That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.

Monday, July 31, 2006

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.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

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.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

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 :

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.

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.

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

Thursday, July 20, 2006

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?
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 √Čamon 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?
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.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

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.

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

Monday, July 17, 2006

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


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,


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.