Went To the Pictures

Last Thursday afternoon I was sitting in a Glasgow CineWorld auditorium watching The Pirates: In an Adventure with Scientists. I, and another guy sitting some half dozen rows behind me, were the audience. On reflection I can say I enjoyed the film; the visual effects were pleasingly sumptuous, and I recall smiling my way through it and chuckling several times. However I was always conscious of the presence of the rest of the audience; that other bod sitting somewhere behind me. Not once did I hear him laugh out loud, nor he me. I suspect both of us felt a little inhibited for the film did have some laugh-out-loud moments which were reacted to, on my part, by barely audible controlled chuckles. Had there been the usual early afternoon attendance of some thirty or forty that feeling of self consciousness would surely have evaporated in the security that numbers can provide.

One other factor distracted from my full enjoyment of the film. A couple of cinema attendants – fifty years ago they would have been ushers – kept looking up in my direction, one of whom had his hands in front of his face as if peering through a pair of opera glasses. On two occasions one of them walked up to my row and glanced across at me. I do believe they suspected me of pirating The Pirates. Perhaps the abnormally low attendance was getting to them as well.

It was around two in the afternoon while making my way along Sauchiehall Street that I decided to wander over to the GFT (Glasgow Film Theatre) and check the timings of another film I wanted to see: The Kid With A Bike. The next showing was 14:30. I calculated that I could take in this film and still make the 16:33 train for Wemyss Bay. I snacked in the Cosmo Cafe before taking my seat in the auditorium. This was the first time I'd visited the GFT for some 25 years. Wow, this was a proper cinema theatre. Much superior to the soulless boxlike auditoriums of the CineWorld multiplexes. Here there were elegant curves and an overall plushness to the place. I felt I was sitting in the GFT's Bentley as opposed to CineWorld's Skodas.

Kid With a Bike lived up to its good reviews: in last weeks Radio Five Live Film Review Mark Kermode had made it his co film of the week. The kid was a pure ill-tempered brat, and Samantha should have told hime to get on his bike instead of which she angelically tolerated his antics. But I really enjoyed the film with its wonderfully developed characters.

I was in good time for my train, and got home in time to watch an enthralling football match on the telly between FC Shalke and Athletic Bilbao, the latter winning by four goals to two.

Really, Russell?

I was watching My Life In Books last night with guests Russell Grant and Tim Rice. During the show Russell felt he needed to remind the audience that he was gay. “It might just have crossed your minds” he joked. Not at all, Russell. Perish the very thought . . . . and grass isn't green; shit isn't brown; bears don't shit in the woods; bankers are ragged-trousered paupers and never pay themselves exorbitant, unjustified bonuses; holocaust – what holocaust; it never rains in Scotland; and Scotland will win the World Cup.

Can I hear a pedantic peasant asking which World Cup. Take your pick: football, rugby, cricket. OK some scraggy team of Morags may have picked up the odd silver pot for chucking stones over a frozen loch, and a hairy Hamish might be a world beater at heaving haggises over a hedge. But the day Scotland wins the football World Cup is the day I will eat my head.

No, Russell, Britain and its dog knew you were gay when gay meant happy and you delightful fellows of homosexual persuasion were known by more unambiguous and colourful terms, all of which are far too un-PC for me to utter. You don't have to open your mouth dear, you don't even have to flounce into a chair; the side you are batting for is plainly evident as soon as you look into the camera.

By the by, Russell and Tim were having such a whale of a time slapping one another on the shoulder and having a good old boyish chinwag between themselves that poor Ann, bless her, could hardly get a word in edgeways. She ended the show by saying how delightful they both were. Code, I suspect, for “ a pair of limelight-hogging ba . . . . . bad boys”.

A Motorboating Anecdote

I was on my balcony when I spied this superyacht sailing towards Rothesay Bay. I rush indoors, grab my camera and take a shot of it. Now, the thing to do is to get it onto my Flickr webpage before any of the other snappers on Bute upload a pic of it onto their Flickr accounts. My binoculars reveal it goes by the name of Lauren L. So let's find out a wee bit about the boat. I google its name along with the word “boat” and get several useful web pages revealing good info on the yacht. I see that one of the results of the google search is a Flickr web page, so I click on it to see a photo of the boat. But I don't see a photo of the boat.

I have arrived at a Lauren L's Flickr photostream and am presented with a photograph of two buxom wenches in a pub, one with her head buried in the other's cavernous cleavage. I frown with confusion at first. Then I get the boat reference. I recall that this activity is called motorboating. The one doing the motorboating emits a big flubbery raspberry in the recipients quivering cleavage. I first came across, and indeed participated, in this recreational entertainment in a bar in Aruba. One of the more well endowed resident prostitutes charged a dollar a go; and to us drunken sailors it was just another way of making an arse of ourselves. The phrase “being sucked in and blown out in bubbles” comes to mind.

My photo of the Lauren L. The superyacht, not the bints pleasuring one another.

Viagra and Mt Everest

Here's a wee poem I wrote in April after reading a newspaper article about an expedition to climb Mt Everest with the assistance of Viagra. Apparently it stimulates oxygen production in the lungs and allows climbers to breathe more easily at high altitudes.

I called it An Impaired Conquest.

Men on Viagra

Making their final thrust

Panting, gasping, heaving

Until finally they climax.

But the woman hasn't come

As they spill themselves

Onto Everest's barren summit.

Peering through binoculars

She wisely watches from below,

And the mountain gives her

A nudge and a knowing wink

And they laugh at the men's display

Of doubtful virility.

Days Gone By 18_04_2011

Sitting on a bench on my verandah I'm listening to Radio 4 but am predominantly hearing the singing of blackbirds winching in the nearby trees. Feeling the strength of the sun I momentarily take leave of the wisecracking characters of Fags Mags and Bags to apply sunblock to my face and arms. As I return to the sunbathed verandah I spot a nuclear submarine making its way down the Clyde. Is it heading for the Med to frighten the poor besieged Colonel, I wonder? How far will it get before it breaks down? A program on the financial plight of Barrow on Furnace, where the sub was probably built, preceded the sitcom I'm now listening to.


Noon, and I switch channels to Radio 5 Live and listen to Gabby trying to seduce her colleagues with “did you miss me while I was away” enquiries. My attention is somehow drawn to my wee garden. I see my dandelions are doing well this year, not so my jaggy nettles, though. Maybe it's the lawn which hasn't been mowed since last autumn that has stirred my conscience. On a sudden I come to a decision and silence the coquettish Gabby. Nothing personal gal, just that a man's gotta do etc.

An hour and a torn pair of jeans later the lawn is mowed; all seventeen square yards of it. I feel no sense of accomplishment as I retake my seat on the verandah. It's simply a case of a chore having been done rather than any satisfaction of a job well done. On reflection in haircutting terms I suppose it would be an “I-want-my-money-back” job.

I swallow a bottle of water and think about lunch. I'll do something about it anon. How long have I got before anon is no longer anon? Those blackbirds are still at it. I eventually make two sandwiches for lunch: one roast beef, and the other liver and bacon pate. I wash them down with a nice cup of Twinings English Breakfast tea. And then I munch my way through a couple of croissants – I do like my croissants – and wash them down with another nice cup of tea.

I spend another two hours on the verandah listening to Asha Bhosle singing Bollywood songs, and reading a crime thriller by Gordon Ferris: The Hanging Shed. The book is set in 1940's South West Scotland and invokes quite a bit of nostalgic terms. For instance he mentions the children's game of Gird and Cleek; the Scots term for hoop rolling. Ah, those good old days, which weren't really.

Clouds begin to cover the sun and I head in to watch the Twenty20 cricket on the telly.

Terragen renders - a set on Flickr

Just a shameless wee plug for my Terragen renders. Just click on the link and then click the thumbnails. And to see the scene larger click on the wee magnifying glass top right of the scene. Enjoy.
Terragen renders - a set on Flickr

The Black Cloaked Beauty

While I absolutely abhor most television adverts, there are a few that have either entertained or intrigued me. One such is the advert for Scottish Widows. I have always wondered who that beautiful, mysterious cloaked lady was; and yesterday I finally discovered who she is.

The identity of the lady in question, which had eluded me for years, was finally resolved while I was watching Countdown yesterday. Jeff Stelling, the show's presenter, referred to the dictionary corner guest, Amanda Lamb, as the cloaked lady of the tv ad while introducing her. She went on to say that the series of Scottish Widows adverts were filmed in various countries, including South Africa, but never in Scotland.

I'd previously seen her on the home buying program, A Place in the Sun, and although noting her good looks, never made the connection until it was handed to me on a plate yesterday.

There you go.

http://www.mirror.co.uk/celebs/news/2005/11/08/they-never-ad-it-so-good-but-where-are-they-now-115875-16345215/