I looked at my watch,
It was 12 hours into Monday,
So I thought;
I better go and see the Man.
He said; Hi, you got the package?
I said no.
He smiled and he said; I understand…


Apart from pushing things to their elastic limit, I have been mainly concerned with my total lack of progress. A scan of the paperbacks in the supermarket yesterday showed a lot of unimaginative thieving swine have stolen my ideas but rather than faff about, fantasising about the South Bank Show, they have got off their hynies and got themselves printed and onto the shelves.
It was encouraging in a way. I went straight to the liquor section and asked where the absinthe was.
Young lad, weekend job for pocket money, searched all the Bacardi Breezers and Smirnoff WKDs for me. (My cruelty knows no bounds.)
Ok skip it, I said, any calvados?
The little rat found a bottle.
I haven’t opened it and nor shall I. I don’t like the look of it. It looks like medicine.

Turning left.
You know how sometimes your fat pointy nose gets all scabby with sunburn and your big baw face puffs up with the drink and your eyes are like piss-holes in the snow and you think you might have type 2 diabetes because your body shape has gone all feminine and you might have some inner ear issues because you’re bumping off the walls like a knotless thread and there’s an invisible Martian brain slug drawing out your life force like a poultice while you sleep?
No?
Me neither.
Suck it up, is what I say.
We’ll have no moaning Minnies here. Life’s too short.
If a big hearty double knit outward bound type comes near me today and says how great life is, I shall bang his head off the fake maple desking solutions.

I wish it was summer.
That’s a crock.
I wish I was eighteen.

I couldn’t sleep all night; a fog-horn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams.

So much for San Antonio.

Amigos!

¿cuándo volverás?; you ask

Thanks to people like me, the world’s a small place these days.
I suppose the only problem is when our circadian rhythm tries to catch up with the uh, the solarisation thing and the uh, apparent rotation of fretful vitamin D tins zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Whoah there Achilles, wake up!
I’m fine.
Couple of ales; I’ll be right as rain.
Texan women are really good looking. Absolument. There’s a limber healthiness to them.
Wouldn’t mind, I really wouldn’t.
I’m only saying. What am I; a monk? I’m only talking about a couple a drinks and a few laughs. Sheesh.
There is an e in the whiskey in whisky and soda in America, not that I give a damn. I stuck to American drinks like beer and wine and martinis and aviations and mint juleps and Tom Collinses. Here’s a thing, some Americans CAN drink, as in fish.
Back on Wednesday?
Allegedly.
So it’s Wednesday then?
We’ll see.
Yeah we will.
I agree
Yeah, just see that you do
I agree! Back on Wednesday
That’s what you said.
All things being equal
Now what the fuck does that mean?
I’ll be back Wednesday
You better
I will
Yeah I know you will
I’m just sayin
Well don’t
Right I won’t
Good.

I’ve got lots to tell you and I took hundreds of snaps, really great ones too. They wouldn’t let me photograph the secret blade coating machine though. Americans are funny. What did they think? I was going to rush back and reverse engineer some complicated thermal process in the garden shed? I just thought it was neat, that’s all. Some people collect train numbers, I like to photograph strategic technology at the manufacturing stage. What’s the problem?

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
It was something about money or maybe it was women.
When you first go to New York which is The Best Town In The World you spend the first couple of days waiting to be mugged then you remember that you’re from Glasgow so you relax and after that it’s brilliant. The Bronx is up and the Battery down. The best part is when real New Yorkers stop you in the street for directions. Three times already. There is no better feeling. I’ve been all over the world except Asia and South America and no-one, like ever, has mistaken me for a native but in Manhattan it has happened enough now to make me feel superior and smug. Oh and Greenland and Australia: not been there either although I’ve been to Iceland.
I mention all this because Dick and I may have to go to Dallas.
I’m technical so they will show us technical things and Dick who is not technical will say ‘wow, that spark erosion technique is really fascinating’, and I’ll be like, ‘yeah, cosmic. Say Tex, where d’ya get them denims? Do you own a gun? Can I see it? Can I shoot it? Is there a ranch nearby? Can we go? Can we? Can we? Can we buy genuine Wrangler jeans there? Can we? Can we ride horses?
I will probably not be mistaken for a Texan but you never know.
I think he’s already trying to back me out the deal. Cowboy!

And in a single bound, Jack was free.

Je adorer le weekend. At the weekend, we slough off our worries and get on down with the brew that is true.
Climate change and the smoking ban have transformed the town pub and its environs. There are aluminium tables and parasols, it’s great! A poor man’s Boulevard St Germaine - rive gauche in the rough. And the warmer it gets, the less clothes we all wear. It’s very liberating. Europe calls us “the shirtless ones”.
Stuffy uptight continentals.
Drinking beer in direct sunlight is hazardous but it feels so good. As the day wears on we may have double egg and chips and last weekend there was the evocative scent of Ambre Solaire just like the Costa Brava. Yeah! Classic. We are really motoring.
I know it may be gilding the lily, but I wonder if they couldn’t move the big screen to the window and put a speaker outside so we could hear the commentary. It’s just a thought. Maybe send someone out now and then to clear the tables and take an order.
I know I know, I want jam on it, me.

Tradecraft.

‘Have you noticed Achilles, whenever I seem to be getting close to the identity of Gerald the mole, how often the subject of my failed marriage comes up?’
Smiley had taken off his glasses and was polishing them absent-mindedly with the fat end of his tie.
‘George…’ I said uselessly.
‘Oh I don’t mind,’ he beamed through the big lenses, ‘I’m not going to buckle at the knees, on the contrary, it means we’re on the right track.’
‘Karla attempts to discredit your investigation,’ I agreed, ‘just like the Scottish Question.’
‘How so the Scottish Question?’ asked Smiley, studying the photo in the folder before him.
‘Well, whenever that subject is mentioned, some tame wrangler from the LSE is rolled out to tell us it will cost a fortune…’
‘So what if it did?’ interjected Toby Esterhase. ‘What price self determination?’ The dapper little Hungarian liked to affect the experience of a life lived under a foreign yoke.
‘Well I wonder sometimes if it isn’t some Establishment red herring.’ I said, turning to Smiley in supplication.
‘Well George?’ prompted Esterhase.
Smiley closed the file on Operation Testify before looking up.
‘Lacon and the minister say independence would cost the Scots 12 billion, or roughly the same as the London Olympics. Frankly, I don’t agree. I think the Olympics will cost more.’ he said impishly.
‘And if the Scots stay in the union, there are all those English subsidies to sweeten the pill?’ I asked.
‘Danegeld.’ said Smiley.
‘I don’t buy it.’ said Esterhase, tilting his little hand this way and that. ‘If the Scots are that expensive, why keep them? Why not turn off the tap and teach them a lesson? Why not…divorce them?’
Smiley either didn’t notice or more likely chose not to show that he had heard Esterhase’s Freudian slip.
‘Perhaps we should thank our lucky stars that England is still throwing bundles of twenties at us.’ I suggested facetiously, more than anything to lighten the mood in the room.
Esterhase was having none of it. He pointed an accusing finger at me, saying:
‘You are a beggar nation with your hand forever out to London. Face it, what have you ever done for us? You are like the banks, when it rains you take back the umbrellas. You cheered Costa Rica in the world cup which is a total failure of the Tebbit Test. Total! So we stole a few horses together, good times but that was then. Now you hate us yet we keep working our fingers to the bones and give you all the money. Why? Why would we do that?’
‘For auld lang syne!’ I shouted, unable to hide my shameful Scottish tears.
‘Achilles,’ called Smiley softly, ‘Achilles, come down. Finish your sherry and calm down.’ He took up the Testify file, ‘We were talking about Kirov, Alexei Alexandrovitch…’

For Yasgur’s farm.

I couldn’t resist a quick tramp through the bracken with the 410 so I was a bit late getting into work yesterday. I got a couple of fine doe hares and three brace of pigeons, right plump ones too.

I split the kill with Dick when I got in:

‘There you go and don’t say I’m not good to you. That’d cost you a few quid in the shops.’
‘These ladies are from Icelandair,’ he said, a bit frosty. ‘They’ve been waiting since 11 o’clock to discuss the maintenance contract. Remember?’

There was blood and feathers on my jerkin and my moleskins were covered in briars, but I hid it well.

‘Yes of course I remember. Inga and Sandra! How are you both? Good flight I hope.’

I reached out a hearty hand. Sometimes I hate my big practical hands.*

Cooking tip.

A raised pie uses hot-water crust pastry. That works the best.

Make the stock with the leg bones of the hare and the carcases of the pigeons after you’ve removed the breasts.

For the pie, you’ll need the breasts of 4 pigeons and the boned hare sliced into strips. Mix with 10 oz of pork sausage meat, a quarter pound of cooked ham chopped, 6 oz of chopped mushrooms, a chopped optional hardboiled egg, ½ cup red wine or vermouth and season with salt pepper and grated lemon rind.

Remove the hot-water crust pastry from the pie mould. Check the resultant pie case for holes and repair. Fill the pie case with the mixture. Dampen the rim, cover and seal, - crimping to make a decorative edge. Cut a 2” vent in the top. Brush with a beaten egg and bake in the hot oven for an hour.

Remove from the oven, make a cigarette out of greaseproof paper and force it into the vent to keep it open. Brush the top and sides with more beaten egg and replace in the hot oven but on a lower shelf, for another hour.

Remove the pie from the oven. Let it cool a bit then pour 1¾ cups of the stock through a funnel into the vent of the still warm pie. If the pie has leaked in the oven, wait until it’s cold before pouring in the stock. You can use any remaining stock to make a rich game sauce by reducing it with some sherry wine and unsalted butter and one of the blood bags out the hare. Lovely.

Let it chill for 5 hours before cutting.

*You can’t get the gloves.

I could tell you about my life and keep you amused I’m sure. Look, never mind all that, listen.
Today, as always around this time [14.05] I am submerging. For a quarter hour I slide down this mad helter-skelter into the rotten core of my weak human heart.
I don’t fight it. I dive deeper. The sooner it’s over, the sooner it’s over.
Lately it’s been getting worse. These days, my mind turns quite naturally to novel ways of inflicting pain at its most exquisite. I’m surprising myself. We’re in terra nova folks; we sure as hell ain’t in fucking Kansas Toto.
The objects of my malevolence?
David and Ruth Archer.
I want them to die. I want them to suffer pain in some painful combine harvester crash...no wait…I want them fed, feet first, into some kind of industrial meat grinding machine… in slow motion…yes in slow motion…it mustn’t be quick…not for those bastasrds!
I said I was surprising myself. I don’t say I’m a good man, oh but I would be, if I could.

St. George and the Budley Salterton Bypass.

A happy St George’s Day to Pat and all the other English bloggers like Ayres and Foot Eater and Neil and Dick and the rest of them. God bless you all.

Only the top notch countries have a patron saint and they don’t come more pukka than St George. He kills the dragon and gets a virgin! Result!

The English flag is in fact just the flag of St. George.
They liked it so much, that they made it their own.
‘We like the whole St George story so much,’ they said, ‘that we’ll make your flag, our flag.’ and that was that. St George’s flag was now England’s flag as well.
Hmmm, a little bit naughty when you think about it. Didn’t really ask, did they? Little bit previous if you ask me. Didn’t wait to be offered. Just stretched out and took it, like the last bun on the plate.
Anyway, all a long time ago and I’m sure we wish them well, on this, their day of days.
Was a bit rude though. Manners don’t cost anything. ‘Ooh that looks nice, I’m having that…’
Yeah, just like India.

A Maserati passed me at Stirling. It so like evoked Fatmammycat in her shiny leather catsuit. That’s right. In my mind that’s what she always wears.
I know what you’re thinking : it must chafe and squeak. Well she’s worth it.
As I drove on, I pictured us both in my luxury jet, flying off to somewhere tropical, you know? Somewhere like so long haul.
It was great. We had in-flight Cobb salads and afterwards she had a bloody mary while I drove over the rumble strip onto the hard shoulder. Whoops.
Those rumble strips are a triumph of British ingenuity. They stop you drifting right enough. After that I toned down my fantasy considerably.

By the way SheBah, if you’re reading this, I am six one with smooth golden skin, long sensitive fingers and the darkest liquid eyes. I love painting, especially WW2 fighters and bombers. I can play trad on the piano and smoke on the water on the guitar. I’ve got a fuzz box.

let’s get back to those toned-down fantasies;

• for the Friday booze run to Tesco, I now dress her in boots, britches, cravat and give her a riding crop. Yoiks! Halloo!
• for the bar supper down at Wetherspoon’s, it’s Emma Peel’s jumpsuit from the Avengers. Two mixed grill sizzlers please!
• for clubbing at the Ice Factory, I’m thinking Dallas Cowboys cheerleader with like, cowboy boots and silver cap guns. TOUCHDOWN!
• and for watching Celtic on Setanta in the front bar, a simple and elegant French maid’s outfit with feather duster. Deux kir? Oui s’il vous plait!

It’s not the same without the duster. Everyone knows that.
Some nights I dream of finding solutions to mathematical functions but not so much recently.

And when the dam breaks, many years from now…

Anglophilia and the Scottish Elections.

I believe that the Scots and Irish are anglophiles.

I don’t mean the mindless sycophancy of Ulster and West of Scotland Unionists; which is a buttock clenching horror upon the earth; I mean our deep hidden admiration of the English and their English ways.
Many times I’ve heard ‘bloody English!’[and worse] in the cosy Front Bar of an evening.
I always challenge this because that’s just the kinda guy I am.
A frank exchange of views then takes place where the thrust of reason and rational counter argument take the floor and cant and sophistry slink off to their cheerless hovels...
not.
And it’s not all roses in the English garden either. There is the royal family for instance. Surely in 2007 even the idea of a royal family is an embarrassing anachronism. Hereditary privilege? And worse, a constitutional function? Based on genes? What are we thinking about? Are we mad?
There we are, preaching parliamentary democracy to the poor and ignorant of the world, (3,000,000,000 on a dollar a day or less) while we pamper our royals to the point of obscenity.
But of course to disestablish the monarchy would mean taking a hard look at all our upper classes and they wouldn’t like that so they will never let us. A pity really because it lessens us, whoever ‘us’ is, and that’s another thing, there never was an ethnic British identity, let alone one that should be protected.
No matter what any Nationalist will tell you.
Nationalists. They are another anachronism.
The idea that people are simply better because of the bit of ground they were born on.
Give me strength.
Sean Connery? What, for the love of Christ, is that all about? He’s Spanish for God’s sake, in his kilt or no’.
The only good thing to be said for independence is that it might make us less anally retentive, because by God, THAT is the national disorder of the Scots. That and a parochialism that would astound. To the Nationalists, I heartily say:
“Hamish! The world’s speeding up!. Jump on! Leave Brig o' Doon and come with us to Rio and Noo Yoik and Barthelona and LA and high-ceilinged Paris.”

If we were to become a republic and be in the EU with euros and everything and not be dragged into disgraceful wars all over the place and we had a Chinese woman from Dundee or Garnethill or even Kirkaldy as the first president, then I’d probably vote for Them. The Nationalists I mean,- not the Chinese; they’ll be here soon enough.


I’m doing ‘Ameriphilia’ next.

Mater has come. She’s been here four days now but it seems longer. She’s a total townie. Unfenced grass upsets her, it makes her nervous, she hates it. Even the fair city of Perth, gateway to the highlands, heart of Scotland, holds no joy for her beyond the pleasure of sniffing at the place. She should have been a duchess. Our house backs onto the park where the village fete is held. Once, some years ago now, she was up and as we walked over, we were met by some smiling villagers and it soon became clear that they had mistaken her for Lady Somebody Else who had been booked to cut the ribbon. Made her day of course. I remember it fine. There was a racehorse, a Grand National winner and at the bottle stall I won a bottle of Mateus Rose and one of Head and Shoulders shampoo. Mrs Maroon has taken a lot of extra shifts. The money will come in handy.
Still no sign of NTL.

Diet of worms.

‘I want Fatmammycat.’
‘Tell us something we don’t know.’ he sneered, dragging the red pencil around Japing Ape.
‘Hey, fuck off Ayres!’ I protested, ‘Bananas must remain a joint protectorate forever.’
‘Fuck you Maroon!’ he replied, stroking his chin, ‘this beard needs the lebensraum.’
‘Why not take your access to the sea through Fishwhacker Swindle?’ I challenged.
‘Poor infrastructure,’ he objected, ‘and who the fuck died and left you SheBah?’ he demanded, suddenly standing up and pointing at the map.

The landlord came over.

‘I wonder if you’d mind keeping it down, gents? Only we’ve got a lot in for lunches today.’ he pleaded.
‘Oh Yeah?’ scoffed Ayres, belligerently sipping his raspberry and vanilla infusion.
‘Leave it Kim, he’s a civilian.’ I soothed…


Once again, Ayres and his beard and I were in neutral Clackmannanshire deciding the future map of the Blogosphere. It was Yalta all over again…


‘What about Hutton?’ Ayres continued.
‘Have it and welcome.’ I offered.
‘I don’t want it.’ he shrugged.
‘Me neither.’ I assured.
‘What about Past Imperfect then?’ he wheedled slyly.
‘Piss off! Just because it’s non-aligned you think you can walk in and make yourself at home.’ I expostulated.
‘Fine, I’ll take Kitchenbitch then.’ he smirked.
‘Oh no you don’t, you slimy fucker. They smash crockery there, -that’s a Maroon trait, -there’s a definite cultural connection speaking geopolitically!’ I raged, spilling my Appletiser into the bargain.
‘Philosophically speaking, that blog is in MY sphere of influence.’ Ayres bellowed, thumping the table with his shoe and upsetting the sugar tongs.

The landlord reappeared:

‘If you keep using words like that, I’m going to ask you to leave.’
‘What, “slimy fucker” ?’ I enquired in amazement.
‘Geopolitical.’ avowed the landlord, before adding darkly; ‘you’ve been warned.’
‘Ooh, hark at her,’ mocked Ayres, ‘…right, what about Problemchildbride?...

Juxtaposition. I’m from a place where the use of that word earns you a punch in the mouth, from your own family even.
Nevertheless…
Tossed and turned all night I did, but the day had arrived. What would the big man in the beard say? What insight would fall from his lips? Which path would he illuminate for me? Would I measure up?

I wasn’t let down. He always delivers. He managed to juxtapose genetic Frankenstein heart valves and mankind’s black heart and the sacred heart of Christ on the cross! Well, it is Good Friday and he is the Archbishop of Canterbury.He always get “thought for the day” during Easter. Fides defens etc. It was a triumph.

As for Ayres, who the hell knows what he has to say for himself?

Never heard about Oscar Wilde and Brendan Behan, Sean O’ Casey, George Bernard Shaw, (can’t think about) Samuel Beckett, Eugene O’ Neil, Edna O’ Brien and Laurence Stern…

This week, I have mainly been listening to Dexy’s Midnight Runners.

And Alice Cooper.

I wear lace and I wear black leather.

I’m using up a day of leave to see Ayres tomorrow. If I don’t, he’ll sulk for months and contrive to throw it in my face in a hundred ways. I’ve told him straight that personal contact is the death of blogging. Does he listen?

Skip to the end.

The point is this: If you have any questions you want to ask the great philosopher, now’s your chance. Get them in and I’ll ask him point-blank.

Post them in the comments, or if you are shy, email docmaroon@hotmail.co.uk and I’ll post the answers.

Personally I wouldn’t ask him anything. His answers are usually flimflam out of some textbook he says he’s read but I think you should have the option. I hope he doesn’t bring his mandolin again. That troubadour look is sooo last century.

I 'm a bit liverish so let's just sit here quiet and listen to the screams of the robots and the people making the fan blades and stuff not twenty feet away.
Noisy ain't it?
Well no, it isn't.
They're like a gang of Trappists.
That would be weird. A bunch of hooded men working in an engineering workshop in silence. Their cassocks would get caught in the milling machines.
Actually, we haven't got any milling machines.
We had to get rid of them because of the cassocks.

11.47. just another lifetime to go.

11.48

The wind is in from Africa,
Last night, I couldn’t sleep…

Looks like I’ve got the house to myself tonight. I hope I don’t get drunk and play all my old records too loud and start crying again. Mind you, that’s better than getting drunk and playing all my old records too loud and phoning people up at three in the morning. And that is better than getting drunk and playing all my old records too loud and fighting with the neighbours. Saps.

There may be trouble ahead,
But while there’s moonlight and music and love and romance…

They don’t like it up ‘em.
In the China Sea in the eighties when the navy were still boarding ships to have a nose around, it didn’t matter how many guns they carried, the crew of the vessel being searched were always a bit uncooperative, even to the point of rudeness. The boarding parties discovered however, that if they took along some naval pattern cutlasses to wave about, it changed things. Suddenly it was all:

“Yes sir, no sir and this way to the cigarettes and heroin sir.”

Well they pensioned off the naval cutlass just before the 1990 Gulf War because it didn’t fit in with smart bombs and cruise missiles, but imagine if those sailors [under American command] had had them when the Iranians turned up in their rubber dinghies.
For a kick off, your Arab respects a man with a sword. They know you can give any mug an AK47, but it takes cojones to handle a blade. Second, they could have slashed and sunk the Arabs’ boats making them look pretty foolish and Arabs hate to be mocked. Third: if things still looked a bit prickly, then swish, they could have taken an ear or a hand and that always concentrates the mind of the native. They don’t like it.

As it turned out, all their body armour and i-pods and machine guns were useless.
The Iranians simply said, “ Effendis, would you mind awfully coming with us?”
and the senior service replied, “ Why certainly, Abdul.”
Tony Blair says if they don’t hand them back then he’ll let down their tyres and steal their bicycle pumps. Give us back our sailors you rotters !

The sun came out yesterday and looks like doing it again today. You continentals may wonder what all the fuss is but sunshine is a big deal over here.
If I had money I would live somewhere hot and damn the consequences.

On Saturdays I would wear flannels and a blue shirt and pretend to be middle class and sit among the fishermen with a poetry book and I’d be a bit sozzled by 3pm so I’d have a siesta and a wash and brush up and then a sundowner and a bite to eat in the village square.
Through the week I would give lectures at the local university and be held in high regard. There would be faculty evenings with drinks and finger buffet and the staff and students would love me. Grateful fathers would shake my hand in the street for getting their sons to understand non linear differential equations.
I would have a housekeeper who spoiled me rotten and some days I would cycle home through the acacia trees and announce that there would be six for dinner and she’d say no problem and rustle up something terrific and there’d be oil lamps lighting up the wine glasses and all the faces and the vice chancellor’s wife would repeatedly try and get off with me…

See, sunshine is big deal over here.

Update: Pat of Pi fame has been teasing me in the most cruel way. (as only women can) The line she quoted: 'When one wets the bed at first it is warm then it gets cold.' is by none other than my total hero J. Joyce Esq. It's from 'portrait of the artist etc etc' I googled it. I knew it was one of the Waughs.

Call me Ishmael.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

Winston Smith opened the door to Victory Mansions and lit a woodbine or something.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. The point is, these are all the first lines from books.
Not the best of starts I think you’ll agree and personally I think those books would have been better if they’d grabbed you right away instead of making you work for your enjoyment.

Lets consider the opening line from another piece. This one really gets you going - right from the off.

Fatmammycat gunned the Maserati round the cobbles in an ecstasy of squeals.

That line’s got everything. It’s exciting, glamorous, cool. There’s a top notch dolly bird in a branded sports car driving too fast for the road conditions pertaining at the time. What more do you want? As a first line, it’s a tipper. A belter in fact.

For example, it’s much better than this line, isn‘t it not?

“Mr Jones the cannibal came home and ate someone’s leg.”

I mean that line’s got nothing. Nyente. Nada.

I bet no-one outside their immediate family has bought that rednose book.
Oh, and if any of you writes a book that starts “Mr Jones the cannibal came home and ate someone’s leg.”, I’ll fucking sue.