Well Mr Bird, I’ve heard them all mate. The dog ate it, it blew away in the wind, I caught dysentery and had no toilet paper; whatever. We will assume he’s with us. In fact, yes, I can feel his mischievous presence, he’s close, very close.
So it’s onward with the gas turbines. Don’t grumble, just skip the blue bits. HA HA HA asked about turboprops, and GB made a point, a salient one about propellers or airscrews as we call them.
I might split the posts from now on because it gets involved quite quickly and I want to do it justice.

Stop press: Alan Bennett at the Clyde Auditorium tonight, I wonder if I will spot the alabaster form of Audrey Hawtrey among the butchers and fishmongers.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

It’s party time.

Yesterday was lost to work again. Why oh why do my employers assume that I’m at their beck and call?
A small company soiree to attend tomorrow. That means wearing a suit and not getting drunk. I can do either but I’ve never managed both at the same time.
Last year, at a similar thing (drinks and finger buffet for 40) we ended up taking these two Swedes out for dinner.
That is, the technical director (designate), Dickless the finance director, and me. The two innocent Swedes were machine tool experts.
Regrettably, I was pissed before we left the office, and was lying like a bastard, claiming to have studied at Uppsala and done six months particle research at CERN. I don’t know why either but there it is.
Anyway, we were all having a drink it was a Wednesday, but it must have been a harder week than we thought, because we were guzzling it down three to every one of theirs. By half six we were rollicking, arguing, Mr Fuck and Mr Cunt were putting in the odd appearance and the two sober Swedes were totally ignored.
They saw which way the wind was blowing.
They said, “Look thanks, but we’re flying off early tomorrow so maybe we’ll call it a night.”
Finance director: “No no no fucking way, you’ll have a drink and some dinner before you go. Fucking Hell. Scottish hospitality”
Then, out of the blue, but in all seriousness, the technical director (designate) made an announcement to the table;
Technical director (designate): “Listen, Sven’s gay, maybe he wants to check out the scene or something.”
Sven: “I’m not gay, what makes you think I’m gay?”
Technical director (designate): “Aren’t you? Look it’s alright if you are”
Sven: “well I’m not, I’m married” Shows wedding ring.
Technical director (designate): “Any kids?”
Sven: “Nobut….."
Technical director (designate): “Look it’s alright if you are”

Escaping to the bar, I was joined by Sven, puzzled to the point of tears,
Sven: “Why does he think I’m gay? Look, I’m married.” (Shows wedding ring again)
Me: “Ignore him, he’s drunk. I‘m sorry.”
Sven: “Were you treated like this at Uppsala?”
Me: “What?”
Sven: “When you were studying there?”
Finance director: “When were you at Uppsala?”
Me: “In my ICI days.”
Finance director: “You never said.”
Me: “Never mind that, get back to the table and stop any more fucking damage.”
The Swedes left without glassing the technical director (designate) but they thought about it. He IS a hardy big bastard.
“He wasn’t gay you know. And what would it matter if he was?”
“Course he fucking was. Drink up and I’ll see what the special is.”

Sunday, October 23, 2005



That’s right! LIVE ! On tape from Caesar’s Palace, Perthshire (Scotland), we welcome you to the first Maroons of the 21st century.
It’s been three weeks now, so I feel justified in presiding over these, the very first “Maroons” for blogging. My task has not been easy but my decision is final.
The categories in order, are as follows: Newcomer, Spleen, Artistic use of the word cunt, Fun, Angst, Neurosis, Natural, Quality, Spinning, Wit, Intelligence, Best Blog.

OK ! lets get the show on the road with Best Newcomer: He started YESTERDAY so he’s new, but he’s topical, he’s funny, he’s my older brother (only kidding) it’s Vaporise Barney!
Let’s stay in that dear green land of the leprechaun and shillelagh for our next category: Spleen. Yep you’ve guessed it ! Emerald Bile. And, ladies and gentlemen wouldn’t Noreen and Maud make one helluva sandwich?
Thoughtful applause and nodding.
Next up, it’s Artistic Use of the Word “Cunt”: This was a Tie between Ball Bag and El Barbudo, so here to open the envelope, it’s Garry Glitter! D’ya wanna be in my gang? Mmm can we think about it? The winner is
Applause but louder, aggressive.

We’ll keep the ball rolling with Fun: laughter is the best medicine ladies and gents. The winner is Jokemail. If you come near me with that custard pie, I will fucking go for you, I mean it ! Ha Ha just my little joke.
Cheers and light fighting.
It’s across the Pond now via satellite for our next recipient, Angst: Can you hear me Annie? Well nod or say some fucking thing, only kidding! Well done American Bile. Angst with a human face and a sexy wink at the postman.
Uproar! Mayhem in the aisles, chairs uprooted.
Staying in Uncle Sam’s back yard, it’s Neurosis: now this youngster is as neurotic as a shaved monkey but she likes Kurt Vonegurt so she’s OOOOKAAY! It’s
Hurrahs but calming down a bit. Two or three head butts.

The next category is Natural: wysiwyg and the winner is Kim Ayres. What can one say? He’s a philosopher for Christ’s sake. Just WYSIWYG.
Polite applause, the odd punch still being thrown.
Next, it’s back to America, didn’t THEY do well? This category is Quality: Now for a quality experience you can’t beat SafeTinspector he‘s a Godamn renaissance man. Any fool can be funny, but he’s funny and clever and articulate and musical and a photographer (is there no end to his talents?). Check out the music on his site(s). That just came out in a sentence and he’s worth more than that. Trust me.
Puzzled silence.
Back to The Emerald Isle now, for an old feller that musta kissed the Blarney Stone a thousand times! The winner for Best Spinner is Twenty Major. Who doubted it? The Complete Artist bar none.
Applause starting up again but restrained, reluctant to get involved.
Next it’s Wit, he’s our own, our very own,
Harry Hutton!
Stars come and go, but Hutton, well, he just keeps going, doesn’t he? Who can forget the “300kg of white mice“? Or the Night he asked Ball Bag, “Who are you?” to which BB replied with the immortal “Fuck Off.”
If Mr O. Wilde was alive today, he would look like a stammering prick next to him. And he’s got a girlfriend too which means he’s not a gayer.
General clapping for the sake of it.
The penultimate is Intelligence and that means my friend, fucking drum roll, the inimitable, the cleverest, the subtlest, and ballsiest, the fucking sharpest, the wipe your ass with all the rest ‘cos your better,
Mr HA HA HA or Bogol or Arlington Hynes. (He’s dropped the Copley).
I just don’t have the words man. I just don’t have the words.
Some clapping and cheers but general un-assuredness.
But, and this is fucking it! LOUD Drum rolls now,
The winner of BEST BLOG 2005 is

For consistent, top quality, top notch, considered, entertaining, welcoming, literate, blogging, you win!
Well Done Mr G Bananas.!
Polite applause followed by coats being put on, cigarettes being lit (inside the auditorium !) it’s been an emotional night for everyone.
Good Night.

Dr A H K Maroon.

P S All the sites are linked opposite on the right. God bless you all.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

It’s 15:50, and at Saint Glayva’s, Dr A H K Maroon is leading his young charges through the rigours of natural philosophy (physics in the state sector)…………

………“Hynes has asked a very pertinent question about turboprops. Stand up Hynes, let the class see you. Hynes is from Boston. Right, you can sit next to Bananas at the back.
Barbudo! Give Hynes your desk and come and sit here at the front where I can watch you. NOW boy. And stop doing that, it’s gormless.
Inspector! Yes you boy! If you wouldn’t mind, that’s right, put the comb away.
Mr Ayres! The blackboard’s this way. Your parents are not paying for you to look out the window. Ayres by name, Ayres by Nature.
M. Diver! Is that a, a, a magazine? Bring it here at once. “Razzle” eh? Right I’m keeping this, you may ask for it back after Yule Hogswatch.
I’m sorry, did I say something funny the “Mizzes” Cat and Beauty? Maybe you’d care to share it with the rest of us? We like a joke, don’t we class? No? Well I’m sorry to interrupt your little confab, but the day you come here prepared to learn instead of gossiping like fishwives and painting your faces like strumpets….is that jewellery? You know the standing orders.
Right. Mynah Bird Esquire. Who can tell me? Mmm? Who can shed light on his continued absence? Has he seen Matron? Nobody? The mystery deepens eh? Not bird flu is it? Ahah ahah ahem….
Ok, so, are we ready now? Splendid ! The Turboprop. This combines the efficiency of Stay where you are ! That bell’s for ME not you.
You may now proceed. Walk!

Miss Cat, see me in my rooms after Evensong.”


Insert comic headline here…………………

Cleese….Palin….quarantine….it‘s pining….not funny….no vaccine….Norwegian Blue…..we’re all going to die….an ex-parrot… prices collapse….pretty Polly….Labour useless….gone to meet its maker….God hates us….Muslims

The Mail says: Vote Cameron.

Friday, October 21, 2005

When the truth is found to be lies
and all the joys within you dies

This week I have committed the cardinal sin of allowing my employment to interfere with this important blogging vocation. It won’t happen again.

Vaso-constriction is where one’s body pulls blood to its core. It does this automatically when it perceives a threat. For a man, having your testicles held, one in each hand by a stranger, while he checks them for lumps, is perceived as threatening. To make matters much worse you‘re lying with your shirt open to the waist, shoes off, socks on, trousers and pants round your ankles, so that if there was a fire, you know you would trip over, bang your head, suffocate to death and be found by the firemen like that. Lying there with your hand on your bobby and your arse in the air.

He would go back to his wife that night and over steak and chips would say:
“Jesus, we found a right perv today, love.
Fucking pyromaniac.
He was jacking off to the flames and choked himself with his tie the filthy bastard.”

And that’s the thing isn’t it? If you were bollock naked it would be fine. But lying there half undressed, 12 stickers and wires on your chest listening for any signs of gayness or any hint of molestation from the medic as he remarks about things being fine in that department. Do they put a secret sign on your records?

You want to say:
“Look, I can do better than this. I’m not talking sexual arousal, but maybe if you put the fucking heating up a notch and stopped making remarks to yourself when your rummaging, and shaved off that fucking moustache“… Oh I don’t know.

Getting dressed, what he did say was that he wished he had my blood pressure and eyesight. Fucking quack bastard.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

…..But you in that dress, destination Burlesque, I’ve got all my cards in one shoe….

To Edinburgh, fairest of towns, on Monday, to bestow greetings and gifts upon our finance director on the occasion of his second born. I took two bottles of top notch Champagne and a heart shaped box of chocs for the mother, and a handshake and a cigar I got on holiday in Cuba for him.

They are totally mismatched. He is an ill-favoured Goth of a man while she is the quintessential English Rose with just a hint of Earth Mother (a combination totally irresistible). I hadn’t planned to stay, preferring the casual handover then the heroic dash back up the motorway while they celebrate to the tune of “for he’s a jolly good fellow. That Maroon, what a first rate chap he is”

It wasn’t to be. In the manner of people deprived of intelligent company for too long, I was physically restrained, and forced to drink the baby’s health with a series of strong drinks. During dinner I was treated to an intimate account of the birth, by the FATHER.

This covered the lot. Getting shaved, epidurals, gas, pain, regrets, tears, tears, stitches, you name it. At every turn, my efforts to change the subject were rebuffed.. At one point he said:
“Well if you think about it Ack*, it’s like having a football up your fanny.”
I looked over, smiling my sympathy at the girl, but far from being embarrassed by this uncouth remark, she was nodding enthusiastically in agreement;
“that’s just what it’s like.”
Then she joined in, telling me how pleasurable it was to be allowed to use a bidet after all the hullabaloo; mental images that I will take to my grave.

Anyway, that’s where I’ve been. I thought you should know.

As for Jet Engines 101, all of you except GB, are looking Fs in the face.

*It’s a lousy contraction.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Maroon apologises to HA HA HA

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that the amount you consume, is inversely proportional to the amount you set out to consume.

Setting out last night, I was in great trim.
Gorilla Bananas had provided my opening gambit.
“Say what you like, Hitler or Stalin, they weren’t as bad as Captain Black of the Mysterons.” Pick the fucking bones out of that.
But, disaster of disasters, no-one of any consequence was out.
I was back home by ten. An opportunity missed.

So in that spoilt bastard, only had three pints, grumpy frame of mind I looked in here and immediately overplayed my ironic hand with HA HA HA to my utter embarrassment and shame. He’s only an imaginary friend but the whole episode has ruined my Saturday. Mrs M’s not due back till Wednesday so I should be content but I’m miserable.

I see Hutton’s jumped on the Pinter bandwagon. I really don’t see why a playwright of his standing should have to put up with petty sniping from middle class snobs just because he stood up against Bush and the war.

I am desperately rethinking everything.

Friday, October 14, 2005

And tiny purple fishes run laughing through your fingers

……and what a memorable spit-roast we had that night I can tell you. Oh Hi there. An incident that took place at the ticket booth of the Penn Station Subway comes to mind.

Mynah Bird’s jet propulsion 101 continues in blue.
It’s easier to push something that doesn’t move than something that does.
That’s something to think about isn’t it? If you’re shaking your head saying “no” with raised eyebrows, perhaps imagining you’re funny, then you haven’t grasped the concept. So have another try, come on, it’s not that hard. Mull it over. Take the weekend.

I had arrived that day and was trying to buy a rake of subway tokens or a book of tickets like I had previously, but was making no headway. To compound matters, the girl in the glass bubble was far too good looking. She switched on a Tannoy and said for the whole station to hear,
“Now why would you want to buy a book of tickets?
That Tannoy had completely fucked me up.
“I I I thought it would be convenient. I bought them before.”
“Why don’t you want a Metrocard?”

not, Why, don't you want a Metrocard, but "why don't you want a Metrocard? (you cretin).

If you skoosh a garden hose at a child’s paper windmill it will spin, but notice also that the water is sprayed out in a disc from the centre. In getting the windmill to spin, the direction of the water has been changed by 90 degrees. That’s not very good is it? Couldn’t run a jet engine along those lines I think. Hmm we better mull that one over too I think.

“Where is it you’re going?”
Now we’re at the bone. This is true. Instead of saying uptown or downtown I just stared right at her, because that question had me stumped. Maybe it was the fucking Tannoy, I was shot to fuck by this time, the fucking hayseed comes to town. But I DID think “yeah where the fuck am I going?”
And I meant, you know, in life and everything.
“We don’t do books a tickets any more. Metrocard’ll do ya for a couple a weeks.”
“Splendid !“ I said and jumped on the first train, which was the shuttle to Grand Central, so that was OK.

That fucking happened. Just like the last one, so you better not slag me off.

More gas turbines on Monday 1600

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Thieving Cunt Blogger Stole My Title !

Says dashing egghead.

The peaceful world of experimental thermodynamics was rocked to its foundations last night when it was revealed that strategic words had turned up in the Irish Free State.

“I’ve no doubt he did more with it than I ever could” said an emotional Dr A H K Maroon (29),
“and I took it from Golding anyway, but fuck, he could of waited the c*nt, I’ve only just got going, he‘s been going a fucking year now, the c*nt weasel” added the fluid mechanics supremo.

The Irish story refers to an English teacher with a speech impediment now teaching at Rugby.
The Provost of Rugby School admitted this morning that investigations were ongoing, adding that :“An Irish pederast shouldn’t be that difficult to find at Rugby.” [sic]

When asked if he had proof to back up his allegation, the dazed doc replied : “Yes it’s down there” pointing to the post 5 or 6 down the page.
In a bitter twist of the knife for the ashen faced boffin, it emerged that top society “it girl” FMC had been seen hanging about both blogs, though insiders say “her heart belongs to Twenty.”

Late yesterday, Ms Cat confirmed she was presently unavailable for photographs but would be making a statement through her publicist in the morning.

The Mail Says : When will this country finally wake up to the threat posed by Sinn Fein?
Help Stop this Nobel Madness Now !

Pinter wins Lit. gong! And £700 000 !

Who did he have to shag for that? Begging your pardon Lady Antonia, but for someone who claims that George W Bush regularly takes the Prime Minister Of This Nation up the wrong ‘un, he’s being very silent on the matter.

What were the Swedes thinking? Well swede is Scotch for turnip ! Put that in your smoke and pipe it. Go on, get in your Volvos, put on your ABBA tapes, rev up and eff off !
And take Sven Erickson with you. He’s another dick.!!

Passed over for physics and now Lit? There by the grace of God, go I.

Jet propulsion lessons will resume tomorrow at 1600 Sharp!
Yellow tigers crouch in jungles in her dark eyes.

…..and I finished off by giving her a very nice pearl necklace. Oh hello again. We were just wondering whether to gloss over yesterday’s semi psychotic episode or not. The one where I started rambling about that train to New York with that young man on it. At this point you may be interested to know more about the granular nature of cast metallic items and how if one could produce components from single metallic grains, how that would be advantageous for that component in the unutterable, hellish conditions that exist in a gas turbine propulsion unit. Lets just say it was a piece of undigested macaroni, a potato, Tuesday’s suet dumplings.

Much, if not all in fact, of the maths involved in the design of these things has to do with the impingement of fluids. A fluid is a gas or a liquid. Remember that word, impingement. Say it with me now, don’t be embarrassed,
i m p i n g e m e n t - and rest.

Two years ago, nothing would do but I must be sent to meet with our partners in America. I am not senior and I’m technical not sales or business development, nonetheless, off I went. Robert, a contracts manager was sent to hold my hand. I can shmooze with the best of them, couple of pints in the bar I’m a bloody expert. But Robert came too. On the day, the big day, I was dismayed to see not only our opposite numbers but also a couple of their quite senior people had put in an appearance. I forgot all their names 2 seconds after the introductions. Things slid from there.

When a fluid impinges on something, it exerts a force. It gets complicated quite quickly now.

Item one on the agenda was a problem with a third party not at the meeting. Robert to my certain knowledge had skimmed the letters only. We smiled and nodded as some vice president outlined the problem and how we should tackle it.
Robert said “So yer sayin’ ye think they're cummin’ the cunt?“*
I knew I was still smiling because I could feel it, but I’d taken one in the gut for sure.
A miniscule pause, then hearty businessmen type laughs all round.
“If that’s how you’d put it Babby!“
“Is that a technical term Babby?“
“Have a bastard drink Rabbie.”
The usual bonhomie shit. I don’t think I said three more words.

If the force isn’t enough to move the something being impinged upon, the branch of mechanics is called statics, if it moves the something being impinged upon, it’s called dynamics. We shall be concerned with both.

* verbatim

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Great Train Journeys I have Made No.1
(New improved)

In 2000 we took the train back from Washington to New York. By chance a Metroliner. A better class of train. Opposite was a man not much younger, a recent graduate. After an hour, he took out his cellphone and with an apologetic, elegant smile,( it was elegant) he phoned his friends. Remarkably, he is still the only person who has managed this without irritating all his neighbours.
I was watching the surprisingly foreign landscape go by, when the name of our hotel caught my attention. He was staying there too, and from this base he was courageously setting out the next day round some companies with his "resume" to get a job. He was explaining all this to his friends and making appointments there and then on the phone as we battered along through Maryland. This apparently is not uncommon among American graduates, but I still marvel at his gumption. When you compare it to the almost oriental, class summersaults we perform before anyone actually asks us if we can actually do anything.
With ten minutes to go, I took a walk to the club car for coffees. These club cars, done out in polished metals and woods, have to be seen really. By this time, the steward was packing away his things but stopped, and rooting around made up a tray which itself was a minor masterpiece. He couldn’t take payment he said, because his money had been totalised or something, and in one of those rare moments of psychic empathy gave me to understand that a tip would be gauche in the extreme.

SOOOO fucking what? You comparing Amtrak with BR? What? Sing out Maroon!

I just remember the journey, that’s all, and that young man.

Single grain, high temperature!
Gercha blades here! Three forra pound, three, FORRA pound!

I’m going to see if nursey will give me another pill.

Brett Easton Ellis is at Oran Mor tonight, I wonder if I will pick out the firm oiled body of Ms Hawtrey among the bandits and velcros?

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

The Triumphs of Ellen MAC Arthur, Yachtswoman.

Picture if you will, the scene..

In the back bedroom of her parents’ modest villa,
Slightly butch Ellen MacArthur reclines in stuffed teddy bear splendour.
Summer sun sparkles of her magnificent cups,
And trophies.
Reassuring BBC voices mingle,
With the breeze swishing through the branches;
So like the south east trades off Zanzibar.
Ah Life. It doesn’t get better than this.

“….and now before the midday shipping forecast, some news about an intrepid Frenchman who has just broken the record for sailing round the world single-handed….”

The birds have stopped,
The trees are becalmed,
The clack of Sam’s shears falls silent


Mum’s slippers,
Flapping up the stairs in a panic,
“Ellen dear, I’ve some barley water for you, the way you like it, with a junior Disprin.
“Fuck all that shit!, I’ll piss on his bonfire ! Get B&Q on the phone !”

Ellen soon sets sail,
Taking half the country’s stock of strategic metals,
In her flimsy craft.
She sails round Antarctica and returns to great praise,
To be made a Dame for shaving,
27 minutes off the record.

I mean, this country used to make Concorde and stuff.

Monday, October 10, 2005

I’ve Got The Conch! I will be heard.

This is the last of the race heresy. The previous reads like a childish condemnation of racism and why not. And wouldn’t it be nice if we all got on?* I'm annoyed with the childish bit, not the condemnation, but that was not what i was out to prove. My fault entirely, I am a slovenly lazy and poor writer, I always assume everyone is psychic. Perhaps to put it more succinctly I should have said, there is NO human characteristic or property unique to any group.
Ergo no way of measuring.
Therefore no definitions.
No races.
The heresy stands.

Trebles and Nobel Luariates all round.

DNA profiling in forensic crime work (Steve Jones) has shown incredibly close matches between west coast Scots and Nigerians, while there is a corresponding mismatch with the south east English. The point I’m labouring, is that even on the molecular level, definitive absolutes can’t be found. Of course none of this will stop racists or fascists or religionists.

Who wants to join the Red Headed League? (red hair not compulsory)


Sunday, October 09, 2005

I feel a lecture coming on, this is all Gorilla Bananas’ fault.

There is every possibility, fingers crossed, that I might be sent back out to Namibia. Hurrah! Some things need Maroon.

Namibia is the most beautiful country in the world. Until 1990 it was run by racists.

As a scientist, a real one, I don’t believe in the existence of race.
Its existence has not been proved.

I have always been doubtful over the question of race. I mean literally, not in some PC way. The germans couldn’t define it physically during the last war. They had a department of racial purity specifically for this purpose, and even when they were measuring people’s heads and features with callipers and verniers all they found was “a range“. Fascinating. Racists also try and assign character traits to the various peoples of the world. These have just never, ever, held water, always falling at the first cursory examination.

When I see new neighbours moving in, I immediately judge them, I can’t help it. I do this by the quality of their furniture, their clothes, the number of them, their type of car, are they overtly religious, any kids, dogs, cats, caged birds? Even, I’m not ashamed to say, the quality of the removal firm. I do it because I’m a dreadful snob. There.
I am aware that it’s prejudice, I’m not stupid.
But luckily one’s prejudices are easily changed, they’re quite transitory.

Racists espouse a philosophy on genes. No matter what they say, you get very little from genes, eye colour, earlobes, ginger hair (poor bastards), that’s it. Genetics tells us we are human, not halibuts, and not much more*.
We apologise for the break in transmission, this is due to an achohol problem beyond our control. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible. Until then, here’s some music….no, not the fucking Wagner!!

*It can show propensity among individuals and families to genetic illnesses such as Huntingdon’s, Parkinson’s, etc., don’t pick up the red herring of sickle cell, you don’t know what you’re fucking talking about.

Friday, October 07, 2005

Kept in after games for double Greek.

Don’tcha hate it when your escape is foiled at the wire?
At ten to five yesterday, three sombre men in sombre suits came into the office making themselves at home, avoiding eye contact, fiddling with my stuff.
Shit! Wing it Maroon, we’re all rootin’ for ya!

“…We put it to you Maroon, that you have been sharing commercially sensitive information with a person claiming to be a talking monkey.”

“Ape Colin, a gorilla is an ape. Monkeys have tails.”

“Fine. There is also the question of our export guarantees.”

“What about them?”

“Look here Ack*, you don’t have a leg to stand on, we’ve been monitoring your laptop for a while now, and whether it’s this contract or the other thing**….I mean, running a web-log at work, all fine and good, but the Irish, the Americans, the anonymous individuals, you’re on record….
The point is, your brother‘s***….so we don‘t want….and anyway, t’s have been crossed, i’s dotted….”

“What’s my brother to do with this?”

“Absolutely nothing, I’m only saying….

It was all something else entirely, but circumspection is the watchword now

*I’m Ack, It’s a lousy contraction.
**The other thing has to do with my father frying liver.
***My brother’s at the lousy DTI - FCO**** wouldn’t have him.
****Only the beastly middle class affect “Foreign Office” these days.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Blistering Barnacles and Festering Fishooks

Pre ps I have lost the comments and burned the toast and put the wrong font everywhere
but i'm pretty confident of ultimate success.

I t was quiet this afternoon so I footered with things, then I picked at the scabs a bit, then I buggered a bit more and totally lost the comments, got them back and lost them utterly so that’s that I think, no offence intended to anyone and once again thanks to Kim for that wee thing that we weren’t going to mention ever again.
A nd I was going to tell you all about my father frying liver too.
B um bugger fuck shite.

Ps What a fucking gay font.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Come On In The Water’s Mildly Alkaline.

That maniac El Barbudo has linked here and I haven’t even got the curtains up yet. There’s no drink. The records are in storage and the water‘s been turned off. I’ve only got two pair of hands. It’ll have to be take pot luck and bring your own bottle I’m afraid so that’s fucking that.

That picture over at old Mister Bananas’ place now…….
We wants it for our birthday pressent we doess yesss.
Yess the picture we wantsss it
We musst have it
Whats he got in hiss nasty pocketseys?
Nassty hairy man-beasst.
We’ll takess it we will yess!

Would someone be kind enough I wonder to explain how one would go about stealing that photo and installing it here while leaving room for the Cane Spirit stuff.

A nd so on with the motley and back to my important affairs.

The rest of the day will now be given over to linking back?(rising intonation) to GB ElB et al.

Monday, October 03, 2005

Strategic Corporate Planning

L et’s face it, we’re not talking rocket science“.
Thus spake our finance director at the morning tea-break just now, a man blessedly unencumbered with original thought. I live for these moments and quite cruelly held his gaze. In a nasty stroke of innocent sadism I asked:
“Ahaha, in what way do you mean, Dick? Please, share the bounty of your wisdom with us, unworthy buffoons that we are. Are you referring I wonder, to the easy peasy lemon squeazy maths calculations that any chav in his hoodie could do? Or do you really mean Rocket ENGINEERING, which requires decades of experimental development and the resources of major economies, you slack-jawed, cretin?” Brainiac Bastard.

“I know Richard - all he has to do is tighten up his midfield and buy an out and out striker and they would walk away with everything this season.“

What a craven, broken reed I am.