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/

The Name of the Rogue

That name is Martin Hansson, the Swedish referee of the France v Ireland World Cup playoff game held in Paris on Wednesday 18 Nov 2009, and it will go down in the annals of Irish infamy, for his monstrous blunder in not spotting Thierry Henry's deliberate handball which led to the winning goal for France and denied Ireland a place in the 2010 football World Cup.

What of the culprit, Thierry Henry, who handled the ball. Well, he's just a footballer, and footballers will occasionally infringe the laws of football to gain an unfair advantage if they are allowed to get away with it. After all poor Thierry isn't getting any younger, and a wee helping hand is needed now and again to compensate for that lost yard or two of pace in his tired old legs.

Feet stamping outrage by the Irish, apologies by the French (including Thierry Henry), and shame expressed by Swedes, will not change the fact that France will be going to South Africa next year, and the Irish will not. For the FIFA track record indicates that while they may express regret, they will not comply to Irish demands to have the match replayed. Ireland are not a big enough player in the politics of football, and do not have iconic figures such as Michel Platini (French) in powerful positions.

A hundred years from now mention of the name Martin Hansson will still provoke a bitter scowl on Irish faces.

Chinese Flood Drill

Last Friday (3rd July) we had a sudden and heavy downpour here on the beautiful island of Bute. The rainwater streamed down the steeply inclined road I live on. Not quite white-water canoeing conditions, but worryingly torrential, nonetheless. But the real trouble spot, as far as I was concerned, was my balcony. It has a drainage gutter running into a downpipe, which was unfortunately blocked. The water level in the gutter rose alarmingly quickly, and flooded over onto the balcony finding all the cracks and openings in the bitumen covered floor. My balcony is directly above a good portion of my living room ceiling, and yes, before I could say, “Oh my fucking God”, the rainwater began to penetrate onto the ceiling and run down parts of the wall.

No time to stop and think. Time to go into controlled panic mode (something akin to “Chinese Fire Drill”, replace fire with flood). Tell mum not to worry; strategically place buckets to catch the water dripping from the ceiling; don anorak and up onto the balcony to sweep frantically and poke into blocked pipe with hastily found wire.

Progress report; thoroughly drenched, flooding getting worse.

Have to find that effing blockage. Rummage for appropriate tools. Go down into neighbours garden to access bottom of plastic downpipe. Open drain at bottom of pipe. Grope into it with bare hand hoping not to clutch a dead rat. Nothing there. Pierce holes in pipe. No water issuing from holes. Smash holes into one large ugly gash with hammer. Still nothing. Ergo, blockage must be near top of pipe where I can't reach. In desperation mode now; hammer frustratingly on pipe; dislodge joint near top; and, hallelujah, water gushes from broken joint. Hurrying back, I slip on the wet grass and fall on my arse.

Progress report; if it's possible to be more than thoroughly drenched, then I am. Is the flooding getting worse? Well, it ain't getting better.

The rain finally eases, and I do some more demented sweeping and poking about in the gutter/downpipe. I come down into living room to check on mum; she's surprisingly calm. I find my rat-on-a-wire device, which I was looking for earlier, and with it manage to unblock the downpipe. The water runs away, and things are finally looking up. Eventually the water trapped on the ceiling drips itself out. I estimate I've got about a gallon of rainwater collected in the buckets. I peel off my soaked clothing and bung it into the washing machine, and resume my interrupted lunch.

Later that afternoon I root out a tarpaulin from the shed and lay it over the balcony. I tell myself this is only a temporary measure until I get the balcony professionally repaired. But, I know that'll cost me the best part of a grand. And, oh, well, we'll see.

A few days later, almost as an afterthought, a strip of paper flops, and hangs down from the ceiling. I get some wallpaper paste and stick it back up.

That balcony is one of the best features of this house, giving wonderful views over the Firth of Clyde and Loch Striven. But it sure is a bitch to maintain. Once or twice a year we'll get a downpour which tests its condition, and my resolve. When I was in the local hardwear store the other day to buy some bunji clips for the tarpaulin I noticed a lovely tin of bitumen mastic solution. It was only £17.99p. And I was just wondering; perhaps employing a builder to “professionally” repair the balcony isn't really necessary.

Where Was I When . . .

I don't think I'll remember where I was when Michael Jackson died.
Hell, I don't remember where I was when Elvis Presley, John Lennon, and JFK died.
I won't even know where I'll be when I die.
But I do remember where I was when John Sergeant announced he was quitting Strictly Come Dancing.

The Moose Loose Aboot Ma Hoose

Four of the blighters now, actually.

Shambled downstairs this morning, and cussed myself for not closing the living room door before I went to bed last night: that's where I've found the 3 dead mice this past week.

About ten days ago while watching TV just after midnight I thought I saw something move in a corner of the room; something mouse sized. The next day I purchased some mouse traps and a packet of mouse poison from the local hardware store. I decided to use the poison as I came close to severing several fingers trying to set the damn traps. So five little trays with the poison distributed along the walls, in corners, behind furniture as instructed.

Next morning, bingo, two dead mice lying on the living room carpet. This big Jessy nearly jumped onto the nearest chair. My god, the adrenaline was coursing through my wherever adrenaline courses through, as if I was a WW1 Tommy going over the top for the first time. Getting a grip on my inner wuss I brushed the corpses into a bucket and disposed of them in some nearby waste ground. Not my garden, though by the aforementioned terrain description it could well have been.

The next morning I found another dead mouse expired under a chair after helping itself to my toxic offerings. I understand why they found the living room such rich foraging ground. My elderly mother eats all her meals and snacks from the comfy chair she installs herself into every morning, and she deposits a generous scattering of crumbs onto the carpet round her. And (holding my guilty hand up here) I haven't been as diligent as I should have been lately with the hoovering up of said crumbs. Ergo rich foraging ground for mice.

The following five days were mice free days. Before retiring to bed I would remove any food from the living room (bread sticks, prawn crackers, dates, and grapes being typical fare) and close the living room door to contain any further foragers within the killing ground.

Yesterday I left the living room door wide open. So this morning, having routinely searched for dead mice and found nothing I set the table for breakfast, made myself some cereal and a mug of tea, and settled down in front of my computer (which is in the dining room), and as I adjusted my feet under my seat I felt something lumpy, looked down, and leaped off my seat at the discovery of the fourth mouse. The feeling of terror-driven repulsion lasted no more than a few seconds this time. I am becoming a hardened veteran, I tell myself, and soon won't even bat the proverbial eyelid at a dead mouse find.

An Imaginary Island

While I was creating this island with the Terragen landscape generating program I was reminded of my schooldays; and in particular Miss Broadbottom's history class.

While she would be droning on about the Kings and Queens of England, I would be lost in my latest buccaneering fantasy, busily sketching another imaginary island in my jotter. It was her wont to frequently waddle up and down the aisles between pupils' desks checking that her words were being diligently recorded when, on more than one occasion, she would stop mid drone. Thirty or more bored heads, eagerly seeking distraction, would turn towards where she had stopped; behind my desk. Her remonstration at my inattention was both swift and dismissive: a corrective slap across the back of the head accompanied by a shrill cry of "Fiddlesticks". I'm quite sure this was the strongest expletive she could find in her vocabulary. She would then allow the stifled sniggers to subside before she waddled on to continue with her monotonous listing of the succession of monarchs.

Of course, Broadbottom wasn't her real name. It was probably something forgettable like Jones or Brown. Although it is fair to say that, to put it in nautical terms, there was a fair distance between her port and starboard extremities.

Now that's a shaggy parrot story, if ever I heard one.

You can see the full size image here at my Flickr webpage.

Empathise With This

A play on the film title Analyse This (or should that be That), maybe one's the sequel of the other. Shut up. Anyway, I was just reflecting on a recent episode of an Antiques Roadshow - one of those where they show highlights of episodes in their archive. Well, once upon a time they were in Dumfries (Scotland) and there was this couple with a glass vase they'd dug out of their loft 'cos they heard the show was coming to their town. You see, they'd bought a plant at a car boot sale, and when it died that's where they'd bunged the thing it was in. However, might as well see if it's worth anything, probably get laughed at and told to shove off. They'd paid a pound for the plant, with the glass vase-thingy thrown in.

There they were then, on the telly, with this expert waffling on about this vase; "Did you know it was Lalique?" he said. "Naw", the blank looks might have added "What's a laleek, then?". Well the expert droned on a bit more and then got to the interesting bit. "It's probably valued in the range of £25,000 to £30,000", he finally declared. Blank looks, looking at one another, glancing at the beaming expert, and then the inevitable "Oh my God!".

It didn't take them long to exchange that glass plant pot for Twenty-Six thousand lovely smackers.

But here's what I was reflecting on. What if the guy who flogged it to them for a pound was watching that show. Sick as a parrot doesn't come close to how he must have been feeling. More like suicidal. Let's hope he just drank himself unconscious that night. No, let's be more merciful. Let us hope he, and anyone who knew what he'd flogged for a quid, didn't watch the show, and that he remains blissfully ignorant of what became of his giveaway plant pot.

Amen to that.

p.s. He might read this, though.

"Nah, extremely unlikely . . . . . I hope".

Getting killed for "National Security"?

Another two British soldiers killed in Afghanistan. That's a total of 152 British service personnel who have lost their lives since our troops were sent out there. It was the fourth item on the Radio 4 news bulletin at 10 o'clock this morning. Just a short statement that they were killed in an explosion and that their families were informed. By comparison, the two soldiers killed in Northern Ireland recently was headline news for several days. It was probably the fear that the Irish "troubles" might be starting up again that made it headline news.

One of the soldiers killed in Northern Ireland was on the eve of being posted, and this was reported as if the poor fellow might have escaped his fate had his posting come through a day or two earlier; as if he would have been out of harms way. My god, they were sending the poor sod to another killing field; from the proverbial frying pan of Northern Ireland to the fire (sometimes friendly, it has to be said) of Afghanistan.

The defence secretary, John Hutton, said: "All the brave and professional service personnel who have given their lives in Afghanistan have done so to counter the serious threat posed to the UK's national security." That sounds like Government-speak bullshit to me. It seems to me that the UK's national security has been more endangered since our troops have started trading killing projectiles out there. The Seven/Seven London bombings occurred after British troop deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, didn't it.

Adverts that Endanger my Television: 1

Endangered from something heavy hurled through it by yours truly.

Confused-dot-com. A price comparison site.

An advert made by morons for morons. This one really gets my goat. The proles that this ad targets surely haven't got any living brain cells, let alone are able to drive a car. I hope I never come within screaming distance of anyone who acquires their car insurance through this brain damaged site. And when I hear that moronic wail at the end of the ad I metaphorically reach for my rusty length of barbed wire to garrotte the cretin who emits it. To put the poor creature out of his misery, you understand . . . . . and ours.

Ye gods!

I feel much better now.

Corpus Blot Their Copybook

Yes, this is a postscript to my earlier posts concerning Gail Trimble and her University Challenge winning team. Seems they're not the winning team after all. Corpus Christi College have been disqualified because one of the team (the bounder won't be named here) was no longer a member of the college when the final was being filmed. The runners up, Manchester University, have been declared University Challenge champions.

What a balls up.

Indeed!

An Introductory Shamble

Shambling not strutting. Strutting is what you do when you're young and foolish, with your whole life ahead of you; you've got somewhere to strut to. Horizons may be false but your youthful optimism struts you on to the next one regardless.

As you get older strut turns to shamble. The road ahead becomes less certain, and you're more wary of the potholes that lie in wait, potholes gleefully anticipating pratfalls. You shuffle along, your gate is shorter, feet scraping the dusty path; there's not so far to go now. The once glowing horizon is now dimmed by past disappointments and expectations that are no longer great. That final horizon, the one your youthful self hardly had time to contemplate, now looms larger and is not as easy to ignore; each arthritic and rhuematic twinge redirects your wavering attention to it.

Shuffling - shambling is part of the bodies self anaesthetizing as we approach our final horizon. It may even be an edge-of-the-world pothole, that mother of all potholes into which we hurl ourselves, shouting “Geronimo”, if we still have strength and will enough to do so.

By the way. I am one of the shamblers.

Its That Clever Girl Again

Well, she helped steer her team to victory in the University Challenge final. We're talking Gail Trimble here. Corpus Christi College eventually won by 275 to 190, but for the first three-quarters of the competition it looked like Manchester were going to win as Corpus made a nervy, slow start. However they overtook Manchester in the home straight finishing like a horse with a blistering turn of foot.

She even made the national news on this red letter day for Britain with the British-made (and financed) film Slumdog Millionaire scooping 8 Oscars and Kate Winslet finally getting a Best Actress Gong.

I wonder, will we see that delightful blue stocking on the Eggheads team one day, maybe she could replace that opinionated, loud-shirted chappy. And she does look like she could have been a Marmite baby, don't you think?

Clever Girl

I was listening to Broadcasting House on the radio this morning - I've been known to do this if I get up early enough - when I heard mention of a familiar name; Gail Trimble. She's the very clever girl captain of the Corpus Christi College, Oxford University Challenge team, and she's become the focus of attention amongst chattering journalists, bloggers, and tele watchers. She's been described as the female Stephen Fry, and the new Joan Bakewell, and has been admired and, sadly it has to be said, resented for her cleverness.

I'm a fan of University Challenge and other television quiz programmes and she has come to my attention as she and her team progressed through the rounds. I can usually answer approximately 10 to 15 questions, and have managed to get 22 one week when the questions fell right. Not bad, I hear you say.

Anyway, I hereby declare myself an admirer of this bright young thing; she's not bad looking either, I love the way she flicks her perfectly brushed hair behind her shoulders. She can carry my school satchel any day of the week, and anyone who says anything nasty about her is gonna get a bunch of fives. Oh, and I hope she likes Marmite, so I can say we have something in common.