Come on down to the river of sound

In about eight weeks or so, some time in November, we,
the cul de sac of the Maroon Diaspora, shall receive the
Fall Newsletter from our west coast American relatives.
We got the first of them in 1995. It was a shock. Not only
did the world not end at Kirkintilloch but we were exposed
as chronic under achievers.
Even the document itself drew astonished gasps. The production values were slick to say the least.
American flags, embedded photos, typefaces, it had it all.
It was the American Vogue of round robins.
Well, no.
Actually it wasn’t. When we read it, we scoffed.
We scoffed in our inverted snobbery. When we read of their success in school, on vacation, in real estate, did we feel pride however vicarious?
Uh-uh, being Scotch we ripped them to shreds.

‘ I’m surprised it doesn’t play “The Star Spangled Banner” when you open it.’ We smirked.
‘ Uncle Tommy passed a kidney stone - bit like reading this newsletter.’ We sniggered.
‘ It won’t win a Pulitzer.’ We sneered. We, who couldn’t string a note for the milkman.

Most uncomfortably for us guilty Scots, it had lots of brazen little catholic references to prayer and God and being blessed.
Our shame was exposed.
At the end of an uninterrupted line of Scottish Catholics with more than our share of rebel Irish mixed in, we, that is my sister brother and I, have been secret Taoists for years.
We’d never risk our souls with protestant Calvinism,
you have to draw a line somewhere, but we’ve turned our back on Mother Church.
I remember introducing Mrs Maroon to my parents, explaining that she prefered not to follow The One True Faith.
“Good for you!” they said in wonder, ” how terribly brave.“
Paradoxically, they think the sun shines out her ass which strengthens my belief that all Scottish are atheists.
We just pretend.
Not so our Americans. They have the evidence before them. Their faith works.

In the succeeding years we have grown to love the
Fall Newsletter as much as we always loved them,
our American branch, with their patriotism and their faith
AND all that real estate.
God bless them.

For Andraste.

In one of my levels of Hell, Andraste the Rabbit Girl comes through the door and she’s into the Bruins locker room and they’re all semi naked, horsing around, having a celebration with tons of Guinness and the Pogues are playing in the corner with the Dubliners or something…
BUT,
as she moves through her throng of heroes, she notices that all the players are the ones who failed her beloved Broons in some way, the bush league wannabes, the ones who miss the puck, swiping at thin air like twats, the ones who couldn’t hit a barn door, the injury prone, the druggies, the useless ones that can’t pass, block, fight, or just plain skate and should never have been permitted to put on a sacred Bruins shirt in the first place! And the good looking ones are gay and bitchy and the rest are weedy or fat and now that she’s looking, they are all like GI Joe ‘down there’, they got nothing, nada, and the Guinness is actually a fake concoction of root beer and coca cola and big mental Shane the Pogues front man has been soberised and he’s combed his hair and pressed his jeans and has perfect teeth and is singing about puppy dawgs and it’s not the actual Dubliners but a shit tribute band called the Dub-LAND-ers…

I can keep this up for weeks, Rabbit Girl.
Release my red hot chillis forthwith!

* * *

I just read “this book will save your life” by a.m.homes; a disjointed yet pleasing Los Angeles adventure.
But,

have a look at this little extract.


‘I’m still not sure you’re not that asshole,’ the guy says to him.
‘What can I say to convince you?’
‘Very little. Do I look bad?
‘You look…rough,’ Richard says.
‘I go in phases; right now I’m in a fight with my body. Do I smell?’
‘Not from here.’
‘I’m on a deadline.’ He dips his fingers into a bag of lettuce and puts some in his mouth. ‘Greens, very good for you.’ He eats them as though he craves them, as though greens are the new candy, the new Swedish Fish. ‘Where have you been?’ he asks.


Dearest comrades, didya spot it? Didya?
For many this side of The Pond, the reference to Swedish Fish would have gone right over their heads, but not us, eh gang? And why not? Because our good friend SafeTinspector introduced them to us a year ago, that’s why not.
Truly, our corner of the Blogosphere is without peer. We are the new depository, the new Alexandria, the light of our collected knowledge shall blind the troglodytes!
When I saw the words “Swedish Fish”, my face was a picture. Talk about smug. SafeT. I salute you.

LATE UPDATE: If yer wonderin' why I ain't replyin' to all yer witty comments an' suchlike, I keeps losing Haloscan. I don't know if it's a general problem or peculiar to this machine. I've even lost the comments shortcut off the main page now.

Typhoon

Midnight on the Pacific and skimming through surf and flying fish, two dolphins are on their way home from a school reunion that turned into an anchovy hunt. Although the evening has gone superbly, something is evidently weighing on the mind of the female dolphin as they glide along. Something she must get off her chest:

‘I thought you said we’d leave when the moon came up?’
‘It would have been rude, we couldn’t just leave.’
‘Well you certainly couldn’t.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You should see yourself sometimes.’
‘Oh here we go. I wondered how long it’d take.’
‘That school are my friends, you’d think for once you’d…’
‘They’re my friends too.’
‘Not any more they aren’t.’

Her lifelong mate, a dashing bull despite his age, vents in exasperation and is about to sulk when he spots an escape. He points with his nose.

‘Look, the flying fish are changing course.’
‘That’s right, change the subject.’
‘They’re heading south, I wonder if Ian and Denise are still up.’
‘Well if they are, we’re not staying all night.’
‘Race you.’
‘No, OK-1-2-3-Go!’
‘Cheat! I wasn’t ready! Come back! Start again!’

Some flexing of their eager flanks and they leave the surf, heading off over unbroken sea. And as we watch them go, our view widens and we see that the surf the dolphins were riding is the bow wave of the largest moving object on the surface of the planet.

In one of those cataclysmic events that happen in every age; events that bring misery untold to countless generations; Pat had booked some musicians to provide entertainment in her tavern. They were the first folk band in recorded history. The bosun, a great hairy armed brute of a man called Bananas had inveigled his way into the band. With his unopposed thumbs none was better on the concertina. The ensemble was murdering “Brennan on the moor” as the captain slipped in the door.

Hennessy took in the layout as he made his way through the gloom towards the bar. As swashbuckling custom demanded, the inn was lit by rings of dripping candles set on dangerously heavy cart wheels. These had been hoisted into the rafters on ropes secured Flemish style with cleats on the wall. His shrewd eyes settled on a half dozen rough sailor types playing pinochle under just such a perilous hazard. He allowed his cruel lips to part in an enigmatic smile revealing his perfect teeth.

Setting the standard for the next 210 years, ‘The Claymores’ were taking great care not to smile or move any part of their bodies as they played. Being folk purists they understood the difference between music and pleasure, so before each song the earnest bandleader would also try and explain its significance. He was keen for the drinkers to know what had inspired every composition that they might appreciate it more, but setting their own standard for the next 210 years, the audience ignored him and continued to talk and laugh among themselves.

‘No, no, Mr Burns, I’m not that sort of girl’ squealed Ayres in the corner.
‘Call me Rabbie!’ cried the poet, making a grab for Ayres’ cabbages.
‘Naughty!’ replied the botanist, hitting the poet square in the face with her tankard.
‘I love spirit in a lassie’ was the inevitable reply as The Bard redoubled his efforts.

Aren’t hotels shit?

There are no good hotels in Scotland. There is always something that totally ruins your stay – the staff. There is a morbid slapstick to the service in a Scottish hotel that makes you want to kill yourself. As a nation we should admit right now that we can’t do it and shut all our hotels with immediate effect. They are all crap.
For me, hotels that are not untrammelled luxury are a penance. The only hotels I like to stay in now are posh foreign ones like the Frankfurter Hof. It is fabulously expensive but they accomplish that effortless comfort so elusive elsewhere. And they do it with such bland efficiency. The thought, forever unspoken, pops inevitably into one’s head, “is this how they managed their genocidal mania?” But then they treat you in such an adult way that you’d forgive them anything. You begin to wonder about fascism. You start to think; these people aren’t all bad. It creeps up on you. I loved it; every godamn Nazi minute.
Then there’s the Savoy. Talk about anal. Of course it’s my class insecurity talking, but for two grand you’d think they could put me at my ease. Everything they do for you is a fucking chore, or else it’s revealed to you in a patronising flourish. Oh look darling, running water! Even the cut flowers are shit. The arrangements are all amateurish funeral parlour floribunda disasters. And the tipping! At least have the decency to put a smile on your smarmy faces you cheap smelly bastards. The staff smells of old carpets at the Savoy.







Ayres, man of letters and ship’s botanist had been sent ahead disguised as a woman of easy virtue. As always, half the crew had advised on his wardrobe.

More rouge!
Bigger bust!

Now there weren’t no breadfruit nor guava to be ‘ad onboard, so Ayres improvised wi’ a brace o’ cabbages. An’, as is the tack in these ‘ere yarns, on his entrance to the aforementioned Clatty Pat’s Tavern, he come under the rovin’ eye of a romantic poet who were a-sittin’, scribin’ his poems, in the corner…

If I don’t, get some shelter,
Lord, I’m gonna fade away…

Perhaps you may be interested to hear how I fell in love with a beautiful lesbian. It was on Monday night past. Of course back then I didn’t know she was a beautiful lesbian. That came later. I knew from the moment I saw her she was beautiful. I’m not blind. I was back in Croydon. Here’s the rub, she was pretty fat. As to her lesbianism, I hadn’t yet put all the facts together. She WAS wearing sensible shoes but so did Mrs M at her age. Five of us sent to Surrey for two days. She was positively elfin back then AND she loved sex; she had a one track mind. Mrs Maroon that is, not the beautiful lesbian, I’m getting to HER in a minute. I can’t remember the name of the joint but it’s right across the street from Croydon town hall. Big round tables, nineties wine bar. The beautiful lesbian was sitting side on talking to her girlfriend when I saw her first. What love is love if not at first sight? From then on it was over for me. You’ve seen the sort of thing, of course you have; four men out drinking in their office clothes acting the bigshots like the Sopranos or something. Christ, let me forget. Did I mention we lost one? That’s right; one of our number didn’t come out to play. He was from Warrington in Cheshire. That left four. Four men standing at the bar [which I hate] scanning the place like twenty year olds. What were we thinking? I had put my wedding ring ON before we left Gatwick and was feeling a bit conspicuous. I should explain: Me and Mrs Maroon aren’t married but years ago we bought wedding rings one weekend. It was fun at the time. Mine cost £35.00. We sometimes like to wear them together, I don’t really know why, we just like to. So I’m even less proud to tell you. In this sort of situation, ie out drinking in a strange town, I’ve been known to put mine on as a repellent and as bait. I know it’s a pretty crummy trick but I figure either way you’re covered. Think about it. Yeah? I told you it was crummy. I was deliberately drinking with my left hand. Everyone in the bar must have seen that ring. They would have seen it in Mordor. By this time I’d had a couple of subtle eye contacts with the beautiful lesbian. Each time it was like a wave of adrenaline. A band of Vikings from Technical Development we were. So I had just turned to the bar for more drinks when the beautiful lesbian decides to press in behind me for a bottle of wine. I’m not some masher but I could feel them on my shoulder blades. So I turned around facing her, to give her some room and they sort of rubbed my arm as I did so, sort of one after the other but she never noticed and she said cheers or something when I stood back to let her in. I didn’t tell you about them before because I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea. It wasn’t just about them. They were only part of the picture. Her name was Florence. Yeah I know, you’re thinking and she had a friend called Zebedee, look it’s after 3 o’clock, I’m going to have to continue this later.

Pedalpushin’

I’m up on the eleventh floor
and I’m watchin’ the cruisers below…


Watched the Tour of Ireland go through Limerick and Westport and all the other picturesque bits and I for one was mulling it over. I bet none of you remember Sean Kelly. The great Irish Champion? Thought not.
For a shallow man, I run pretty deep sometimes. It was obviously A Sign.
Time to get riding!

I’ve got an official Benesto jersey and padded cycling pants which are most flattering. I should post a picture. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve stopped at the other pub to the admiration of their womenfolk. Sluts so they are. They ALWAYS make some comment and come over to look at the bike. It’s the saddle. They can’t keep their mitts off it. It’s a gel-filled masterpiece of the erotic saddler’s art. I always feel funny watching them handle it, pinching the gel through the neoprene with their firm competent hands and long fingernails…

Anyway, I couldn’t stop on Sunday night because I was red and wheezing like a set of old bagpipes. I was Humpty Dumpty, in fact his fat ugly brother. The lycra was squeezing my stomach to death. And anyway I wasn’t sure I could get my feet free of the cleats (oh yes friends, I ride with cleated shoes) without falling over because my legs had gone all that jelly way and my bottom was very hot and slippy. Too much information? I agree.
Stick to the facts.
15 miles (24 km) dead flat, no wind, perfect evening, 49 minutes.
That’s 18.36 mph or 29.38 kmph in new money.


Oh God, I could do better than that.
You betcha!

Late sports update: see below

Aleksandr Pushkin! Yury Gagarin! Doctor Zhivago! Boris Godunov! Mikhail Lermontov! Ivan Denisovitch! MAGGIE THATCHER!
Can you hear me?
Can you HEAR me?
Your boys took a hell of a beating here tonight.
A HELL OF A BEATING!


(trad.)
oh it’s a grand old team to play for,
oh it’s a grand old team to seeeee,
and IF
you know
The History
well it’s enough to make your heart go “oh oh oh OH…”
we don’t care what the ******* say
WHAT the hell do we care?
for we only know
that there’s gonna be a show
and the Glaaas-gow CELTIC will be there…


cue the tinkling piano…(Rodgers and Hammerstein)
When you walk…
through the storm…
hold your head…
up high…

What a night.

Footnote: Last weekend The Bhoys utterly and totally thrashed the Edinburgh club, Hearts (Rangers Lite) 5-0. What did the witty scamp of a DJ play over the tannoy at Paradise? Why, the theme tune to Hawaii Five-O of course. Oh how the Hearts team laughed. Actually they didn’t. They’re all poor Lithuanians and have never seen a TV let alone Steve McGarrett. God bless them.

******* insert pejorative name for city rivals here.

It’s Thursday !

Aren’t Thursdays tops? While they are nowhere NEAR the full blown Gregory Peck of Fridays, there is nonetheless a buttery pleasure about them. They are the Natalie Wood of the week. They have, to my mind, totally supplanted the Jack Lemmoness of Wednesdays; you know, that midweek celebration you give yourself for surviving Brad Pitt Tuesdays.
That just leaves Mondays. Harumph.
See now I’ve annoyed myself by re-living the Joan Crawford of Mondays past while worrying about the Dame Judi Dench of those yet to come, when instead I should be planning the nineteen year old Lauren Bacall of a weekend.

Hmmmmm, Lauren, of course I know how to whistle heh heh heh oh you are naughty Lauren…

Feisty philosopher triumphs in bruising battle with beastly bureaucrats!


Last night there was an item on the Scottish news about how the Crichton Campus of the University [Via Veritas Vitae] had been saved.
Why did that ring bells with me? I’ll just tell you.
A contributor to these pages, the well known philosopher and acolyte of Antonio Gramsci, namely Eryl Shields the kitchen bitch herself, had been campaigning for just such an outcome.
I’m sure I speak for us all when I wish her our hearty congratulations.

As Gramsci himself might have said while fading in gaol,

“…pre-history ends and history begins.”


Anyway, it’s still 1798 and our brave ship Shannon is lying off the Ayrshire coast at Ballantrae. In a spirit of open friendship the guns have been run out to cover the quayside and the custom house in an arc of genial fire should the need arise.
Onshore, swashbuckling captain Barney (Barnacle) Hennessy with three of his most trusted crew, have tracked down the objects of their pursuit to a cavernous alehouse called “Clatty Pat’s”…


Call it morning driving through the sound
In and out the valley

So far this week, I have been mainly listening to Yes.

transference /’trans(t)s-/fer-ən(t)s, 1 : the redirection of feelings and desires to a new object. 2 : symptom of being a total arse.

I am a long-time sufferer of this debilitating condition and now that the Tour de France is ended, my transference is raging, like, all over the place.
For example, I extol Ayres to get on HIS bike because I have a bike that I never ride. You see how it works? I keep it in the shed. The bike. It’s totally made out of plastic and exotic metals. Ayres has an excuse; he doesn’t know that after 4 or 5 days on a bike, it becomes addictive, that you end up thinking of any excuse just to ride the thing. I have no such defence. I’ve seen the Promised Land. I’ve looked down from the hilltop at the sleeping plains spread below, ready for plunder.
That bike is put together like a lever watch, it really is. If I sat on it, it would break. It is utterly silent. I don’t mean in the shed, I mean when I ride it. It doesn’t squeak or click or clank, the brakes come on with a whisper. When I bought it in 2003, I put it on my visa and I’m still paying it off.
Sitting here, facing the facts like this has been good, although my chest has tightened with embarrassment and my face is totally scarlet. In the Scottish idiom, I’ve “taken a pure beamer”.
Confession always drains me emotionally. Must have a cuppa. Tomorrow we’ll discuss procrastination.

procrastinate \p(r)ə-‘kras-tə-,nāt \ prō vt~ to put off intentionally and habitually, vi~ to put off intentionally and reprehensibly, the doing of something that should be done…

‘Give me a break! I’m DOING IT!’

Dear reader, how often have we shouted those words up the stair to our loved ones, when we had no intention of doing whatever it was we said we were doing? Perhaps you’ve just found another number in your sodoku, or maybe that beer is particularly hopsome, or maybe you’re just plain lazy and too scared to begin.

‘The longest journey starts with the shortest step.’

Wouldn’t it be great to hang the man who first came up with that? Or make a pyre of cheesy greetings cards and sling the bastard on.

‘procrastination is the thief of time’
Fred, you’re right! Here, hold this can of petrol.
‘never do today what you can put off till tomorrow’
Fred, that’s the wrong way round.
‘tomorrow never comes’
How true, got a light?
‘strike while the iron’s hot’
I shall Fred, could you stand on that straw bale?
‘make hay while the sun shines’
Time to shut up, Fred.
‘car...’
Don’t say it Fred.
‘carp…’
Don’t Fred, I won’t be responsible
‘CARPE DIEM!’
You just had to, didn’t you? WHOOSHHHHHHH


Deedle-deedle-deedle-dee…Layla! You got me on my knees…

You may be interested to know we were at a lock-in the other night. Remember them?
Free jukebox and the Devil take the hindmost.
All the old crowd have turned out and your mind and body returns, way…way back to the days when everyone had summer suntans and we could dance and we weren’t afraid to show it and the sex we had was better than the rubbish that young people put up with these days and you had a black futon and a big black couch to go with it and black wooden shelving units that you were dead proud of and a pioneer stereo and tons of scratched LPs and while you were waiting to go out you’d have a can of lager and a weak doobie and your girlfriend would be taking ages to get ready and she’d take a couple of puffs and a couple of slugs out your beer and give you a snog for about an hour and it was hot and passionate and cool and innocent at the same time and you thought you were the only man who ever had the luck to feel that good.
Christ, it was only a lock-in. GERROVERITT!
Sunday night, Mr Parker called, said; listen son you’re wasting time, there’s a future for you in the fire escape trade…

Foot Eater 1 AHK Maroon 0

Humble pie must be eaten quickly. It now seems the man fighting for his life with 90% burns is an engineer. What a bummer. Worse, he was a PhD student at Cambridge. You couldn’t make this stuff up. Please God, tell me it wasn’t Trinity.
I don’t know what bothers me more; Foot Eater being right or my upcoming medical. My previous plans are kaput.

‘Right Maroon, spread ‘em, I want to see those two veg. Christ, you’re fatter than ever and still drinking I see. No excuses Maroon, my patience is pretty thin with engineers right now, especially hoity toity Cambridge ones. Bend over, this is going to hurt…’

On the upside, the Tour de France has started and wasn’t the Garden of England looking just perfect for it? I bet Ayres threw his TV out the window.

It’s true what they say about ill winds. My medical’s coming up and for the first time in years I’m really confident. The boot’s on the other foot Dr Mustapha!

I’ve got some duty free carrier bags from Glasgow airport and a very smart Icelandair bomber [sic] jacket that I never wear. I shall arrive at the examination a little out of breath with some empty bottles clinking in the duty free bags.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I’ll say, ‘but I was held up at the airport, there were a lot of extra checks for some reason. What’s been happening?’

While he’s stumblin’ and mumblin’, I’ll slip in my confession about all the alcohol units and ciggies and suet puddings.
There’s no way he’ll be able to pull me up about anything.

‘Just tick all the boxes Doctor Chandra and we’ll say no more about it, there’s a good chap. I don’t think you need to see Bertie this time, do you? Thought not, splendid fellow.’

1776 and all that.


A long, long time ago, four fathers with white collars and blunderbusses arrived on American shores. They preferred to be dull and never sang or played cards. They were puritanical. They had come on three ships; the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Barbara and were seeking religious persecution in Boston. At the time they were very hungry so the Indians fed them soft cheese called Philadelphia. They were so happy they made a huge bell.
Back in England the king was angry and spiteful so he sent forth his redcoats to make taxes upon the white settlers. The Americans responded by declaring the War of Independence and crossing the Delaware. The Americans won the war because they were fitter having been brought up in fresh air. The English had scurvy because of the limes.
After the war they had a president not a king and everyone signed the constitution except John Hancock who was a traitor. Benjamin Franklyn invented electric lightning, while Benedict Arnold discovered a new way to cook eggs. In England the king went mad.

From Frontline Scotland:

Day 5

We had an aunt who was a bit of a nut bar and she always said “Never trust anyone from Paisley”. We used to laugh at that but I wish she could see me today, because I’ve learned a bitter lesson.
At this point I should probably come right out with it. I don’t like them.
I don’t mean people from Paisley, although to be honest, there’s no love lost there.
No, I mean the other lot.
THEM.
You know who I’m talking about.
That’s right; I mean doctors. All of them. Those who Joe Public calls real doctors. I know it’s prejudiced and it’s not ‘p.c.’ but I think recent events have proved me correct. We give them social status, reserved parking bays, even our sick and ill to play with, and how are we repaid?
It’s official; doctors are a shower of shite. I feel vindicated.
They walk around in funny clothes talking their funny language among themselves. What’s wrong with good honest Scotch? Too much to ask? And the beliefs they hold, they act like Lord God Almighty some of them. And what about the way they treat women? Arrogant bastards, ask any Jewish mother. Even today in the 21st century, women doctors or “surgeons” are expected to remain covered head to foot, with only their eyes showing. Pathetic.
I say round them up and force them to work for a living. The lazy bastards want to try life at the sharp end for a change, improving Britain’s balance of payments instead of swanning about in hospitals “Hey, look at me, I’m a real doctor. I’m George Clooney…”
May God forgive me, I truly hate them.


To reflect the upgraded security level, our landlord is now searching us on the way in and out of the bar. His “Stop ’n’ Search” policy will seriously delay my efforts to complete that set of wine glasses. Just another way in which the men of death are trying to upset normal life in Scotland.
And that is the problem. In their eyes, and I mean the evil harbingers in their fancy-Dan Jeep Cherokees, all they are doing is blowing up an airport or nightclub and no offence intended. Yeah well, fine; what they don’t realise is that their selfish actions bugger up life far removed from the initial planned outrage. It’s like ripples in a pond spreading watery fingers into every cleft and crevice of Scottish society. A bit more consideration next time Mr Terrorist thank you very much.


A top notch July 4 to all our American chums and for everyone else let’s keep our heads down.

Lots of love,


Ack. xxx

Picture if you will, the scene;

You’re queuing up at check in.
That pre-flight lager seems an eternity away.
You’re counting the kids and the luggage [not necessarily in that order].
You are making sure that your trolley rubs the heels of the people in front, while scowling at that ratfink behind you who is going to get a fat lip so help you God if he keeps bumping your ankles.
You have delegated ticket and passport duties to the lady of the house who shows no outward sign of taking her responsibilities seriously.
If she carries on like that you will be robbed by Romanian pickpockets, it was on the TV…

Man: I mean why not just wave all the…the…[searches for word] the fucking valuables, in the air and shout “here it is !”?
Woman: Valuables? Who do you think we are, Lord and Lady Muck? What valuables for God’s sake?
Man: You know what I mean, - the passports and stuff.
Woman: Wait! [clutches throat] My pearls! They re missing! [clutches head] so is my tiara !
Man: That s right, make a fucking joke about it. We’ll see who’s laughing when that bag gets snatched
Woman: For the love of Christ, Ack will you calm down? You’ll get a drink shortly.
Man: I’m only sayin’…

At last!
You’re nearly there.
You’re next.
Once that ghastly family in front load up their house flitting onto the scales, it’ll be you.
Then you can have that drink and spend all your money here in Glasgow Airport on silk ties and shortbread and perfume and watches and cigars and spirits and burgers and coffee and cufflinks and Jägermeister and all the crap you never normally buy.
When suddenly;
Two young lads drive a burning jeep into one of the doors and all flights are suspended.
NOOOOOOO, you have got to be kidding me!



Transcript of pub debate concerning Scotland’s war on terror.

Jimmy: This has put us on the map!

Gerry: On a par with New York, so we are.

Voice of reason: In what way?

Jimmy: It shows we’re just as important as other countries.

Gerry: Every country worth their salt has terrorists.

Voice of reason: Jesus!

Jimmy: Mind you, they chose the wrong airport to tangle with.

Gerry: They took a hell of a risk.

Voice of reason: They were suicide bombers!

Jimmy: Christ, they’d have to be, down in Glasgow.

Gerry: They’re terrible rough in Glasgow, no offence Professor.

Voice of reason: None taken I’m sure.

Jimmy: And another thing, they’re meant to be disaffected Muslim youth but they drive Mercs and Jeeps, I don’t get it.

Gerry: 15 miles to the gallon and the insurance is sky high!

Voice of reason: Yeah but that’s…

Jimmy: My brother-in-law insured his jeep with Admiral.

Gerry: What mileage is he getting?

Voice of reason: Argggghhhhh!

Every day I promenade the Island, checking the horizon for Japanese patrol boats and suchlike. I’ve been here a while and I like to keep a weather eye for any trouble. Don’t worry; it’s not all typhoons and tidal waves, in fact most of the time I sit around waiting for something to wash up. I can guess what you’re thinking; you’re thinking the only thing washed up around here is…yeah well, I do the quips, such as they are, thank you very much. Fancy a reviver? Why didn’t you say? Come on, we’ll stroll up to the house; it’ll give me a chance to show you round. I think you’ll like what I’ve done with the old place.

See? I told you. Isn’t it great? As you can see it’s the typical Old World fantasy (nice off-white pillared façade with portico, in the colonial style). Those jungle creepers give an air of neglected opulence I think. Too tropical for you? They took an age to cultivate but the market demands it. That diastolic thumping you can hear is the antique generator out back. It powers all this. It might run on for ever or it might stop tonight. I hope it’s not tonight because it’s steak and kidney pudding tonight, with new potatoes. Let’s go inside. No, please, after you.

Well? Whatdya think o’ the fittin’s? Not bad eh?. “Eclectic” is the preferred term these days. I call it “romantic scotch revival with gothic overtones”. It’s no exaggeration to say it’s taken a lifetime. I’ll agree it’s not to everyone’s taste and that it’s heavy on the sarcastic baronial (soft furnishings are not my forte) anyway I think it’s balanced by the open aspect and the wonderful outward views. Hell, you are totally right, I shall scrap the tartan carpet in the lobby – make it more welcoming.

You’re probably wondering how all this got here to the Island, I wonder myself sometimes; well there’s no mystery there. It just fetched up, over the wide oceans of the world drifting with the Trades. Come on, I’ll show you, bring your glass, we can drink on the way. No, look, change of plan. We’ll avoid the windward shore for today, it’s high tide anyway. When it turns, we may find a 42” flat screen home cinema, on the other hand, a dozen half-dead seabirds covered in oil, so for now, I’ve a better idea. There’s this little cove where I like to sit when the sea’s combing in. When it’s running high I avoid the beach and the breakers and come here instead, to sit and have a kir and watch the dolphins.

The Lost Island Of Doctor Maroon

Father’s Day

I was just seven years old when I was struck by the realisation that my father was up the creek. He was turning into a woman and the stress was killing him. To let you know, me and Mum were in some room and the doctor had come in to give us the bulletin on Dad. I was pretty confident. This was the Western Infirmary after all, which was the best hospital in the world, ask anyone.
The doctor was tall. He had funny eyes and a stethoscope and pens in his pocket. I didn’t like that stethoscope one bit. It was black and rubber and threatening. I felt distinctly threatened. My knees were shaking.

“…so it’s really just his Jemima and we’ll keep a close eye on that…”

The affairs of adults were never discussed in front of me so I was making myself as small and quiet as possible but I must have gasped or something because my dear mamma looked over and sent me out so I tore down the corridor to Dad to tell him the bad news. He’d looked fine five minutes ago. Perhaps the strain of motor factoring and light engineering caused his Willy to fall off, but would that leave a Jemima? Would he grow bosoms? I was certain he’d had a Willy. I had seen it at swimmies, only for a second mind but there could be no mistake. It’s not the sort of thing you can misinterpret.

When I got back to his bed I saw I was too late. He looked different. Cybermen had put plastic tubes in his ears to suck out his brains and his handsome face was all twisted. He winked and waved me over.

‘Here.’ he said, sticking the hissing pipes in my ears.

It was Round the Horne, a radio programme that gave him more joy than all his beloved family put together.

“…hello, I’m Julian and this is my friend Sandy…”

This was too bad. This was whistling while Rome burned. I took command.

“Now look here Pater, Mater and I have had a chat with that medical Johnny next door and the upshot is you better pull your socks up. He’s not at all happy with your progress, and frankly I don’t blame him. It’s time to beat your ploughshares into swords and fight the fight. Gird up your loins and face the coming storm. Via veritas vitae!”

In reality I said;
‘Dad, are you turning into a lady?’
‘What? No. Don’t be silly.’
‘The doctor said you’ve got a Jemima.’
Dad was probably drugged because he just stared at me.
‘Go and get Mum.’ he said thoughtfully.

He was home the next day and the whole thing was never mentioned again.

To my mind, the “Aviation” is the best of cocktails.

I’m a convert and believe me there is nothing in this wide world that is worse than a convert. As a general rule, don’t drink this one after dark unless a long night of dancing is in store.

You mix it thusly:-
Wait. Remember, Maraschino is a clear dryish liqueur not that weird syrup you get in jars of cocktail cherries.
Right, let’s go.

1½ ounces gin,
½ ounce maraschino liqueur
¾ ounce lemon juice

Give it all a shake with hundreds of ice, strain into a chilled glass and top it off with a cherry. A link with aeroplanes however tenuous, really helps the enjoyment. .
Doors to automatic !
Tomorrow I’ll tell you about a down to earth mix that still packs a punch like Joe Louis. I call it the Buckfast Bronco.

Down the hatch!



Talking of hatches who left the hatch open?
Must have been the ground staff
Yeah but there’s a warning light, right?
Yeah but it’s on your side
But it’s on your list
I called it and you said “check”
Didn’t
Did
So we’re all the way to Sausalito with it flapping like that?
If it lasts that long
Listen to it
What a racket
You better tell them
You tell them, you’re captain
Exactly, and I’m telling you to tell them
Only if I do the landing
It’s your turn anyway
Sweet…