Hooligan's Lament

Yabba Dabba Doo We Support The Boys In Blue…

2010-07-07T19:31:00.002+01:00

Growing up as I did, in the early seventies, I was of a generation that marvelled at the wonderful technological advances that graced the television set at half past seven on a Thursday. Top of the Pops would zoom past in such an uncontrollable surge of excitement that no sooner had Tony Blackburn introduced the first chart hope of the evening than Raymond Baxter and William Woollard launched into a glimpse of what mind boggling extravagance awaited us in twenty years’ time.
With all the advances our world had seen – television, the internal combustion engine and moon landings to name but a few, it was hardly surprising that such things as personal computers, mobile phones and cars that float on a curtain of air left us gazing in wondrous awe. No, they didn’t always get it right but that was the beauty of it; nobody was any the wiser and even today, as we look back at a legacy of unfulfilled prophecies, we still aren’t. Maybe someday we will find a use for floating cars, paper clothing and interplanetary etiquette. As it was though, the show ran and ran and, probably due to its close proximity to Top of the Pops in the scheduling list, found favour with at least one member of the family.
As well as having a desperate hunger for music, I was prepossessed with a strange thirst to know how things worked. One of the greatest presents I ever had was a simple throwaway thing. I guess he thought I was just going to play with them but a drawer full of my granddad’s old buggered up pocket watches was a mechanical wonder just waiting to be discovered. I guess a very significant thing was happening and I probably laid down my first roots in an engineering sense. It didn’t take long before I knew what each little gear did, the function of every spring and lever and had succeeded in making every one of them work. Soon, it went from watches to clocks to record players to vacuum cleaners to cassette players.
Of course the beauty of it was that in those days broken things could be fixed, the advances in technology were tangible and they were met with a great deal of expectation and very little sense of inevitability but things were moving on; we were moving away from a nuts and bolts world; it was a time of astonishing advancement. The dawn of the printed circuit board and the computer era was just around the corner and miniaturisation had bought up all the tickets for the next decade. Digital watches and pocket calculators would soon be common place and a power struggle would ensue over the comparative merits of VHS and Betamax, mirroring the Compact Cassette vs. Stereo 8 battle of the seventies. Now that was what I called progress. OK, so they were really inventions of the sixties but they really came to the fore in the early seventies. The idea of a magnetic tape onto which you could record whatever you wanted was a major step forward in the world of audio storage. It made it possible to capture audio from whatever source you wanted and, crucially, it was portable. Whatever songs your mate had, you could record; whatever songs you wanted form a radio broadcast, you could record. In a few short years, piracy stepped into thousands of bedrooms and it didn’t involve miles and miles of reel to reel tape; just a little plastic box smaller than a fag packet. Remember all those tapes you had of the charts; all the lists you made from the music press, so that you knew when the song you wanted was going to be played and how you hoped that this time Blackburn didn’t yap all over the intro. Aye, if only they’d foreseen the almighty shitstorm that the mp3 would unleash they could have saved all that money on their home taping is killing music, faux skull and crossbones logo; they might have realised that music would survive and that the art would endure and, besides all of that, with the amount of electricity, time and effort we wasted, we’d have been as well spending the 50p on the single. At least that way we got the whole thing; at least that way we didn’t get the neebs Alsatian barking like a maniac or the RAF jet going overhead that rattled the windows in their frames.
Another great advancement of the time was the rise in the fortunes of our national team. A World Cup beckoned - the first in living memory. We were there while England and Brian Clough presumably, stayed at home to lick the wounds inflicted by the famous Polish goalkeeping ‘clown’ Jan Tomasewski.

This foray onto the world stage however, would prove to be a short and frustrating one.
Ever the bridesmaid, glorious in defeat, and all those other daft clichés used to describe, in a favourable light, something that just doesn’t quite meet the required standard, we went home after the first group stage, undefeated, a credit to the nation, having held the mighty Brazil to a draw. Unmarred even by some idiotic advertising campaign for Maureen One One f4cking eight, Scotland still remain the only side to return from their world cup campaign undefeated but without the big golden nugget.
We even had our own song, Easy Easy.
A typically silly piece of work that, to the point of embarrassment, was as lyrically bereft and as brazen a slice of bubblegum as I’d ever heard, it was written by Bill Martin & Phil Coulter who had been responsible in no small way for some other fairly tragic events in the world of pop.

Shang a Lang, Congratulations, Puppet on a String and Back Home were the high points on their graph of achievement.
They were the Celtic equivalent of Nicky Chinn & Mike Chapman without the megahits.

During the lead up to all of this, we were gripped by world cup fever and by the end of the school term, at the age of twelve, I had broken into the school team. I played in goal, which was pretty surprising given that even now, if I straighten my back and puff out my chest, I’m only five - nine. Back then? I was pocket sized and I don’t mean jacket pocket sized; not even shirt pocket or hipper sized. I mean I was the comparative size of one of those totally f4cking useless little efforts that you get in jeans that are just a complete pain in the arse because nobody can figure out what they’re for other than snagging your pinky on when you head in to fumble for some loose change. Anyway, I guess the one thing that made me any good at all was that I could jump about all over the place and dive at the feet of on-coming opponents without any fear of getting hurt. I also had a knack for reading penalties.

For as long as I could remember our school either won the league or came second to our west end rivals. We had a headmaster who could only be described as an evil bastard. Without doubt, he was the headmaster from the Wall. I actually remember at the time the Wall came out thinking that Roger Waters must have gone to the same primary school as me. Surely there couldn’t be more than one such evil, sadistic bastard. He was, without fear of contradiction, the most feared and despised man any of us had ever come across, topping our schoolboy list of evil wrongdoers that included other such notables as Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Ted Heath and Bob Monkhouse but by the time I reached my last year at primary school, we had a new head teacher and a new modern extension.
The new regime was much less draconian and the sight of pupils sneaking around in fear of serious, and most likely, illegal, assault was consigned to memory and the fading scars on the back of the legs. Unfortunately, our success on the pitch followed suit. We were having a disastrous season and had been beaten by everyone except the neighbouring RC school. Every year, for as long as I could remember, they were the whipping boys of the Primary School League. This year was no exception and they’d suffered defeat after defeat. The only thing making them look good was the fact that we too had been utter shite in every game. We had only managed a one all draw in our first match against them so it came to the last game of the season to decide who would get the old spurtle. That’s like a wooden spoon but without the spoon bit, specially designed for stirring porridge and, to every sane person outside of Scotland, is commonly known as a stick.

This was a home game for us but, having just had the school partially rebuilt, the pitch was a cross between the Somme and the surface of the moon. Anyone from Primary 4 and under was strictly forbidden from playing there in case one of them fell into a crater and was never seen again. The tarmac playground was much safer for them. There was also the lack of a perimeter fence around the ground which meant if someone skied it, or if one of the bigger lads just wanted to be a bit of a bastard, some of the juniors would have to walk all the way round the block or scale the six foot wall to get the ball back. It would have been ok for us to play on this pitch as we all knew where the holes were; we knew that the whole thing sloped to the north end and we knew where all the builders rubble was scattered but for them, a bunch of pansy convent boys, it was considered too dangerous so off we trooped that glorious summer afternoon to the academy sports ground.

Bearing in mind that this was the seventies, and a good twenty years before you were allowed to have an entire second eleven sitting around posing for Adidas on the subs bench, we were restricted to two subs. Thirteen, picked from a squad of about sixteen, that being the exact number of boys who actually knew what a football was. Admittedly there were some in the team who couldn't spell the word football - probably still can't - but the entire squad were there on the merit of having a full set of limbs, no embarrassing illnesses and no symbiosis with the insect world. On the day, by some strange and fateful twist, three of the regular team players were off sick so there were only thirteen of us left to choose from. At least this time I was going to get to along to the game.
I hadn’t had a start all season and, expecting nothing to be any different this time round, had already taken my place on the bench – a row of breeze blocks in actual fact. Next thing I know, there’s some frantic waving and I’m summoned to the changing room and getting changed. “Big eins got the shites. Pit these oan” the captain roared, clearly feeling the stress. If this had happened today, I would have been pulling on some designer breathable fabric, padded at the elbows and shoulders and a pair of high tack padded gloves. As it was though, this was 1974. Bearing in mind what I said before that, in some ways at least, we were in a bit of time warp, I ended up pulling on a yellow top that had obviously been knitted out of old Brillo pads and fashioned with a month’s trawling in the North Atlantic in mind. It carried the smell of moth balls like Van Helsing would carry a crucifix to ward off vampiric molestation though why the f4ck any sane minded moth would wish to molest such a garment is way beyond the scope of my wisdom. The gloves were like a pair of welders gauntlets but I never wore gloves anyway so they just got chucked next to a post.
I wanted to wear my own green top with the number one on the back like David Harvey wore but the heidie was having none of it.
Again, if this were in the modern age, I would have probably told him if he wasn’t happy with my kit, he could put big skittery breeks between the posts, but as it was, I was just glad I was getting a game at last.
As we ran out into the sweltering heat of the afternoon, I was flushed with pride and excitement. I stood between the posts trying to make myself look big but succeeding only in a passable impersonation of flea in a matchbox.
The game kicked off and, from here on, only the truth can be told, that being that my defence and I had a blinder. I use this term, not in the sense that we were so good you would have been blinded by our brilliance, but in the sense that we played like five blind men.
Even as a twelve year old, and from my vantage point in the six yard box, it was clear to me that these guys didn’t have much of a clue about protecting their keeper who was by now feeling more than a wee bit skittery himself.
Attack upon attack rained down upon my goal and it was only the fact that their forwards couldn’t have hit a bear’s arse with a banjo that kept the score down.
The law of averages however, was stating that eventually they would hit the target but when this happened, with my one and only save of the day, I managed to push the ball behind for a corner.
From the resulting corner, they scored. A bit of shoo-in really as I totally missed the low cross as did all six team mates crowding my area. Eight people in the six-yard box and the one it had to hit was the only opponent.
Ten minutes later their striker broke away against the run of play. As the ball bounced before him from a speculative punt out of defence I tried to anticipate what he would do. There was only him and me. I quickly tried to psyche him out. Would he go to my left or my right? I expected he was right footed and tried to show him a bit more of my right hand side to push him to his left. I don’t know if my edging towards him panicked him, if he suffered some rare and involuntary spasmodic affliction or if he just fluffed it but he lashed out at the ball with his right foot and sclaffed it. The ball, in mid bobble, flew off his shin and over my head and all I could do was turn and watch it bounce feebly over the line.
For anyone watching from the other half, his and my team mates, it must have looked like he made an audacious chip from about 18 yards out with the advancing keeper at full stretch.
As it was, the low shot I was expecting never came. The torrent of abuse however, like ten Lorimer volleys, was furiously despatched and delivered by first class post.
It didn’t matter to me. I was deflated. I’d been beaten by a deflection and a miss hit.
It didn’t matter that we played with a ten-man attack and had absolutely no shape whatsoever.
It’d didn’t matter that the lazy bastards all thought it was worthwhile running back to give their goalie some stick but couldn’t be arsed running back to defend every once in a while.
Two – nil down at half time and I was pissed off and beginning to feel a bit envious of big shitey kegs’ spot in the toilets.

The second half was a minor improvement and we at least managed to claw back the deficit.
In truth, I’ve forgotten most of the details about the rest of the game. I know I could easily have nipped round the corner to the bakers for a pie or gone for a snog in the bushes with the wee lassie from the end of the street because I didn’t have a single touch for the rest of the match.
That was my first and last taste of school football.
I never felt the same about it after that.

And so to the music…

What else at this time of year…

Various Artists - World Cup Anthems
http://www.sendspace.com/file/lk8pw1

Edie Brickell & the New Bohemians, Live 09.04.1991, Orpheum Theater, Minneapolis, MN
http://www.sendspace.com/file/q6aucd

Green On Red, JC Dobbs, Philadelphia, 30.06.1986
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ebrv0r

TMTCH, Hamburg 03.02.1986
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6ql8kv

Wilko Johnson Band, Half Moon Putney, 19.05.1985
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4t5kht

Edwyn Collins - 1997-12-xx - Kultkomplex Cafe, Cologne
http://www.sendspace.com/file/1u6u67

Orange Juice, Coasters 29.11.1982
http://www.sendspace.com/file/kxkzmp

The Alarm, Bremen Aladin, 10.06.1991
http://www.sendspace.com/file/x5s4jn

Josef K, Art College, Edinburgh
http://www.sendspace.com/file/fkttdw

James, Alton Towers, 04.07.1992
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3ha78z

Stranglers, Zurich 85
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6hmlwp

In Tua Nua, Torino
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jbf10w

Sparklehorse - Ambassador - Dublin - 2001-11-02
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5x0gsa

Richmond Fontaine – Live in the Club Q-Bus City Leiden Holland 27.02.2010
http://www.sendspace.com/file/uuxfuo

Zerra One, Paris - Olympia 07 June 1982
http://www.sendspace.com/file/cyyxtb

Nick Lowe, ritz.ny.1985.xx.xx
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3g7bfz

Joe Pug, Mission Creek Festival 01.04.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/n0sirx

MikeScott, _Dublin, 01.09.1991.rar
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5egs7p

Television, Masonic Temple Auditorium Detroit 13.03.1977
http://www.sendspace.com/file/vjzh8p

The Who, Live In Phoenix
http://www.sendspace.com/file/422dlr

Tom Robinson, Live in Liverpool, 1986
http://www.sendspace.com/file/crjoql

til the next instalment,

Enjoy.

Hooli

How come no one older than me ever seems to understand…

2010-06-04T21:37:00.002+01:00

I know that this is a pretty unremarkable fact but, based on the party going antics of todays average twelve year old, I figure it is worth pointing out that I can only ever remember going to one birthday party. This is not to say that any recollection of the other squillion ice cream and jelly gigs has faded irretrievably from my memory, it is to quite categorically and unequivocally say that I only ever went to one. As I said before, my early childhood elapsed in part during the swinging sixties. A time when everyone was too busy getting whacked on the narc-du-jour or marching against whatever political outrage piqued their collective hysteria. So with that in mind, and despite the unavoidable truth that it was the birthday of the sister of a friend who I didn’t particularly like (the sister, not the friend), it has to be said that this was a major highpoint of my preteen social calendar.
She was about four at the time so I guess I must have been about ten.
I don’t remember much about it other than being told that neither the friend nor I were allowed to win ‘pass the parcel’.
Later that same year she would smack me over the head with a funny little garden rake thingy, leaving me with puncture marks in my scalp that I can still feel today.

I can place this episode perfectly in time as I remember we were having a kick around one Saturday afternoon, not in our usual place on the grass at the top of our street or in the big park at the end of the scheme but, for some totally bizarre reason, in the car park. I was ‘being’ Peter Lorimer because I could take the ball on the volley and Leeds had just won the cup. This was something of a big shout for a ten year old as this was a guy who was known to be able to give it some welly but he was Scottish and played for Leeds, which was good enough for me. So we larked about for a bit, ‘three and in’ or something similar I guess was what we called it; chipped a few crosses for the odd header on target; took the odd chest height cross on the volley into the neebs chrysaths; next thing I know, wallup, my cranium is the new resting place for some itinerant garden implement. There was that split second, “oh f4ck” moment when the rest of the lads quite literally went “oh f4ck” before I went “oohya bastard”.
Even at that early an age I had attained an interesting mastery of the English laguage.
Anyway, I don’t remember there being much pain or much drama, just the blood and, as anyone who has kids will know, a little head wound goes a long, long way.
Needless to say my Leeds top soon resembled an Arsenal top with a big red splat seeping down the front.
Some time later, in one of those typical 20 a side, next goal wins, jerseys for goal posts type of affairs, revenge would be mine.

Being as it was, by now, the infancy of a new decade, it was a strange sort of time. Forget all that Gene Hunt bollocks, this was the far north of Scotland; an insular community; one content to live firmly in the past in spite of all the trappings of the modern age delivered by the Naval and RAF bases nearby. This was the kind of place where old folk still pointed at aeroplanes; where kids tried to feed bread to the helicopters; where power cuts were looked forward to because you didn’t have to feed the meter and progress passed through town like it was the arseole of the world. Although there had been a lot of changes in the world of fashion and music, there was still a strong sector clinging to the haggis and shortbread ideal of ‘Grannies Heilan Hame’, the ‘But and Ben’ and the Sunday Post.
OK, so it wasn’t quite as bleak and removed from modernity as the Gaeltachd but it still held onto that daft pretence of being a city just because it had a cathedral.
Amid all this, and the centre of my universe, was my mother. She was an odd polarisation of what was trendy and what was most definitely not. She’d been to London to work, had loads of trendy clothes and, looking back, I guess she may have been the envy of a lot of her mates who were stuck in grimsville. But at the end of it all, she was still a single parent, struggling to bring up a family and have the life any normal 30-something would have.
She had a new man in tow. Another ‘uncle’.
I never got that whole pile of shite about “this is your Uncle Bertie Shagmeister” or whatever.
Did she really think I was that f4cking stupid?
If anyone asked, I was to say he was my uncle, home from the sea.
Like anyone cared a f4ck about who he was.
Everyone knew her story. Everyone knew what my father had done.
That was the small town mentality of it. Stuck in the 1940s where such things were frowned upon. Aye, we could all go to war and shoot the f4ck out of each other but God burn ye in hell if you were known to be shagging someone who wasn’t your lawful wedded.
Just a load of condescending and patronising bollocks.
Anyway, having hopelessly and pointlessly digressed, back to the matter in hand.
Revenge.

About this time, she became quite detached from the whole glam rock affair. She had no real interest in the new stuff, preferring to remain rooted in the world of her twenties. Under the influence of the new ‘uncle’ she was turning into a bit of a folkie. Unfortunately for me, this was around the time the Clancy Brothers and the Corries were starting to get quite big in the folk world. The consequence for me was the appearance of various hand knitted folk type garments, generally knitted from what I was told was arran, and emblazoned with funny little leather buttons that had an odd meaty taste when you sooked them.
How the fuck she expected a ten year old to keep a white cardigan clean, especially one that he definitely didn’t want to wear, is still beyond my understanding.
Also beyond my understanding, was the way the fates would conspire to iron out the playing field and set up the circumstances for my little slice of retribution.

Back then, we had something we knew as the ragman.
This amounted to some dodgy looking gypsy geezer who looked like Albert Steptoe, wasn’t really a gypsy but just some old tink from the caravans across the river who, once a month, would come round wheeling a hand cart, collecting old clothes in exchange for a balloon or a packet of sweets.
The guy was a magnet for the little kids but was frowned upon by their parents.
The whole across the river area was a big taboo for all of us. The only way across was by the railway bridge or by a big water pipe with spikes and barbed wire at either end. Although some of the bigger kids made the daring trip to the other side, I was never brave enough to try. I don’t know if it was the journey or the fear of what would happen if I was found out. Probably a bit of both.
So there we were, one Saturday afternoon, late in the summer of 1972, about twenty past tea time, a riotous assembly of about forty kids, raging from eight to fourteen years old, all chasing a big brown bladder stitched up to effect a barely passable impersonation of a regulation football. This wasn’t any regular kind of game and no regular kind of ball. The bigger kids took great delight in hoofing the ball straight up in the air, as high as they could and watching as the smaller kids tried to head the ball. This was something that, despite the ball being filled with air, left the recipient with severe neck strain, potentially debilitating eye injuries from the laces and at least two inches shorter in height from spinal compression due to the force exerted by gravitational acceleration. Remember that one? Force = mass x acceleration.
Anyway, on it went, the never ending game, in the hope that someone from our end of the scheme would be first to fire it between the two piles of apparel assembled for posts, thus signalling game over, and then it happened...
...someone scored just as the ragman came along and all the wee ones came out of the woodwork like a swarm of newly hatched spiders seeking their first taste of insect flesh or, in this case, their pink balloon or their packet of iced gems.
Everybody grabbed their gear and headed back home.

Now I know what you’re thinkin’.
Did he leave the cardi behind or did he give to the gypsy.
We’ll to tell you the truth, in all that excitment, I kinda lost track myself.
Being this is a white, cable knit, arran cardigan with leather buttons that taste like they've been stained with Bovril, the most powerful sweater in the world that would blow your credibility clean oot o’ the watter, you’ve got to ask yourself one question.

Did I feel lucky?

Well, in my defence I’d like to claim that I was distracted by the fact we’d won, that it was tea time and the that there were all these little beasties chasing after the ragman but to be honest, I don’t know for sure what happened. I like to think that, in my role as the agile minded criminal mastermind, I contrived a situation whereby someone else did my dirty work and, as the ultimate act of revenge, took the fall for something that wasn’t their fault but, the fact of the matter is, although I was smarter than the average ten year old, I wasn’t that smart. What is true is that one of the other kids claimed he saw this little blonde kid giving the gypsy a white jumper in exchange for a red balloon. That was good enough for me to be able to finger the little rake bradishing bitch from up the street as she trotted proudly past our kitchen window waving her little scarlet dirigible.

That was how it was.
Saturdays in the summer were an endless game of footy that ended with mathematically improbably scorelines and teams that would fluidly change as X or Y had to go for lunch, tea, haircut, de-lousing or whatever other refinement their parents saw fit and an endless struggle to avoid wearing some or other knitted abomination that was straight off the cover of a Clancy Brothers album.

For me though, the best thing about Saturdays as a kid was a trip to one of the three shops that sold records.
This was the time of the K-Tel revolution. The time when the sixties, and those ridiculous Top of the Pops albums gave way to the 70s and albums boasting 20 original hits by 20 original artists.
The Beatles were gone, not that I’d really noticed, and music was noticeably changing. Flower power had been consigned to the waste heap of impropriety, giving way to glam, glitter and platform shoes. The Mexico World Cup was a distant memory that the Bolivian jewellery trade had survived only marginally better than the English World Cup Squad, although the latter did manage a No1 hit with Back Home.
Week after week, Top of the Pops was seducing me with ever more wondrous sights.
Things I’d never seen before; exciting and exotic sights that were beyond my imagination.
There was this strange curly haired wee fella in a feather boa with glitter all over his puss. There was another bloke with the weirdest hairdo I’d ever seen and a bizarre line in leg-wear, cuddling up to some weird looking guy in a blonde feather cut, a glitter suit and platform thigh boots. There was the poppy eyed guy with the funny hat that looked like his granddad cut his hair round a pudding basin and there were also those nice clean cut boys with the white suits that my granny liked. The only time my grandfather was even remotely interested was when the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards were at No1 with Amazing Grace. Everyone else was just a long haired gink.
What one of those was, I’ve no idea.

If grandfather was faced with something he couldn’t understand and hadn’t the vocabulary to deal with, he just made something up. He was six foot four. Nobody was going to argue with him.
He made stuff up all the time and I assume now, in adult life, that he was a pretty funny guy. He was a friend of Charlie Chaplin – they met when Chaplin visited Nairn on one of his many holidays to the north – and was full of funny stories about things he did during the war. The funniest thing ever was a road trip with him. This would invariably entail much swearing and gesticulating as he complained about every other driver on the road from behind the wheel of his Ford Anglia. This was something I would inherit some twenty years later but sadly, no I didn’t also inherit the old Dagenham Dustcart.
Once out of the town and onto the open road, he was free. His spirit would rise and he would break into song or into a shrill blast of whistling that made bagpipes sound like they were being heard from the inside of a concrete bunker.
The inescapable truth about this was that his musical repertoire was limitless because he just made stuff up. He’d start off singing some old favourite traditional Scottish tune like Road to the Isles or something equally dismal to a ten year old and then, suddenly he’d veer off into something else. Jim McLean’s Whisky Chorus, as popularised by Robin Hall & Jimmie MacGregor was a particular favourite that would naturally end up with about a hundred verses relating tales about everyone he’d ever known. Oh how I longed to meet the mystical woman to whom he promised, “I’ll buy a big sheep’s heid an gie the teeth tae Bella”
He did the same, in a way Edward Lear did, with poetry. He just made up nonsense. Contradictory nonsense.
He loved the great Scottish tradition of song making; Burns; the bothy ballads; Harry Lauder; and the White Heather Club. He loved the accordion – especially under the masterful hands of Jimmy Shand or Will Starr. He loved everyone – especially after a few drams – and everybody loved him back.
Like an aged version of Hen or Joe Broon, he was the archetype of Scotland in the forties, rooted so firmly in the time and the place that he just kept living it over and over. Today, he’d be seen as anachronistic and living in the past but there was much more to him than that.
When I think about it now, I wish could have known him in the present day, when we didn’t have a sixty year age gap. I wish I could have understood what he was about then instead of resenting the fact that he was a father substitute.
Some of his unbridled Scottishness must have rubbed off on me though as it would surface much later in life but, at the time, there was nothing remotely Scottish in the modern cultural mould, unless you counted Rod Stewart. But he was just another long haired gink, and an ‘English’ one at that.

My grandparents were growing old. I was growing up. The new man in my mother’s life was sticking around and things were starting to change.
She was spending more time at home. I was spending less time at the bowling club.
We were starting to at least look like a proper family.
I was allowed to grow up a bit; grow my hair. I got some fashionable clothes and got a bit of a social life.
Then, one Christmas, it happened.
My great Road to Damascus moment. The moment when music really reared up and I knew I was hooked.
It was 1972.
For my main present I was given a huge red model Fokker triplane, an interest by proxy, that I succumbed to in preference to being an ungrateful a brat. It was accompanied by an apparently insignificant little red transistor radio, the type with a little off white earpiece shaped like a mutant earwax collecting mushroom. This is so strongly etched upon my memory that I can even remember the song I heard when I first switched it on. From then on, it was my salvation.
I could stay in my room and listen to it at the weekend without disturbing anyone and, more importantly, without anyone disturbing me.
I could listen to the charts every Sunday evening.
It was on this very machine I first heard all the greats of the time.
The Jean Genie with its thunderous ‘duh duh duh, duh du-du duh duh duh’ riff.
20th Century Boy and Wishing Well.
It’s easy to mock but, at ten years old, I first heard them all on the Ed Stewart Saturday morning Junior Choice request show.
There was the other stuff too. The Osmonds, the Jacksons and all the Chinn & Chapman stuff; the Sweet, Mud and Suzi. Then, out of the blue it happened. Something Scottish. Something that swept through the country like a plague. Something that that was so unashamedly crap that it made being Scottish even more ridiculous than it actually was. Something that can only be described as Rollermania.
What, oh please will someone tell me what, in the name of God, were we thinking about. How on earth did we let five talentless oiks from Edinburgh, and their allegedly crooked manager, con the great British public into believing they were the next big thing? They even had their own TV show for f4ck’s sake.
That little radio though, for all the crap that came out of it, was my subterranean passage to a different world. The real revelation was Radio Luxembourg.
This was an education as it shifted in and out of phase. The sounds were less mainstream than on daytime radio and certainly better than the stuff they played after Radio 1 reverted to Radio 2 after the top 20.
After a week listening to Stuart Hendry and Tony Prince, at the weekend I’d eagerly drag my mother to Woollies, Clydesdale or Barr & Cochrane to buy some obscure sound I’d heard on the radio.

My next great revelation was hearing Johnnie Walker on Radio 1 at lunchtime.
He did a thing called Pop Quiz. I’d listen intently to the questions and amaze myself at the knowledge I had been absorbing through some form of osmosis.
By the age of 12 I was a confirmed muso.

That first song on that wonderful Christmas day by the way. ‘C Moon’ by Paul McCartney & Wings, complete with false start.
Why that stuck, I don’t know. But it did.

And so to the whole point of it all, the music.

The usual mixed bag starting with that song.
Never did like it…

Paul McCartney – the Nashville Sessions 1974
http://www.sendspace.com/file/66vg1u

The Waterboys – An Appointment With Mr Yeats Premiere, Dublin Abbey, 15.03.2010
http://www.sendspace.com/file/sf3td7

Editors – Dundee Fat Sam’s 11.03.2010
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9c2rup

Glenn Tilbrook – Farmingville,NY, 18.03.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xdw3rw

Laura Marlin – Cellar Door, 05.02.2010-06-04
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3ztlof

Primal Scream – Milan, 01.05.1994
http://www.sendspace.com/file/eqgevb

REM – Manchester 17.11.1984
http://www.sendspace.com/file/fezkum

Vampire Weekend – Reykjavik, 19.10.2008
http://www.sendspace.com/file/80zddn

Saw Doctors – House Of Blues, Cleveland OH, 06.03.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pgq0am
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ordyvb

Them Crooked Vultures – Edinburgh Corn Exchange, 15.12.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/eoa7fb

Joe Pug – The Ark, 27.03.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/hqup8h

And So I Watch You From Afar - XFM Session 2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/vsmjj6

Orange Juice – Caley Palais, Edinburgh, 13.05.1984
http://www.sendspace.com/file/olnsx4

The Earle Family – Newcastle Opera House, 06.11.2001
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3vvl9v
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5f8hzi
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9lyzmq

OK.
So that’s it for now.

Back in a few weeks.
Hopefully I’ll post something before I head stateside.

Enjoy

Hooli

i don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello...

2010-04-17T23:14:00.008+01:00

My first guitar was a battered, sprucetop, steel strung acoustic with an action that Beth Ditto could limbo dance under. A formidable beast, it bore the scars of a generation of abuse and the name Epiphone on its headstock. Handed down by an aging uncle whose arthritic fingers refused to do the bidding of an acutely sharp mind, it had been marinating in rhythm ‘n’ blues since the 1940s.
Not the stupid R’n’B thing that we have today, which is synonymous with screeching divas or black girl groups singing what we sophisticated gents used to call soul.
Rhythm ‘n’ Blues, the father of Rock ‘n’ Roll.
Rhythm ‘n’ Blues, the inspiration for the British boom of the 60s and bands like the Stones, The Yardbirds and John Mayall.
Rhythm ‘n’ Blues, the touchstone for the 70s revival and bands like Dr Feelgood and Nine Below Zero.
Rhythm ‘n’ Blues, the transfusion without which we would still have Greensleeves coursing through our veins.
Real music on real instruments by people with real lives and real characters.
Music that spoke of the lives of the people who made it.
Music that cut its way into the grain of every battle scarred instrument it was ever played on.
Music that…

Uh?
Oh, must have dropped off for a minute there – having the most wonderful dream.

Of course, that’s the story I’d like to tell; a misty, soft focus, romanticised tale of a mysterious relative who came and went through my childhood, dropping names like Hooker, Waters, Diddley and Berry. Sadly, there was no such uncle and no such guitar. As much as I’d love this to be a MOJO Magazine tale of the childhood genius flourishing thanks to a gift from a legendary British bluesman, in truth, my early aspirations and attempts to be musical were utterly fruitless and the closest I ever got was farting in the bath.
The reality was that my very first guitar was a plastic thing of no real distinction other than the fact it bore the faces of the four Beatles.
My recollection has it that it was a faux electric, that is, that it was shaped like a stratocaster.
It was probably nothing more than an oversized ukulele.
I say that, not as a derisory comment towards the uke but merely to suggest the size of instrument your smaller than average five year old would be capable of holding. I know I must have been five because this was the time of my first musical awakening.
I still remember the first song that hooked me and probably the first sound that made me ask my poor mother for a guitar. It sounds a bit silly now but that single little snippet of electric guitar, that one note, bent up and back, just before Paul McCartney sings “Oh no, You say goodbye and I say hello” was the thing that reeled me in.
Suddenly I was a Beatles fan. I wanted to be George Harrison.

The annuls of history tell me that it was 1967 and more than likely at Christmas, the song in question not being recorded until October which places it a good five years and two weeks after my coming into being. It also strikes me that it wouldn’t have been a birthday because birthdays were, in the main, immemorable occasions. Maybe it’s a generation thing but we didn’t really ‘do’ birthdays in the sixties. Maybe it’s just that all the parents were too stoned to be able to cohesively construct something as complex as a birthday party. Maybe the kids, cake, games and tantrums were just a little too ‘Alice’ for the tripped out flower power brigade. Maybe they were too busy banning the bomb or burning their bras. Maybe they were lost on the way to San Francisco with flowers in their hair.
Who knows?
Certainly not me in my little world of eggmen and walruses.

From my earliest of memories, the radio was always on. My earliest true memories, not memories by association or by proxy, are actually of getting freaked by the wallpaper in my bedroom at my Grandparents prefab and having a little red plastic sit and ride London bus. These are inseparable memories although I know, apart from the fact that they are mine, that they are in no way remotely connected to each other. Why, I know not, but they are inseparable all the same, stuck together by an invisible bond like two strangers who’ve just been shit on by the same seagull.
Close to these in my memory bank is indeed the fact that the radio was always on.
My mum was a young mother; only twenty-one when I was accidentally born in Aberdeen. Not that my birth was an accident. Small though she may have been and, to me as a child, in possession of all the magical powers in the world, she would most definitely have been pregnant before I was born and would naturally have been up to some hanky panky with my other parent. No, my accidental appearance in Aberdeen was down to the fact that she was whisked by ambulance to the Granite City because the local hospital couldn’t cope.
Having narrowly escaped all the ridiculously fashionable names in 1962, I ended up being named after a ridiculous pop singer of ridiculous pop songs, simply because our surnames sounded similar. This left me with a ridiculously un-fashionable name. Worst still, I was anointed by the poisoned chalice of being an Aberdonian.
Situated some sixty miles south east from what would be my home for my first 13 years, to a small boy who rarely ventured beyond the end of his street, Aberdeen was the big city; a place of mystical stature and for all I knew, the edge of the world.

As a child, I was part of a single parent family. I had no real explanation for this and believe me, in one of Scotland’s smallest cities, an explanation was most definitely needed. Everyone knew everyone else and most of their business besides. Even if the kids didn’t really know each other, it was a fair bet that their mothers did and consequently, it was a fair bet that, while their mothers clacked over the fence about the cost of pies or whether Tom Jones really was better than Englebert Humperdink, certain kids would stockpile any poisonous pellets that fell their way, saving them up to be conveniently fired at a time of their choosing at the little gap toothed kid across the street. Others were typically kid-like in their solidarity and their unquestioning nature.
Some had fathers at sea. Some had fathers who were deceased. Some probably had fathers who they claimed were at sea but were actually in jail while others had normal two parent families. Me, I just had no father, no explanation and a source of great insecurity and inferiority that I couldn’t understand. With a mother in her twenties, you would however, be excused for thinking that in my childhood I was exposed to all the cultural delights that prevailed at the time.
Not so.

I wouldn’t say my childhood was unconventional.
Certainly not in the way that being of an insular religious persuasion that eschews modernity and fraternisation with the infidels would mean but my childhood was definitely different from most of my friends. My mother left to work in London and I grew up with my grandparents in the matriarchal and patriarchal roles. By this time, they were in their late sixties. They did old people stuff. They liked old people things like bowling, wrestling and the black and white minstrel show. They wore old people clothes like semmits, y-fronts and big blue raincoats. They ate old people food like tongue, liver and kidney.
Didn’t they know what these things were for?
To my growing disgust, I was expected to do the same and even now, with the exception of retirement homes, I can always tell by the pishy smell when I enter a place where kidney has been cooked. I know this to be true because it has recently been put to the test – not that I’ve been stalking old folks homes you understand.
I guess it must be a war thing.
People who have lived through the world wars feel it necessary to eat all sorts of weird stuff that would induce a gag reflex in most modern beings.
Don’t they know that’s what haggis and black pudding are for!
Just gather up all the slimy wobbly bits that nobody wants.
Add enough black pepper to choke a horse
Chuck it all in a plastic bag.
Boil for an hour.
Instant local delicacy

Their notion of entertainment was no different.
When I wanted to play, they would be off to the bowling club, the wrestling or visiting aging relatives who, instead of toys or radio, had a nice big platter of ox tongue sandwiches. I was never allowed friends in the house and I never had any new stuff. My football kit wasn’t even last seasons, my football boots were given by a mate who outgrew them, my school clothes were like something an insurance broker would wear and my haircut was decidedly short back and nae sides; a style favoured by those engaged in trench warfare. Hell, I was retro before retro was even on the fashion map.
The biggest influence in my life was my grandfather and what that meant was that my pre-teen years amounted to numerous trips to the Masonic lodge, the bowling green or the bookies. I was four going on sixty-four and destined to be a flat capped geek. Something had to be done.
The worst thing of all was the ritual Sunday afternoon trip to the cemetery. Even now, after forty plus years, the psychological scars remain and the very thought of dead flowers is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat.

Big, tombstone riddled field full of dead folk? I can handle that.
Smell of rotting vegetation? Totally f4cked.

The reason for this was it was always the job of my older cousin and I to take last week’s flowers to the bin, wash out the vases and refill them with fresh water. I can vividly recall the cut glass bowl and the chromed lid with all the holes in it that the decaying and slimy chrysanthemum leaves would stick to. I can vividly recall that it was me who had to poke his fingers through each hole to clean it because I was the youngest and had the smallest fingers. The smell would linger for the rest of the day on those little fingers. Then it would be back to another aging aunt for tea and biscuits. Not the kind with chocolate on them. No such luxury as a Jacobs Club. No, these were Garibaldis and Perkins.
Old people biscuits!
I remember one time, and when I think about it, it was probably the last time, when I had a nosebleed that seemed to go on for hours. I stood in my great aunt’s kitchen bleeding profusely into a huge Belfast sink that seemed to turn completely red like the opening credits of a Hammer Horror movie.
This was probably the result of being on receiving end of a sleekit slap in the puss from my older girl cousin; something that my lack of any defined memory of it, tells me it must have been such a frequent occurrence that it seemed the norm.
My memory does treat me to the recollection of the one time I slapped her back when she had sunburn.

As time went on, a demolition order was placed upon our row of asbestos prefabs. In their place were to be built concrete terraces and flats. Ironically, my grandparents declared these a potential death-trap. It was time to move house. I would miss the sun shining on the large white expanses of wall on the servicemens’ houses opposite.
It’s funny how a song can invoke such a strong emotion without ever having any real connection to a particular place or time but whenever I hear Paul Weller’s Pink on White Walls, I’m transported back there, on my little red bus, four years old, looking through the slats in the gate, hoping my mum would come walking up the path.

So it happened that we moved into a brand new council estate with rows and rows of brand new terraced houses (complete with asbestos panels below the windows and warm air central heating blowing through asbestos ductwork – lovely stuff). The streets weren’t complete by the time we moved in and I remember that first summer, in 1967, following the tar spreader and the steam-roller around. I still love the smell of freshly spread tarmac.

That summer, my mother returned from London and I went to school. Things became a little more normal but there were still repression issues about the single parent stuff. There was so much that was beyond the comprehension of a five year old.
The mysterious trips away when I knew she was working at the local bookies; the mysterious uncles I never knew I had; the nights when I would wake and hear her and my grandfather shouting at each other; the night he threatened to throw her out of the house with only me to stop her from hurtling down the stairs.

I was to become more and more reliant on music. I just wasn’t aware of it at the time.
With the radio continually on, and I still remember its Alba logo and its cream plastic body, shaped like one of those retro Dualit toasters, with a 3” diameter dial and the names Athlone, Hilversum, and Luxembourg sounding tantalisingly exotic, I was fed a daily diet of Jimmy Young, Pete Murray and someone called Caroline.
Funny thing was I was sure Caroline was a girls name.

Though everyone knows about Radio One, 1967 and Flowers In The Rain, for me, the birth of a new radio station was even less significant than England’s World Cup triumph a year previous.
I had records.

We had one of those Dansette record players that took 78s, 45s and 33s.
A red box of magic that, when you lifted the arm out of the way, could play the same song over and over.
As I sat in my mum’s bedroom listening to the stack of singles she loaded onto it while getting ready to hit the town, I was transported to a different life.
There was always something by Elvis or Cliff. But more often the tunes were by the Monkees or The Bee Gees. The Kinks or The Beatles.
Some of the Beatles records were actually mine. I had this double EP recording of The Magical Mystery Tour with the little cartoon booklet and in the middle, an off blue double page containing all the words to the songs.
This was my favourite thing at the time.
Listening to I Am The Walrus while my mum put on her slap.
I’m proud to say I still have it.
My record collection, even then, was nothing if not eclectic.
There was the Beatles stuff; a couple of singles by the Monkees; an album by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Titch; another by the Alexander Brothers (old peoples’ music); a little one sided disc that my mum recorded in a booth in London that was supposed to be a reminder of her when she was away at work but just made me sad; and a pink five inch Pinky and Perky single.
To this day, I have no idea where that came from or why the f4ck I listened to its helium induced madness, but I did.
The strange thing was that I loved every one of those records in its own peculiar way.

Growing up, as I did, on the fringes of the highlands, life was simple.
The highlight of my week would be a trip up the street where, if I was a good boy, I might get a Wimpy or even better, if it was summertime and to break up the walk home, a trip to the Park Café. This was a long cafeteria type affair opposite the towering horse chestnut trees of the Cooper Park. It served chips with everything type grub, proper milkshakes and, the best thing of all, Knickerbocker Glories that came in something resembling a trasparent upturned road cone. The place was amazingly of its time, like something out of a Bond movie and to me, was the last line in glamour and sophistication with the most incredible modern art canvasses hung all over the walls. One piece looked like it had been shot at with a machine gun and had three dimensional, two-inch diameter bullet holes sprayed randomly across one corner. Another had an image of a skull that I now recognise as being influenced by HR Giger. Some just had swirls or streaks of dark blues and blacks with the very occasional splat of red.They seemed to represent another world. Something that was dramatic and exciting.

Next door to the Park Café was the Two Red Shoes, Morayshire’s premier nightclub.
I was always being told that the Beatles had played there.
If I’d been an adult, I’m sure my response would have been along the lines of “bollocks” or “away an’ shite” but as it was, I was a child with only my mother’s word to go on. She assured me that she was a personal acquaintance of the clubs owner, a certain Albert Bonici who was a music promoter and a big enough name in the music biz to be able to lure the Animals, the Pink Floyd (allegedly with only a dozen people in attendance) and of course, the Beatles.
Don’t believe me, check it out

Very occasionally, probably on birthdays, these trips up the street would be combined with a trip to the pictures. The cinema in my little corner of the highlands was called the Playhouse. Built in the early 1930s to the design of Alister G MacDonald, it would be fair to expect some sort of majestic Art Deco façade befitting the times but no, presumably the architect, being the son of the great politician and first Labour PM, Ramsay MacDonald, was so well steeped in greyness that the end result was a drab affair wedged below the City Hotel, giving the whole thing the appearance of an entrance to a premises with delusions of grandeur. In later years it would find its true place in society, flanked by the Wimpy and an Italian chippy.

Circumstance usually dictated that it was a birthday but, under any circumstances, a trip to the pictures was a much sought after treat. You got to see the latest release on a massive screen with massive sound. You got a packet of Paynes Poppets (the regal version of Revels) and, if you were lucky, you got one of those Kia Ora drinks that tasted of plastic.
The Love Bug; Where Eagles Dare; The Battle of Britain and Kidnapped are the ones I remember with most clarity. I also remember the thrill of going in on the High Street and coming out through a side door onto North Street. Why this was a thrill is way beyond my comprehension. I just remember it was a thrill. Going with mum was also a thrill and way better than the Saturday kids’ matinee where you got in for nothing if you took a bag of sugar and an empty jam jar. This was partly because there were always bigger kids from the other end of town trying to pick fights and partly because, quite frankly, the films were shite.
They were poor, less exciting, imitations of the Man from UNCLE, Mission Impossible and the Avengers or less exotic and charming versions of the Flashing Blade, Belle & Sebastian, and the White Horses.

As the decade drew to a close, if it wasn’t on the TV, it wasn’t happening.
I remember the Apollo missions, the televised coverage and my collection of coins from the Esso garage.
I remember the black power salutes during the Mexico Olympics and my grandfather’s outrage at the politicising of a sporting event.
I remember general elections and sombre people called Harold Wilson & Ted Heath who were supposedly something called politicians.
I knew this was a serious business because they never smiled.
I remember George Best and Cassius Clay, Tommy Cooper and Morcambe & Wise all of whom never seemed to stop smiling.
Viewed through the eight by ten inch fuzzy grey screen in our front room, it seemed a world away from home but also a world away from the Cavern and Carnaby Street or Cape Canaveral and Westminster.
I guess I didn’t get the significance of any of it and, while my mum and grandparents sat transfixed by these unfolding events, I was happier listening to the radio.

One thing that I clearly did get the significance of was Top of the Pops. Even though it would be 1971 before colour transmissions kicked in, and a further two years before we had anything remotely equipped with the right stuff to receive the colour pictures, my first tastes of Top of the Pops in the late sixties were like some forbidden fruit.
Music porn for the under tens.
I thought all my birthdays had come at once.

The Beatles – Most Wanted
http://www.sendspace.com/file/stfqr3

Divine Comedy – Barcelona 2006
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0j4c1o

Ocean Colour Scene - The Village, Dublin, 2003
http://www.sendspace.com/file/hljdr2

Drever, McCusker & Woomble – Live at Pocklington
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wvpk1h

John Mellencamp – Check This Out – Live in Hamburg
http://www.sendspace.com/file/oq36li

Oysterband – Live in Bologna
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ociol7

Damien Rice – World Café 2006
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xd5b9z

Eddie & The Hot Rods - Live in Preoria
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ofrz6x

Jose Gonsalez - Factory Theatre
http://www.sendspace.com/file/mj6a58

Fire Engines – Retford + London
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wfu6bb

Go Betweens – Brussels Botanique
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zfmcqn

Orange Juice - Glasgow Tech
http://www.sendspace.com/file/f7zgl5

The Stranglers - Live At The Ritz
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wh05wu

The Alarm – Astra Theatre, Llandudno
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4hkywd

Green On Red – I-Beam
http://www.sendspace.com/file/bh3e8t

King Creosote – Slaughtered Lamb
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9dkqk3

Lou Reed – Acoustic Demos 1970
http://www.sendspace.com/file/7yu8hy

Enjoy
Next episode in a week or ten.

Cheers

Hooli

...I can live and breathe and feel the sun in winter time...

2010-02-15T17:43:00.003Z

Back in the early 90s, during life before children, I was in my late twenties and early thirties; I was at the peak of my fitness. Every weekend was spent hill walking, biking or doing general outdoor stuff.
My tendency, as a teenager and young adult, to back away from anything unknown had served me well. It kept me away from serious drugs while allowing me the relatively safe hit of alcohol. It kept me from dangerous pastimes and any new venture was met with vigorous bouts of kicking and screaming on my part. Everything was done on my terms and I scarcely ventured out of my comfort zone. Now, as I see my eldest daughter growing up with the same reticent sense of self preservation, I realise that I no longer hold the same set of values. I wouldn’t say I’m making up for lost time but I do believe you’re never too old to try something new.
So, with the kids packed away to their cousins along with their grandparents, Valentine’s day beckoning and the winter Olympics set to start, the weekend seemed set for some adult fun with no kids around to complain about what we were eating, how much we were drinking, what we were watching on TV or which recreational activities we chose to pursue.
Two full days to do whatever we wanted!
No gymnastics run. No requests to go into town or the cinema.

Despite my love for moaning about it, one of the advantages to living where I do is the close proximity to the Cairngorms. Within an hour or so, I can be away from the city, wrapped up in wilderness and away from people. The other great thing is the fact that when you combine continual northerly airflow with altitudes above 3000 feet, you get snow. Not only do you get snow but you get it in such sufficiency that it is possible to ski on decent and challenging outdoor slopes. When I was younger, I was a skier of reasonable ability (after overcoming the hurdle of my comfort zone). OK, so Alberta Tomba never had anything to worry about but despite my modest technical ability, I could handle pretty much any slope. So having had the best snow we’ve had in about twenty years we were set for a weekend of skiing.
Then, someone had the bright idea that we should go boarding.
Totally rad, I thought.
Bit of a young things game with its own code, its own lingo and its own style.
My old eighties, Milk Tray man ski suit was sure to make me look like a complete twat and I was worried about the fact that I would probably want to ski rather than board but hey, I was up for it.

Now, if you imagine this to be a Disney cartoon with a voiceover by James McAvoy, I‘m sure you can guess that by the time the end credits roll, I’m popping tricks like Shaun White on speed. Not the case. Fortunately for me, and everyone else, this ain’t no Buena Vista production and I scarcely come close to Mr White in the hair, teeth or skills department. In fact, I’m pretty sure even if I wound the clock back twenty years and went at this full tilt, anything more elaborate than a falling leaf descent would still elude me for many years to come. Still, going into this with some experience as a two planker, I figured I was going to be able to deal with the theory and the embarrassment of some spectacular wipe outs. As it turned out, I needn’t have concerned myself with any of that. The worst thing, apart from being skied into by a novice skier while trying to get myself upright, was the pain that I was left with the day after. I never came to grief, although the afore-mentioned novice did leave me with a nice big bruise after she skied across my stomach. She was very apologetic and, to be perfectly honest, I was in no position to complain. Had she been built like an East German shot putter with a face like a box of toads it might have been a different story. Let’s just say I’ve had worse experiences and having someone ski across your stomach isn’t the worst thing that can happen to your Saturday afternoon. No, the pain was solely down to the continued effort of pushing myself upright from behind. This was akin to backwards press ups with someone continuously kicking your feet out from underneath you.
Anyway, having got the hang of getting upright and managing to get from one end of the slope to the other without injuring myself or anyone else, I was feeling quite pleased with the days efforts. A quick nip down the road, stopping off for an Indian carry out on the way home, and we were seated, beer in one hand, pakora in the other, watching the ski jumping on the telly. Bedtime on the horizon, now the fun was about to really begin.

No, you dirty buggers, that’s not what I mean.

Although I did manage to get up the stairs, anything involving any form of co-ordinated movement using the arms or upper body, were rendered impossible by the cumulating pain in my arms and shoulders coupled with an inability to control my motor skills.
After a restless night of broken sleep, I awoke on Sunday morning to a cup of coffee, some heart-shaped chocolate thingies and the overwhelming feeling that I’d been the victim of some exotic form of assault and battery that involved being swung around by the arms then being tangentially released at speed into a brick wall, kind of like the hammer throwing that you see in the Olympics I guess, except without the female oxter hair and popping neck veins.
As Sunday proceeded, the simple things like tying boot laces, picking up carelessly dropped items and wiping one’s arse became marginally impossible.
Too much information I hear you say, but if you’ve ever injured your back, or anything else for that matter, you’ll know what I mean. It’s the simple things in life that get you down.

People have invented things to simplify these matters.
The stair-lift; the auto-grabber; the slip on shoe.
Sadly, aside from the bidet, no one has invented the auto butt wiper. I visualise one of those things we use in industry for wiping boots on; two upturned brushes with a vertical handle at the top to save the user from falling over. Raise the brush to butt level, replace it with a roll of Andrex and affect a sort of humping motion over it.
Bingo - assuming your stomach muscles will permit anything like a humping motion.
At least you only have to do it once a day.

Makes last night’s curry seem like not such a good idea though...

As for the boarding? What a blast.
Already planning my next trip

What better way to celebrate the best Scotland has to offer…

Big Country – Glasgow Apollo, 21.12.1984
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qxm6d7

Arab Strap - Centro Social Espanol, Montreal 12.04.2001
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6l4kau

Arab Strap - La Tulipe, Montreal, 05.04.2006
http://www.sendspace.com/file/20fwja

Television – CBGB 18.02.1976
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6heutl

Velvet Crush - New York, 21.10.1994
http://www.sendspace.com/file/gw6tvr

Garbage - Long Beach Arena, CA, 29.11.2002
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6jkj6i

Felice Brothers – Grimey’s Store Nashville, 04.04.2008
http://www.sendspace.com/file/93coln

Felice Brothers – Mercy Lounge, Nashville, 03.04.2008
http://www.sendspace.com/file/x9wykd

Pulp – Black Session, 20.10.1995
http://www.sendspace.com/file/683a7j

Pulp - Glasgow, 04.04.1994
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4vfq04

Cat Power - Astor Theatre Perth, Australia, 06.01.2010
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wcp9wf

Led Zeppelin – Detroit, 12.07.1973
http://www.sendspace.com/file/intqkf

Steve Earle – Perth Concert Hall, 07.12.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/937vsn

Dave Sharp – Kilmarnock, 15.09.1991
http://www.sendspace.com/file/if59j9

The Alarm – Middlesborough Town Hall, 05.11.1984
http://www.sendspace.com/file/8phlo0

Pete Wylie – Bradford Pennington’s, 02.05.2002
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ex2d91

The Stranglers - Live In Toronto 1980
http://www.sendspace.com/file/yng6qc

The Beatles – Montreal Quebec, 09.08.1964
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ent3fx

Jethro Tull – Toronto, 04.06.1972
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xqeyxw

Til next time, enjoy.

Hooli

...cut the cackle cos we're getting to the facts now...

2010-01-31T15:44:00.002Z

Everybody has their thing.
For some it’s cars. For others it’s bikes.
Some do sports, others do movies.
Even the most brutally challenged of imaginations finds something to capture the little niche that remains unoccupied by the events of their daily life.

For most, it’s a healthy interest in some form of escape; something that takes them to another place. A place where they can be someone else or, in some cases, where they can stop pretending to be someone else and actually just be themselves. Like an imaginary friend, who never tells you the bad stuff, everybody has their crutch. Everybody has something to lean on when the need arises; something that is a comfort in the darkest of times.
For some it’s the church or religion
For others, maybe it’s a wee bit of a bevvy on a Friday night. A little bit of self-medication to cleanse the shit that has been sucked in during the week; maybe a bit of chocolate, a guilty pleasure to make amends for a week of starvation and a diet of rocket and goji berries. Maybe even a little dabble in the world of narcotics or the secret red lit and wax dripped world of the gimp.
Who knows?
Quite frankly, who cares.
Everybody has their thing and, so long as they’re not pissing in my porridge, I couldna give a toss.

As I guess anyone who comes here has noticed, my thing is music; that incredible journey through all 51 states, Europe and the world beyond.
I say 51 states because everybody knows that England is the 51st of the United States of America.
Music is a journey and whatever I’m listening to will be what I’m playing and vice versa.

Having recently read books by Mark Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie, it’s clear that I’m not alone in this lifelong journey. So impressed was I, by their anecdotal styles and the intimacy of their stories that I toyed with the idea of a similar musical travelogue myself. I had it all planned, a chapter a month; the twelve musical phases of my life. I even went to the bother of writing it. I got as far as chapter eight which, if I’m being honest, and honest is something you have to be to do that whole autobiographical thing, was a piece of piss. It’s actually making it interesting enough for someone else to want to read that’s the tricky part. That said, and having convinced myself that it’s not the sort of thing to grace these pages for the next coming year, I still have to decide what to do about this blog.
It’s time for a change as I can’t maintain the grumpy Jack Dee persona forever.
Not sure what that change will be or even if it will be noticeable.

Meantime, taking the long way round to a subject that is close to our hearts, I consider that with every passing day, I learn something new and so, with a strange sort of similarity, with every passing week, my musical appetite demands that I hear something new.
No longer being a radio fan, I rely on a combination of the internet and the music press to fulfil this appetite. As I do from time to time, I was flicking through the music monthlies the other day before consigning them to the recycling bag that is my daughter’s bedroom.
Generally, I read the same columns first and then plough through the uninteresting dross at my leisure.
It was during this perusal, that I stumbled upon something that interested me.
Sir William of Barking, Billy Bragg no less, had entered the great file sharing debate and, as you would expect from a man of his intelligence, was being very pragmatic as he surfed atop the veritable pishwave churned up by Lily Allen.
Much has already been said and there can be no doubt that a great deal more pontificating will abound from the industry flat earthers.
I have already made it plain what my feelings are on the matter and will reiterate this only by saying that a large percentage of the files I download or see made available for download are either total or partial shite.
On average, before I started in this two ring circus, I was spending around fifty quid a month on CDs, 90% of which were crap. This peaked in the mid eighties when, during the CD revolution, I had more disposable income than ever before. I was buying out of curiosity or out of loyalty. Sometimes on the basis of a single track heard on the radio. I expect I’m pretty average in that context. Still, that amounts to a sizeable annual outlay. Factor in gigs and the travelling costs; TV/Radio licence and the 50 quid a year I was paying to the public library to borrow CDs and DVDs in order to satisfy my curiosity; it all adds up to more than I could really afford. In truth, gigging was a luxury I couldn’t really afford.
OK, so the rock star isn’t to blame for my poor choice of home town but having spent in excess of 500 nicker to see a band, I think I can be forgiven for feeling a bit pissed.
Seasoned visitors here will no doubt be experiencing déjà vu by now but the point is, putting on my best American sitcom accent, I don’t actually buy all that shit about impoverished artists and how file sharing is sucking the lifeblood out of the most creative industry in the world.
A visit to Tom Robinson’s website puts it all in perspective.
He has a number of albums up for download and an option to donate what you think they’re worth.
He has a nice little equation showing how much or rather, how little, he would get if you downloaded these from iTunes
Interesting to see this point of view so blatantly endorsed on his own website.

Another interesting thought I saw on a website tried to explain the modern concept of copyright and I quote:

“The modern idea of copyright in the UK began with the 1710 Statute of Anne, the full title of which was An Act for the Encouragement of Learning, by vesting the Copies of Printed Books in the Authors or purchasers of such Copies, during the Times therein mentioned.
The purpose was the encouragement of learning, rather than the increase in printers' profits.
So basically, copyright is a bargain between a creative person and the public. The public, via their elected representatives, say: "We will make a law which gives you a monopoly, for a limited time, on copying some creative work you have made. This financially enables you to create more works without needing a wealthy patron. And it gives us those works to enjoy, and eventually all the rights to them we would have in absence of the law."
The "Time therein mentioned" by the Statute of Anne was 14 years. Today, for musical works, the copyright term is 50 years, which means that the work of some major artists from the 1960s we still listen to today, such as The Beatles, is not far from coming out of copyright.
The record companies therefore have a financial interest in extending the copyright term on existing works. So, they have responded to the Gowers Review by rolling out major artists like Cliff Richard and Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull to get all indignant about how their creative output is not being valued if they can't continue to make money from it.
But the entire multi-million pound record industry has been founded on a 50-year copyright term. The executives looked at the law, said "yes, this is a bargain we are prepared to strike with the public" and got on with the job of finding and promoting artists - very successfully.
Clearly, the copyright term is doing its job. Production of creative works has been encouraged. But now, when the patient public is coming close to getting its end of the bargain, suddenly they want to change the deal.
Let's do a thought experiment. What would happen if, tomorrow, the entire Beatles' back catalogue was suddenly out of copyright?
Firstly, it would quickly become much more widely available and listened to. High-quality copies would appear on all the legal peer-to-peer filesharing networks, and on music sale services like iTunes (where currently it's prevented from appearing by the rightsholders).
Several budget CD labels would issue box sets of the entire back catalogue at a low price. The Beatles' record company might well do higher-priced deluxe versions with bonus content such as videos or interviews to which they still had the rights. Someone would press some Beatles vinyl so scratch DJs could get their hands on copies more easily.
New music, such as dance or hip-hop, which sampled the originals, would be created and commercially released. Beatles music would become the soundtrack to many budget films, as artists jumped at the chance to use something recognisable without having to go through the hassle and expense of clearing. In short, there would be an explosion of creative output.”

Whichever way it’s tarted up, the balance of power always lies with the record companies and the industry because the law protects them and when the law cannot protect them anymore, they just make up some more laws.
As I’ve said previously, I’ve fallen foul of the takedown shakedown gang to the point where I am only posting ROIO or bootlegs.
I have heard that even that is under scrutiny with King Crimson flashing their takedown badge.
Why anyone would want to download such pompous drivel is beyond me but hey, its music Jim but not as we know it.

The best one I’ve heard recently though has to be the one where Edwyn Collins has been told he can’t put A Girl Like You on his My Space page. A song that he wrote, distributed and therefore, owns.

Totally bizarre.

And so...

Sector 27 – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/lwv8mk

Various Artists – A Scottish Songbook
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4u73rx

Emma Pollock – Echo
http://www.sendspace.com/file/q1gp34

Mike Peters – Radio Wales, December 2008
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4wht24

Tenacious D – Wellington , NZ, 27.12.2004
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ygh2nf

Bob Dylan – Edinburgh Playhouse 1995
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5396dc

Tom Waits – Christchurch, NZ, 04.09.1981
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ya61ns

Dave Sharp – Live in Greenock, 16.01.1991
http://www.sendspace.com/file/l7yldd

The Twilight Sad - KEXP at the Doug Fir Lounge, 17.09. 2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/blzn5u

American Music Club – Live at the Venue, Edinburgh, 26.01.1992
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wbqlqx

The Blues Band – Live at the BBC
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4rn0dy

The Bangles – Bristol, 30.06.2008
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0menk4

The Primitives, Birmingham Powerhouse, 08.05.1988
http://www.sendspace.com/file/dzg71c

American Music Club – Calton Hill, Edinburgh30.08.1994
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6alzry

Hugh Cornwell – Wasted Festival
http://www.sendspace.com/file/kqyjpe

Laura Marling - St Pancras Old Church, 23.11.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/cmffyu

Twilight Sad – Neumos, Seattle, 16.09.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/004xzk

Blood Red Shoes - Madame Jo Jo's London, UK 2006-09-26
http://www.sendspace.com/file/1a1fqm

The Boomtown Rats - Live in California,
http://www.sendspace.com/file/v607dy

Drever, McCusker & Woomble – Live at Pocklington
http://www.sendspace.com/file/lzd71z

Joe Pug – Poe Pug
http://www.sendspace.com/file/y4hq3n

James – Festival Les Eurockéennes, Belfort 23.06.1991
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wfybsz

'til next time,

enjoy.

Hooli

A Winter Trilogy

2009-12-22T17:33:00.004Z

The Ghost of Christmas Past
(…I’ve come to know the wishlist of my father…)

When I was first married, I lived in a small flat within a granite tenement near the centre of town. In many respects, this was ideal. We were young, had little responsibilities and behaved accordingly. Where we lived was like a city centre village, a remnant from the Victorian era, with its parks nearby and all the benefits of the city centre amenities close at hand.
It was walking distance to all the best bars and, geographically speaking, ideally placed for a curry or a kebab on the way home. The neighbourhood had shops; grocer, butcher, baker, fishmonger, home brew shop and guitar shop.
Christmas shopping was a piece of piss.
Ten minute walk to the west end shops, four hours later, hundred quid lighter, it was done.

The flat had been a typical Victorian tenement; shared outside cludgies; big copper steepie in the back lobby; coal boiler and bunkers; scrubbing board and mangle; two rooms with open fires, eight foot high ceilings and bugger all else.
If this was the typical tenement flat, why should we expect it to get anything more than a typical 1980s tenement conversion?
Front room left exactly as was but with the added attraction of having the fireplace boarded up; backroom unevenly quartered to provide a poky wee hall, a poky wee bedroom, a poky wee bathroom and the usual non-cat-swing kitchen, barely large enough to accommodate two people and a turkey.

After four years of us living there the transformation was complete. The final insult to the Victorian era; pink and grey walls complete with black ash, smoked glass and chrome.

One of the downsides though was that the building had no central heating to speak of. In fact, when we moved in, it had no heating whatsoever.
Not being endowed with great wealth, we saw fit to install a couple of electric panel heaters; the kind of thing that you can set on a timer to come on before you get in from work; the kind that give off the thermal equivalent of a puddle of cats piss. On more than one occasion, it was so cold that the ice formed on the inside of the windows and the only way to get any heat was to have a bath.

The real trouble with tenement living though, the main thing that drives most sane adults into semi-detached suburbia, is mostly that you have multiple neighbours.
This, in itself isn’t so much of a problem as their antics.
I was naïve enough to expect that there would be a degree of community spirit within the building. That we would all look out for each other and be like a big but slightly disjointed family.

Sap!

The reality was that, right up until the day we left, with only one exception, we never really knew any of our neighbours.
We were fortunate to have an elderly couple opposite (except they weren’t really a couple, more of a widowed old guy still clinging the notion that his wife had just popped out for some spam and would be back in a wee minute) and an elderly and, generally, harmless old biddie upstairs but, as time wore on and sheltered housing beckoned, all that was to change. We also had a Spanish chef who lived directly above us. He was known to come home from work and, in what I could only assume to be a fit of depression about either a lost love or a burnt paella, blast out Harry Nilsson singing Without You on a permanent loop. I guess we can now count ourselves fortunate that it predated that skirling bitch Mariah Carey. Other times, we would hear him working out on one of those trim-track rowing machine contraptions, the endless swish-swoosh coupled with his grunting, set to a Dr. Hook soundtrack, all conspired to sound like a bizarre, marathon sex session.
Upstairs on the other side, the sweet old lady, whose washday was Monday and woe betide anyone who ignored the fact, vacated the premises when its owner sold up. As a replacement we had the Ginger Medusa and her daughters the Peroxide Rottweiler and the Peroxide Doberman. Nobody had much to do with them because we all knew a single look could turn mere mortals to stone.
Washing ceased to be an issue though as they never seemed to do any.
Downstairs, across the hall from us, the old man with the ill fitting gnashers and his imaginary wife soon felt the warm hand of benevolence and succumbed to the pishy stench of a care home in the country.
The flat was sold to an agency, done up with a bit of new paint and after months of being empty, we had new neebs across the hall.
It was all quiet for the first couple of weeks but very quickly, that spiralled into a depressing cycle of Thursday afternoon, he got paid; Thursday evening, he came home shit-faced; Thursday night, she’d kick him out; Thursday midnight, he’d kick his way back in; early Friday morning he’d crank the music up full blast and kick seven bells out of her. Monday morning the door would get fixed so he could kick the shit out of it again a couple of weeks later. Rest of the time, he would shout at her, she would shout back, doors would slam, music would get cranked up and we would dread the doorbell ringing.
We came to suspect after a while that the job he claimed to have as a chef at the local nut house was nothing but a fantasy and he was in fact one of the inmates. Either that or it was one of those situations like owners and their dogs getting to look like each other, where he had been around bams for so long he turned into one.
The final straw came when, after he had smashed a six-inch hole in the shared lobby wall, presumably because the door had remained locked, he managed to get into his flat taking my wife with him.

Eviction soon followed.

Domestic trials aside, those were happy times. We generally lived by our means. Drank a lot of homebrew, took lots of baths and wore lots of layers in the winter.

We’d had a few practice runs at the roast dinner by the time Christmas came around. One spectacular disaster springs to mind when, having invited my in-laws for Sunday dinner, I went to the pub after work, leaving my wife to deal with the roast. I wasn’t exactly blootered but let’s just say that me and that chicken weren’t exactly seeing eye to eye. My less than sober attempts to carve the beast ended up with the chicken skiting across the plate, performing an intricate pirouette with a full somersault and twist before landing on the floor. The following battle to restore the trussed up bird to its place of glory alongside the tatties was one I was never going to win and in the end it looked like the neighbour’s cat had got at it.
We spent a lot of time preparing for what was our first, and when I think of it, probably only Christmas alone together. Bought a nice bit of beef (never could stand turkey); some nice wine; a dinky little Christmas pudding; even turned the heating on in October to let things warm up. I can’t recall much about what gifts were exchanged but I do remember it was the first year I had ever had a real Christmas tree. It was eight feet high, touched the ceiling and I had to use a stepladder to reach the top. We bought a whole stack of glass baubles, loaded it up and stuck it in the window.
I’ve always thought of the Christmas tree as a binary sort of thing – one of life’s classic polarisers – you’re either real tree with needles or fake plastic tree without.
I grew up in a needle free house.

This was my revenge on my childhood. This was my way of exercising my right to freedom of choice. I wanted to post handfuls of pine needles through the letterboxes of all the homes with plastic tress in their windows.

When Christmas Day came round, among the presents was a bottle of Moniack Sloe Gin. For those not familiar with Scottish wineries, Moniack Castle is a wee place up past Inverness and let me tell you, these guys know a thing or two about making gin taste good.
As the day went on, and the level of the bottle went down, dinner seemed like less and less of a reality. I’m not sure if it got burnt or even reached the oven but I can remember the two of us watching some crappy James Bond movie on a 12” TV, laughing our arses off amid the piles of wrapping paper.

Our lives were so uncomplicated then.
We could be happy with the simple wish of being together.
Now though, the wishes are not our own…

Opening the Christmas parade, Joe Pug.
Watch out for this guy; buy his album when it comes out. Hails from Chicago. Writes like Dylan crossed with Josh Ritter. Simple style. One man; one guitar. Saw him supporting Steve Earle. The rest is just the usual trawl through the archives…

Joe Pug – The Pageant, St. Louis
http://www.sendspace.com/file/mtt6nx

Steve Earle – The Pageant, St. Louis
http://www.sendspace.com/file/kfvo6e

Tom Waits – San Diego Folk Festival
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xggcac

Bob Dylan – Hartford
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ydqlet

Rockpile - Bottom Line
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qcfdoc

Wreckless Eric – Be Stiff Concert
http://www.sendspace.com/file/87u7h5

Rachel Sweet – Be Stiff Concert
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3vsg5q

Lene Lovich – Be Stiff Concert
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zmsh4j

Rachel Sweet – Cleveland Agora
http://www.sendspace.com/file/57u0dg

Steve Wickham – Dublin
http://www.sendspace.com/file/e0klk9

Lloyd Cole – Paris
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4z492k

Karine Polwart - Marlborough Town Hall
http://www.sendspace.com/file/850iia

Arab Strap – Live In Melbourne
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5xmtu6

The Ghost of Christmas Present
(…think this bus is stopping again to let a couple more freaks get on…)

Having conceded to the fact that I had to do some Christmas shopping, at least to get my own present, I had enlisted the help of those jolly nice chaps at Amazon.com. Deep inside though, I knew there was always going to be something that needed a trip into town.
Shopping can, for some people, be an enjoyable, rewarding and sometimes therapeutic experience. The catharsis of spending your hard earned bawbees on something you really want, having spent the preceding five days doing a load of stuff that someone else wants, sort of makes it all worthwhile. For many of us though, it is a strange and often frustrating experience. Maybe its just familiarity but the same old shops touting the same old wares and the same old fake jewellery stalls blocking the same old thoroughfares hold no excitement for me whatsoever. I always find shopping in another city a more pleasurable experience. Glasgow has the Buchanan Galleries; Birmingham has the Bull Ring; Manchester has Trafford Park; Dundee has the Wellgate; and Newcastle has the Metro Centre. We have the Bon Accord Centre, the Mall Trinity, and the St. Nicholas Centre. Now, as an added bonus, presumably for good behaviour and exceptional endurance, we get Union Square.
A fourth shopping mall, claiming to be just what the city has been waiting for!
Am I missing something here? Aren’t we in the midst of economic gloom?
We’ve never managed to fill all the units in the old shopping malls so what the f4ck do we need another one for? It’ll just be another place for scummy little tabbie munchers and underage mothers to hang out with their screaming weans.
Worse still, they built the place a stones throw from the harbour bars and the red light district, the seedy underworld of Stuart MacBride novels.
Even worse than that, they built it between the harbour and the fish market. Now what sort of olfactory sensation is that likely to spark?
Just the inspiration you need as you’re leafing through the Faith and Zara designs; fish guts, salt and diesel. Somehow I don’t think my wife would be too happy with a yellow sou’wester and a pair of matching 20 joule, steel toe cap wellies in her Christmas stocking.
– note to self – next time Walkers are looking for new crisp flavours…

Still, at least it’s next to the bus station and the rail station.
Handy, Really handy!
Especially when you consider that ninety percent of the people who are likely to visit the place don’t have direct access to a rail link.
I’m lucky; the railway runs past the end of my street. Shame some bastard shut the station in the 1960s. Still you can’t have everything. At least I’ve got the bus service. That runs through my particular little part of suburbia with the usual regularity and because I live in a group of streets that now resembles a triangular island surrounded by three main roads, I have three options from which to board said omnibus.
Because this also involves the merging of three routes, it also means that at one of the stops, a bus is due every ten minutes or, if you inhabit the real world, three times an hour, usually grouped together, with the other three broken down somewhere on the other side of town.
It’s funny that whenever I’m a pedestrian trying to cross the street there are buses zipping back and forth with all the frequency of the last remaining space invader; and isn’t it funny when I’m in a hurry to drop the kids off before going to work, I get stuck behind one that then stops at every stop before halting for a chat with its mate going the opposite direction.
Funny Funny! Ha Ha f4cking Ha!

Another problem with the bus service and living where I do is that the normal city bus service goes up what used to be the main shopping street.
Now maybe it’s me and maybe I’m just being a little over sensitive or perhaps even a little too forward thinking here but what the hell is the point of running a bus service up a street where there haven’t been any shops since Moses was a lad.
Yeah, OK, it might be tradition and yes, I agree, the routes have to be interconnectable to get from all the As to all the Bs but that is of no comfort to Old Maisie in her blue raincoat and polythene head-square. She doesn’t want to have to trudge an extra quarter of a mile in the cold and the rain with her throbbing bunions and dodgy hip while dragging her little tartan shopping trolley down the steps. She may well have a buss pass but she doesn’t want to take three buses to get from her front step to Woolies. No wonder old people moan so much.
Thirteen different lines and they all go up the same street. Not one of them goes to the bus station. What good is that?
Even the park and ride goes straight up the old main drag. The only moment of sanity in the whole parade is on Sundays, when the P&R goes to the new shopping centre. Just as well I’m not a church goer like Old Maisie.
So to get to where I want to go, I have to get what is called a country bus. This is the service that goes from the station, ultimately, to Inverness and back again. It runs about once every two days and is the technological equivalent of the Oregon Trail.

Anyway, here we are, mid-December, Aberdeen, pissing rain and not a parking space to be had so, being a fine young specimen of manhood and feeling fit, healthy and free from hangover, against my better judgement, I decide to take my chances with the city bus.

Aside from the lack of ‘door to door’ aspect, which I can live with, for many years now I’ve had a long running mental battle with public transport.
Back when I was a kid, in the days of double deckers and clippies; Aztec bars and blue lemonade; when we wore platform soles and Oxford bags and Bowie and Bolan were the ultimate style icons, public transport was widely used by all manner of people. It was cheap. It went exactly where you wanted it to go, it was frequent, on time and you didn’t have to worry about parking on the high street.
We even had a sitcom dedicated entirely to the realm of the bus depot.
For years I travelled by bus to secondary school. This again was cheap and the trip was largely for the benefit of school kids and commuters.
After I left school, I became one of those commuters. Even though it was only twice a week, it was something I dreaded. Six of us would make the 30 mile, Sunday evening trip up the coast, already longing for the trip back the following Friday but even then, the journey was bearable.
Then something changed.
Firstly, I passed my driving test, which meant I literally could travel door to door.
Secondly, I went on an ill-advised holiday to the Costa del Sol that departed from Newcastle airport. The ensuing bus trip was one of those that seemed to be unending.
Finally, when I was about 25, a drunk driver pulled his transit van in front of me, writing off the first decent car I owned.
The battle with the insurance company that followed was a protracted affair that left me with no car for around six months. The battle with my own nerves left me shitting myself every time I was anywhere within 50 metres of a Transit van. It was back to the good old number 19 for me. This left me with a deep-rooted resentment for public transport.
The thing about it was that, in the same way as if I was at a gig, at a football match or standing in a queue at an airport, I would always land up with some total fruit-loop next to me.
Like the DHSS, Primark and the council offices, buses are a magnet for the great unwashed. I use that term not as a metaphor.
My recent adventure to the city illustrates the point perfectly.

I leave the house at 9.15 and begin the walk to the bus stop. About a hundred metres away from my house, I take a shortcut through a hotel car park. This is a diagonal route that saves me taking two sides of a triangle and avoids the ‘young offenders’ home at the bottom of the street. I dodge a number of piles of dog shit and reach the main road where I pass two pubs outside which the pavements are littered with tabbies. There are the usual broken bottles and glasses, not to mention a couple of technicolour yawns decorating the pavement. Round the next corner, I pass a Chinese takeaway and, after a couple of hundred metres, the obligatory Chow Mein. I’m not sure if this is first or second hand and I’m not interested enough to want to find out. Another 100 metres or so and I’m at the bus stop.
At one end, the window has been tanned so I move in and turn my back to the wind.
The whole place stinks of stale pish, cigarettes and old newspapers.
I’m eventually joined by a young mother with a pushchair. Judging by her figure, which is disproportionately round in comparison to her scrawny face and neck, she’s going to have to get an extension fitted to the buggy pretty soon. I warn her against taking the wee one into the bus shelter. She scowls at me as if it was me who pished in the corner. The oversized geet scowls also, which makes his face look like a monkey’s arsehole.
An elderly couple are approaching, maybe about two hundred metres away, as the bus steams in to view. As it draws closer, the words Out Of Service become clear on the front. Why the hell is it on the road if it’s out of service is my immediate thought. Like my whole take on the offside rule, (that if you’re on the pitch you bloody well better be interfering with play, unless you are the goalkeeper) it’s a thought that I keep to myself.
Another bus comes into view, with another, a couple of cars behind. An 18 and a 21.
Both due to stop. Both intent on keeping going into town.
Eventually another 21 shows up and pulls into our stop.
Someone exits through the middle door.
As I hang back to let the elderly couple get on first, the scowl and her arse faced offspring barge past me to confront the driver.

“Eh min, fit i fckinell is iss aboot like min? Bin wiytin’ here fraboot a fckin’ oor like. Ah shouldna hivtbe staunin’ oot in is caul in ma condition, ‘is isny gidinuf me freezinmititsaff like. Three o youze jist drove past me, me wi a bairn an in ma condition ‘n’ ah. Altiye iss, if ma lad wiz here he’d fckinsortyiz oot so e wid. Ah’ll fckintell ‘im fan ‘e gits oot”

“You can’t take that on here”
I’m not sure if it’s the buggy or the sprog the driver is referring to. Maybe it’s her festering gob.
”Fit i fckinell d’ye mean like? Fit dyemean a canna tak iss oan here? Hoo the f4ck am ah mint tae get is wee shite aboot wi’oot it like? D’ye hink ahm fckin wundirwummin like? Fckinell, youze are a i same. Altiye iss…”

“Miss, you can’t take the pushchair on the bus. There is no room. Have a look. There is standing room only.”

“Fitye mean staunin room only? Ah canny staun in ma condition. Hiv ye nae een ye fckinbam? Kin ye nae see ahm riddy to fckin drap like?”

It’s at this point that the other bus pulls in and, thankfully, I leave the exchange.

The elderly couple board, flash their passes and I follow, parting with my £2.50 fare.
I do a quick scan and opt for a seat next to a window midway up the bus. Just as I get comfortable and jam my phones in my ears, the inevitable happens, I see arse face and his scowling mother stomping towards the bus.
Please drive off, please go, go, go – too late, they’re on.
She hauls arse face out of the buggy, collapses it and hurls it at the storage rack.
Please sit up stairs, go on, turn left, go on – too late.
Please don’t sit next to me or even near me, please, go just keep going, please –
Aw f4ck.
Why did she have to sit behind me?
Opposite or in front of would have been bad enough but behind? Why behind?
Who knows what manner of snotters, spittle or generalised barf I’m going to get covered in.
After a couple of minutes I get a tap on the arm.
“Eh min, yigotonyfagslike?”
“No sorry I don…”
“Ah yifcka aatsfityizasay. Geeza a fag yigrippybasturt”
“I told you I don’t…”
“Goat ony beer en? Yi must hae suhin’” she says as arse face tugs at her arm.
“tifckuryiwintinyiweeshite?”
“Oose, oose” is the gurgled reply.
As I turn away from her, she produces a plastic bottle of something red and fizzy and I’m thinking “oh shit here we go”. I hear arse face grab the bottle with delight while she’s still trying to get the cap off. I sense a mini tug of war behind me then a fshfwooshhhh. I’m waiting for the wet sticky spray on the back of my neck but it never comes.
I sneak a look at the reflected scene in the window opposite and notice that the scowl, the bump and arse features are covered in wet cola splats.
Maybe there is a God after all.
I stand and head upstairs, safe in the knowledge that in the equation (her lazy arse + her bump + cola-boy) x spiral stairs, the result is going to be peace and quite for me.
Yes, there definitely is a God. For now at least…

Weird Al Yankovic – The Essential
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jppcm3

Leonard Cohen – Live In Amsterdam
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0uzhdb

The Waterboys - Live In London
http://www.sendspace.com/file/o9onpi

REM – Lyon Tapes
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xn3lir

The Men They Couldn’t Hang - Never Born To Follow
http://www.sendspace.com/file/uvnu2y

Velvet Crush – Live in Providence
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pgzp28

10,000 Maniacs – 10km
http://www.sendspace.com/file/p0dorq

Paul Weller – Live at the Barras
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5ftcz0

Bob Dylan – Blackbushe
http://www.sendspace.com/file/l1qvuo

John Mellencamp – Check This Out
http://www.sendspace.com/file/1rmd63

Gun – Hard Rock Hell
http://www.sendspace.com/file/h7gdab

Bob Dylan – Jersey Boy
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xcyzx7

Julie Fowlis – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/chhtkb

Felice Brothers – Live (re-upped mp3s this time)
http://www.sendspace.com/file/oa0yh1

Roddy Frame – Live at the Belfast Empire
http://www.sendspace.com/file/z1s9dw

Lisa Hannigan – Live at the Troubador
http://www.sendspace.com/file/yzclae

The Ghost of Christmas Future
(…maybe this year will be better than the last)

So having spent a few Christmases shivering in our poky wee tenement, we made that long and winding, bus trip to where we are now. The full on, family Christmas! Just like all the Kerry Katatonic or Colleen Moron ads on the telly, the picture of health and happiness all rolled into one, minus of course the Iceland platters.

Over the years I have become very close to my wife’s family. It’s not that I have any issues with my own parents; it’s just that if stability had a face, it would look like my in-laws.
I’m proud of the fact that neither of us asked them for anything yet they fed us when we were hungry. Put us up when we didn’t have a roof. Supported us through a lot of personal shit.
Year after year, they did the deed and we helped where we could.

Time moved on and saw us all have kids of our own. A full family dinner now needs a 20-foot table and a squadron of the detested turkeys but still, my wife’s parents stick to the task of providing for the extended and ever growing tribe. I see them getting older and with every year, coping with the hassle and stress of it all with no less dignity but just a little less ability.
Every year we tell them to do less but they do it because they think it’s expected and every year everyone lets them get on with it because they think it’s what they want.
Every year my father in law works too hard, makes himself ill and it hurts to see him being taken for granted.
Every year my mother in law gets upset because she thinks she has failed to please everyone.
In truth, they’ve never failed. Not once. Even on the Christmas Day when we took over completely and I ended up in casualty having accidentally ripped out a fingernail, they were there to apply suitable amounts of anaesthetic and serve the dinner on my return.

Someday, it will be full circle. Someday, the youngest generation will be with their partners, freezing their bollocks off (metaphorically of course) in their first homes, putting up with annoying neighbours and laughing their faces in half at something they’d normally think was a load of shite.
Someday we, their parents, will have to take up the baton and run with it.
I guess that’s what Christmas future holds for us.
I’d like to think that we will find the whole thing a lot less stressful.
I’d like to think that the load will be evenly shared and that a bit more humility comes to bear upon us all.
I’d like to think that each year finds us better than the last.
I’d also like to think that, maybe for a change, we could let it slide – go with the flow, but the older I get, the more I see myself being shackled by the stupid ties of tradition and my misguided understanding of what other peoples expectations are.
I’m sure they too will be going along with it all because they think it’s what I want.

One day we will probably all turn into the things about our parents that annoyed us the most.
However inevitable it is, I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

Counting Crows – Warren Haynes Christmas Jam 2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/txxpqr

Matthew Sweet & Susanna Hoffs – Old Town Music Hall Late Show
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4qurvu

Hope Sandoval & the Warm Inventions - Queen Elizabeth Hall
http://www.sendspace.com/file/90ifjj

Laura Marling - Royal Festival Hall
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6ev8cv

Roddy Hart – Sign Language
http://www.sendspace.com/file/758jaz

King Creosote – Woodend Barn
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0pkp5b

thenewno2 – Charlotte
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jbdsxk

Biffy Clyro – Liquid Room, Edinburgh
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9pd6w7

Camera Obscura – Firlej, Wroclaw, Poland
http://www.sendspace.com/file/tni8xt

Joseph Arthur – Geneva
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9vtvr6

Blind Pilot – Great American Music Hall
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wd73s6

Hope Christmas for you is what you want it to be.
Life may not be all James Stewart and Donna Reed.
But it is a wonderful life all the same.

Glossary of terms

“Eh min, fit i fckinell is iss aboot like min?” –
I say my good man, can you please tell me what is happening

“Bin wiytin’ here fraboot a fckin’ oor like” –
I’ve been waiting here for about sixty minutes

“Ah shouldna hivtbe staunin’ oot in is caul in ma condition ‘is isny gidinuf me freezinmititsaff like” –
I don’t think it’s proper for a woman in my condition to have to stand here until my nipples are hard.

“Three o youze jist drove past me, me wi a bairn an in ma condition ‘n’ ah”
Three of your colleagues failed to halt with is a bit off considering I’m an expectant mother.

“Altiye iss, if ma lad wiz here he’d fckinsortyiz oot so e wid. Ah’ll fckintell ‘im fan ‘e gits oot” –
I will tell you this, my good man; if the father of my bastard offspring was here today he would give you a seeing to. I will make him aware of this on his release from prison.

”Fit i fckinell d’yemean like? Fit d’yemean a canna tak iss oan here? Hoo the f4ck am ah mint tae get is wee shite aboot wi’oot it like? D’ye hink ahm fckin wundirwummin like? Fckinell, youze are a’ i same. Altiye iss…”
What do you mean I cannot take this on here? What other method do you suggest I use to transport my child? Can you not see I’m lazy? You are not from here and I don’t like the look of you. I will tell you this…

“fitye mean staunin' room only? Ah canny staun in ma condition. Hiv ye nae een ye fckinbam. Kin ye nae see ahm riddy to fckin drap like….”
What do you mean standing room only? I can’t stand. Do you not have eyes you ignoramus. Can you not see that I am pregnant?

“eh min, yigotonyfagslike?”
I say, do you have a cigarette?

“ah yifcka aatsfityizasay. Geeza a fag yigrippybasturt”
A likely story. Please may I have a cigarette?

“Goat ony beer en?. Yi must hae suhin’”
In that case, do you have a beer. You must have something

“tifckuryiwintinyiweeshite?”
What do you wan’t?

Have a good one

Hooli

...take care beware of soft shoe shufflers...

2009-11-29T17:18:00.003Z

As I’m sure you know by now, TV doesn’t really set my fuse alight. I try to avoid the thing if at all possible. Paradoxically, put me in a situation where there is some form of tele-visual entertainment and, like fleas roond a shite, I’ll be inextricably drawn to it. Reeled in like a flapping guppy on the end of a hook.
The other day, while frittering away the odd hour, I sat down with the kids to watch the latest craze in the ‘hapless competitor pits his wits against an invincible assault course’ stakes. Takeshi’s Castle, for those who don’t know it, is like a Japanese version of ‘It’s a Knockout’ on a date with ‘Robot Wars’ where they both end up partying with ‘Jackass’ and ‘Gladiators’. If I’m not mistaken though, this a little light on the old ‘Jeux sans Frontières’ and wee bit heavy on the ‘Humilient sans Pitié’ aspect.
This is ‘Total Wipeout’ without the glitz, Jill Wagner and the two smooth dudes.
This is geek central.
This is a contest with no winners.
Instead you get a bunch of manic, bespectacled oriental misfits and Craig Charles doing his best Jonathan Pearce style commentary.
Judging by his innuendo laden script, I’m pretty sure Takeshi must be Japanese for arse bandit, with the so called imperial guard using water cannons to pierce the contestants ring.
To paraphrase the great Messrs Brookmyre & Connolly, “All good fun until someone loses an eye!”

Anyway, between the bouts of sprinting across floating stepping-stones and running across rolling logs, were the inevitable commercial breaks.
This troubled me a little more than all the double entendres about rings and spurting weapons, which, to be truthful, the kids didn’t get.
In the world of the 30 second soundbyte we appear to have moved on from the usual ads for shampoo and cosmetic life enhancement to something apparently a little more sinister.
Given that it was five in the evening, I expect the advertisers were targeting a different audience, so it came as no surprise that the odd Walt Disney ad or something, perhaps just a little bit too ‘pre Christmas’, flogging the latest Nintendo gadgetry, crept in to the scheme of things. What was surprising was the number of ads asking for sponsorship of something or other purporting to be a charitable cause.
Adopt a penguin claims the WWF. That’s the World Wildlife Fund and not the World Wrestling Federation, although that really would be amusing.
Imagine Dwayne Johnson being assailed by a pack of marauding nuns.
They’ve also got one about adopting a Polar bear.
Or there’s the one with the footage of some jungle, talking about a snow leopard that is so rare they don’t have it on film.
Another flashes up images of a sad eyed hound with the voiceover claiming how “Sam loved his owner blah blah blah”
Then, “for just five pounds a month you can give etc etc.”
Sponsor a dog – get your very own pet. No smelly carpets; no hairy furniture; no walks in the pissing rain picking up snappies full of shite.

There’s also the serious business of famine and disease in the Third World.
“Sami is eight years old. She would like to go to school and become a teacher but since her mother died, she has had to stay home and look after her father. He has had three heart attacks in the past year and can’t work. Just five pounds a week will help Sami go to school or will provide fresh water for her village blah blah blah.”
It all starts to sound like some old sad country western song.
“ Oh my granny is a cripple in Nashville....”

This is all serious stuff and I know I shouldn’t scoff but if all of us supported all of these causes we’d all be penniless, sitting in doorways wrapped in blankets begging off the pandas or the penguins as they passed by on their way to the office.
I know the world’s f4cked and the polar ice caps are retreating. I know there’s a hole in the ozone layer bigger than the collective arsehole of a thousand mammoths. I know the indigenous tribes of the rainforests are being shafted and driven out of their natural habit as the modern world destroys all in its path but, and it’s a big BUT, why the screaming f4ck does anybody think that a whole load of bizarre television ads are going to make things any better.
I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. Call me a heartless cynic if you like, but someone is making money out of the plight of others less fortunate.
Surely all the money that is spent on advertising campaigns, glossy brochures, cuddly toys and membership packs would be better spent actually helping those who need it.
What about getting the governments concerned to take a good look in the mirror.
What about spending even a fraction of the budget that is ring fenced for the attritious defeat of so called enemies just because they so happen to be custodians of some oil rich desert.
And what about all these so called charity causes?
OK, so everyone knows about Oxfam and WWF but who the hell knows about the rest of them?
This is only a step away from Bible belt evangelism.
Gimme your cash – I’ll show you the Lord.

I’m sure I’m just being paranoid and there is a very strict vetting of the ads that the TV channels can run, just as there is strict vetting of the TV evangelical corps in the USA, but what about the papers or the internet.
We all know that the average newspaper is about 30% saturated with ads to the point where no one enters the nether region between the TV page and the sports pages and we all know what a pain in the arse the web is with the ubiquitous pop up ads. Similarly, we know all too well that a large percentage of blogs are now supported by banner ads or cover pages, and how much of a nuisance it presents.
All that nonsense about getting ripped in two weeks or losing 40 stone in a fortnight is, I’m sure, treated with the incredulity it deserves, all of which just goes to prove that if someone is flogging something that seems too good to be true, it’s probably because it is. That wonder supplement the medical profession won’t endorse is probably going to leave the girls with a big pair of sweaty bollocks that Buster Gonad would be proud of. The guys will end up with man-boobs that make Jordan look like Kate Moss.
End of the human race?
Watch this space.

Now all of this charity nonsense is fine if we are aiming at the next generation of adults and attempting to create positive attitudes towards the needy. We can understand the dichotomy; the balance between what could be done, what should be done and what must be done but, knowing how easy it is for kids to get lured by things like Facebook, Twitter and Bebo, it’s easy to see that, without the benefit of ever having been skewered upon the horns of a dilemma, it is a very small step that is required to convince our offspring to part with the cash.

Our cash.

Speaking of which, what about the other latest craze in advertising.
Mizuba mobile, Envirophone or the Scottish version ‘ah’ll gie yi a can o special for your deid mobie’.
Stick your old mobile in an envelope, send it to this address and we’ll send you some money.
One participant claimed to have gotten a hundred and fifty quid.
One slight flaw in this equation though. If your average mobile costs about a hundred and fifty and most people have upgraded because their old phone is crap; if you stick your old Motorola talking brick in there, you know you’re going to get sweet FA back. It’s not even worth the postage stamp.
Then there’s good old Postal Gold.
Well there’s a gaping chasm of opportunity for the unscrupulous to sneak into if ever there was one.
Short of cash? Got some gold or silver lying around. Fear not. Stuff your swag into an envelope, stick our address on it and we’ll send you some cash.
Get outta town.
Do you think ma heid buttons up the back?
You can see where this is leading can’t you.
The perfect outlet for shifting stolen goods.
No need to stand in the pissing rain every Sunday at the local car boot sale hoping your last victim doesn’t amble past, just stick it all in an old jiffy bag, pop it in the mail. Two weeks later, Fanny’s yer auntie, big wad of notes pops through the letterbox.
Seriously, where does this stop?

Even the government have got in on the act with their cash for your f4ckt motor scheme.
Maybe the beleaguered NHS could do something similar. Send us your unused medication and we’ll send you a free ticket to a medical consultation with the GP of your choice – just make sure you’re really ill and the symptoms are glaringly f4cking obvious.
Perhaps the council could expand upon the recycling theme. Chuck all your unwanted furniture out in the street and we’ll send you a free DHSS token to the value of one free life membership to Sky+. On second thoughts, they’ve already done that one haven’t they?

Again, all jolly good fun if the motives are fair and true. Why shouldn’t we recycle and get a bit of cash back. We are in the midst of an economic and ecological crisis after all.
But just as there are unscrupulous car dealers who look like a cross between a rottweiler and a stubbly mr potato head; and just as there are unscrupulous timeshare owners who look like Grant Mitchell after he’s been tangoed into submission; there will be numerous entrepreneurial little shites, each with a proliferation of get rich quick schemes tucked up their sleeves.
This is the stuff of Esther Rantzen and ‘That’s Life’ or Nicky Campbell and ‘Watchdog’. The trouble now is that it has stepped off the back streets and the small ads and into our living rooms.

My idea for the future?

Adopt a Bank.
Never mind sending all your gold, jewellery or mobiles and getting cash.
Send the bank of your choice all your crap and save it from extinction.
In return, we promise not to lose your money and, as an added scoop, we’ll convert all your unwanted goods into cash so we can award our highest paid bakers a nice fat hefty bonus.

Now where did I put that silver chandelier I nicked from the neighbours?

Music?

…anyone who really knows me, knows why this is here, today.
My first guitar hero. I can’t believe its been eight years.

George Harrison – Beware of Abcko
http://www.sendspace.com/file/idp8fk

thenewno2 - Music Hall Of Williamsburg, Brooklyn
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qrv5h5

John Lennon – MSG
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pb4dyx

Paul McCartney – Electric Proms
http://www.sendspace.com/file/n6dkvz

Matthew Sweet & Susanna Hoffs – Live at the Old Town School of Folk Music.
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ako703

Duke Spirit – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0l2j66

Tom Waits – Fast Women & Slow Horses
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zovkqh

The Felice Brothers – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/f41hqq

Paddy Casey – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pzqo6o

Solas – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/unhbig

Live in Toronto
http://www.sendspace.com/file/cpdtgf

Biffy Clyro – Live at Barrowlands
http://www.sendspace.com/file/k5hui5

Bruce Sringsteen – Live at Max’s Kansas City
http://www.sendspace.com/file/8i4f3v

Richard Thompson - Live in Detroit
http://www.sendspace.com/file/nlfe99

Dr Feelgood – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jw3dpd

Enjoy till next time...

Hooli

...all the truth in the world adds up to one big lie...

2009-11-16T20:22:00.006Z

As much as I hated to admit it to myself, I was a worried man with a worried mind.

A thousand times I wondered to myself, “What did this mean”
The voice from the very heart of me made a great show of reminding me that I was only human but all the while, the taunts from inside my head grew like an avalanche, sweeping me tumbling into its crashing depths, trying to convince me of something entirely different.
Like a man with an unexplained illness or an ache that never leaves, was I condemned to suffer within the clutches of this dichotomy that, with one hand, would hold me to the wild and irrational fear that something was seriously off the slates, while with the other, would drag me grudgingly towards the reality that there was a perfectly simple explanation and that the very existence of the doubt in my mind was what was solely responsible for its perpetuity.
Was I prepared to let myself be tormented in this manner?
Was I so blind to my own reality that I couldn’t see what I was doing to myself?
I was gripping on, white knuckled, to what I called reality, with every vein in my body popping out and fit to burst. Rationality was on the run. It had escaped me and I had no way of apprehending it before its absence caused me serious harm. In my mind I had posted the APB but my body wasn’t up for the search.
That’s what this was about really.
Blind panic.
I’d stared over that particular precipice once in my life and I didn’t like the view.
I knew this was no rollercoaster ride. No PepsiMax.
From there, at least there was always an element of certainty and finality to the whole affair.
OK, maybe you came out the other side with your kegs full of shite or with your tits poking out the top of your dress but at least there was an end. You knew you could close your eyes, clench your arse cheeks or grab hold of your top and it would soon be over. You knew there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
This particular thrill ride offered no light and no tunnel – maybe not a bad thing since I was in no way ready to make the long floaty journey towards the big bright light. No, this was more of a wide, unending expanse of blackness, a desert of desperation, featureless, dry and stretching out before me; then it was a room, also featureless, with no windows or doors, no fixtures, no fittings, filled with oppressive, crushing white light.
If only there was a way to take some of that blackness from the desert and exchange it for some of the white light. If only there was a way to achieve balance.
I knew the answer was out there, somewhere in the ether. Was it so indistinct that my fallibility was betraying me? My instinct had never failed me before but here it was, bereft of answers at a time when it was about all I had to rely upon. I felt like I was being sucked into a swirling vortex, a tornado of lost souls reaching out to me for redemption.
What was happening to me?
Was I about to turn into one of those vegetative slobs, sitting watching second hand, second rate American drama shows while the days slipped agonisingly by me. Was I condemned to soak up days of reality TV or sit through hours and hours off meaningless football matches as they all blended into one, supping pishy lager, pretending the ball wasn’t there in an attempt to inject some interest but all the while just longing for a final whistle that has inevitably been delayed for a disproportionate length of time by the third official and his electronic placard?
Would I be forced to exist on a high fat diet of take away pizza, burgers, crisps and coke and be left to live in a single, ever decreasing room, while I got fatter and fatter, watching shockumentaries about families who disintegrate because they are all too fat to get out the front door, having to get their food delivered through the window; real life playing an extended parody of TV parodying real life?
Surely not. I only did it twice
Yes, it was a deliberate act but it only consumed an aggregate of five hours of my life.
It didn’t mean anything to me. Not really.

It was only f4cking TV.

What this really meant, in cold hard facts, was that BBC3 actually managed to cobble together the worst excesses of the past decade, squeeze them into a five hour extravaganza of shame, indulgence and downright stupidity, and come up with a spanking new pair of boots.
This was ‘The Noughties – Was That It?’

It started when I was in the other room but I was drawn by the mention of text messages, the debasement of our language, charity fatigue, celebrity babies and the nanny state.
As I’m sure you can appreciate, all subjects dear to my heart.
What followed was a top one hundred, commented upon by the usual noteworthies, and blended with equal measures of ‘Grumpy Old Men’ and the contents of my insane mind.
Despite the ironic omission of that most omnipresent staple of modern TV, the Top 100 chart show, this was enthralling stuff. I even downloaded the first part from BBC iPlayer so I could watch John Bishop over and over, dead panning about how three legged races should be banned from school sports day in case the three-legged community were offended.
This was ‘modern life is crap’ documented and there for all to see.
These were my very thoughts, on screen.
This was the lament of a hooligan, forced into an existence of conformity.

How many times did it hit the mark; how well did it portray the cynical self, mocking the stupidity that surrounds it; how well did it inwardly look at the role each of us had in playing along with the ideal, conforming to the notion that celebrity is good and that it is right to aspire to that lifestyle.
So we can all dress like Posh & Becks or Jordan & whatsisface; we can smell Britney or Avril and, although the true celebrity chip is one none of us will ever cash, the average home in the western world can have all the trappings of modern life – wireless network; flat screen TVs; laptops; games consoles; alarm clocks that wake you to subdued lighting along with the smell of croissants and latte in the morning.
The information technology overload and the way we have all instantly become open access or, potentially at least, in the public domain, has left us with a deeper set paranoia than a snake in rocking chair shop. The fact that we can’t even go for a piss without first getting a permit and a password then, weeks later, finding some kid in a mud hut on the Masai Mara has stuck it up on You Tube, makes worrying about whether or not your shades are exactly the same as the ones Beckham wore in some stupid ad, more than just a trifle meaningless.

Modern life is a security nightmare.
Everything we do is password protected.

Take the other day as an example. I got up, washed, dressed, made a coffee and set off to work. To get my bike out of the shed, I had to jiggle the barrels on a combination lock. I cycled the short distance to work where the back gate to the premises presented me with a combination keypad. Entering the code failed to release the locking mechanism. A couple of further attempts confirmed that the mechanism was indeed, f4cked. I reached through the mesh fencing of the gate with a bit of wire that just happened to be lying among the leaves and, after a couple of attempts, pulled open the handle on the far side. This, I put down to resourcefulness; the one thing that life has taught me to treasure.
Once in my office, I fired up my PC and went for another coffee. When I returned, I was faced with a network log on pane, into which I keyed my unique password which requires to be changed every month. Having safely negotiated that, I went to check my e-mails. Again, another log on pane appeared and again, I keyed in my unique alphanumeric, the one I change voluntarily every month to keep it concurrent with my network password. Then I decided to open the other programs I regularly use, each requiring a unique password; each requiring updating every 28 days. Not every month, every 28 days – spot the obvious synchronisation error.
During lunch, wishing to cancel a Direct Debit, I called my bank. Having managed to navigate behind the automated answering service, I actually got to speak to a real human being; one who was actually working in my branch.
“I’ll redirect you to our telephone banking service” he said.
Before I could do anything about it, I was talking to someone who wanted to know my bank account number, my sort code, my postcode, the first and third digits of my personal telephone banking security code, the name of my first pet and my mother’s maiden name.
I was waiting to be presented with my pornstar name.
Geezabrek. How in the name of festering f4ck am I supposed to remember that lot? I only use telephone banking about once every two years and only set it up so that I didn’t have to speak to the automated thingy.
Eventually, I give up and resolve to visit the nearest branch after work.
Once there, to ensure that I don’t come out to a Y frame minus wheels and seat, I chain up my bike and lock it with another combination padlock, this one only has three barrels so it’s got a different code to the shed lock. I get to the door of the bank and I’m presented with an automated transaction machine, hole in the wall to you and me, I punch in my Personal Identification Number and withdraw some cash.
“Might as well check my other accounts while I’m here” I think to myself. I punch in another two different Personal Identification Numbers and, satisfied with the results, head into the building to discuss my needs.
Satisfied that the local council will be getting no more of my money and flushed with my success, I nip into the local shop and buy a bottle of Coke and a packet of crisps to celebrate.
As I’m walking back, I glance up and catch sight of the CCTV camera that is studiously tracking my progress. I attempt to remove the cap from the Coke bottle but it is wound so tight that, when I eventually gather enough force to break the security seal, the bottle spins from my hand, hits the ground and explodes into a gushing fountain of pale brown froth. I manage to halt its dervish like antics with my size ten just in time to capture the last remaining 40ml before it is centrifugally ejected from its captive.
The bottle is pierced through the bottom and I know that the little bubbles issuing forth from this rupture mean the contents will be about as lively as heaven at Halloween.
I pick it up and do a quick 360 in search of a bin.
Nothing – potential hiding place for an incendiary device.
Not a bin in sight.
I’m now sticky of fingers and seriously pissed off. I can’t even toss the f4cker over the nearest hedge because I’m on candid f4cking camera and I swear to myself that if this lands up on You’ve Been Framed, I’ll personally replicate the whole scene but only after I’ve wedged the bottle between Harry Hill’s butt cheeks.

Disconsolate, I go for the crisps. I pinch both sides of the bag between forefinger and thumb and attempt to separate the two adjoining sheets of film.
“This would be a lot easier if I wasn’t stuck to the exploding Coke bottle” I think, so I lay it down and have another go. The bag flies open and splits down the side, spilling half the crisps like confetti around the, now fully drained, plastic bomb.
I unlock my bike, cycle home and lock the bike back in its resting place for the evening.
Now that I’m home I decide to check my blog comments. Another password to access Google.
Then I check to see if there are any new torrents circulating. Another three passwords.
By the time I get to bed around midnight, it's like someone is playing a cine-loop of the matrix coding inside my head. I close my eyes and all I see are random chains of numbers and letters. My brain is pulp and I'm left with the feeling that I've been raped of my anonimity.
Nothing is left with a grain of sanctity.
Even Belle du Jour has been exposed.

So now, you’re no doubt wondering what the point of all this is.

The point is that paranoia and insecurity has led us to the point where unseen forces are running our lives. We have become like those annoying little unidirectional bevel slotted screws and ratchet capped bleach bottles.
We have become tamperproof.
It’s like that Kevin Spacey line in the Usual Suspects, “the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist”.
The greatest trick the Safety Nazis pulled was convincing the world that it was in danger and needed to be protected from terrorists, cranks and spookheads.
Ground glass will be put in your product unless it is hermetically sealed and tested to withstand the pressure of two atmospheres. Someone could sabotage your product and inject it with poison.
If you go for a 'Forrest Gump' without entering your password and pin number a whole load of fish are suddenly going to swim up your arse and you’re gonna burst.
F4cking bollocks that’s what it is.
This great scheme, designed to prevent the bad guys from getting in, is like something out of the Dragons Den. Didn’t it dawn on anybody that if the bad guys can’t get in then how the f4ck are you or I supposed to get in.
It’s never ending.
Things have definitely changed.
The stuff that used to work doesn’t work anymore.
Everything is a lesser version of what it used to be. Everything has dumbed down to lowest common denominator. If it's shite we just chuck it out and get another one and quite happily accept that the reason it was shite was for our own safety.

The ‘no win no fee’ brigade have poisoned our minds for too long and we have collectively just bought into the whole charade.
Why can’t they just piss off and leave us alone.

Bob Dylan – Live In Frankfurt
http://www.sendspace.com/file/efwbir

TRB - Live At The Bottom Line
http://www.sendspace.com/file/7licst

Blind Pilot – We Are The Tide
http://www.sendspace.com/file/1rlw92

Prefab Sprout - Edinburgh – 25.02.1984
http://www.sendspace.com/file/nm1cq5

Tom Morello – Hardly Strictly Bluegrass
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pjq9u9

Icicle Works – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/rbdmhb

Edwyn Collins - I’m Not Following You
http://www.sendspace.com/file/69nn66

The Waterboys - Live In London
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0b8kke

Ray Davies - Live In Trondheim
http://www.sendspace.com/file/t1byq6

Matthew Sweet - Live In Turin, NY
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6yn48f

Townes Van Zant - Paisley Park, Wellington
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pfjyt7

Warren Zevon - Solo, Rochester
http://www.sendspace.com/file/1mi9cv

White Stripes – Live in Las Vegas
http://www.sendspace.com/file/7o4aur

Enjoy...

Hooli

As requested

2009-11-06T13:03:00.003Z

OK, so my attempt to recover the original link from RS failed so, at last, here are working links to SS

Hue and Cry - Bitter Suite / Remote
http://www.sendspace.com/file/iq4hyn
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xhc3h9

I guess when the fun police hit this the killed the RS links too.

...living in a city of immigrants, I don't need to go travellin'...

2009-11-02T21:12:00.003Z

Around this time of year, while the rest of the country is enjoying half term holidays, we grumpy Scots are just returning from what has long been known as the tattie holidays.
Back in days of yore, the 70s in my case, this was the time of year when, in order to give the teachers time sharpen their swords and fettle their broomsticks, all the schoolkids got two weeks off to go tattie howkin’ at the local farm. For your part in this gruelling spectacle, the local squire would pay you 20p a week with the added bonus of a boot up the arse on a Friday – if you were lucky.
Ah how the times have changed.
For a start, potatoes are machine harvested and child labour is most definitely frowned upon. I only have to mention household chores to be reminded of the ugly truths about slave labour, child cruelty and the minimum wage.

With our west coast adventure of this summer now consigned to the memory bank and with the kids refusing to let up about being trailed to the arse end of nowhere for a fortnight, this year, as with every other year in recent times, we dipped our collective big toe into the festering pool that is the package holiday.
I’m not quite sure how it all came to this as both my wife and I are quite independent travellers but the package holiday seems to be the thing that fulfils the obligation of giving everyone in the family something in return. It’s a bit like going to McDonalds in that none of use would put it even at the lower end of the favourites spectrum but you know what you’re getting and you know that you’re still going to be hungry afterwards.
Yes the great British package holiday, Brits abroad, scenario. It’s little wonder they tried to make a soap opera out of it.
If you’re dreaming the sort of dreams that involve scantily clad nymphs and crates of Carlsberg or maybe if you’re just plain lucky, you pay a couple of grand, get on a flight at your local airport and three hours later you land somewhere a good fifteen degrees warmer where you transfer to a spacious modern hotel set amid the backdrop of an idyllic palm fringed beach. Two weeks of sun, sea and sand later you reverse the procedure and you’re back in the pissing rain knee deep in fallen leaves.
Fully relaxed and brimming with fond memories.

If you are at the opposite end of the scale, you’ve probably been on Watchdog more times than Nicky Campbell and Lynn Faulds Wood put together and are currently licking your wounds over the loss of fifteen grand to a time share shark.

Somewhere in between is the reality.

You hand over your cash for two weeks in the sun that is preceded by a 120 mile trip to the nearest available airport during which, when you’re less than five miles from the car park, you endure a two hour siesta on the M8 as four lanes funnel in to one on the way to Ibrox. The car park and check in safely negotiated, you then have to wait around for four hours as the flight time has been changed by the tour operator and there is an added delay of two hours because your plane is still in Gatwick getting the upholstery cleaned because someone pissed their pants on the previous flight.
Finally you get on your flight and squeeze into your seat which offers as much space and functionality as a confessional booth. There is however a drunken hen night on board which, when scratched against a drunken stag night, produces just the right kind of spark designed to piss the cabin crew and the other passengers off.
Praise be to the lord for the iPod.
Fortunately, the plane takes off and lands safely, you don’t get deep vein thrombosis and the Hail Mary’s aren’t being freely administered by the cabin crew.
The equivalent of a Black Mariah pulls up to escort the warring hen and stag factions to their appropriate accommodations courtesy of the state. Sea view not included.

If you’re a bit adventurous, you’ll land, not in Majorca or Ibiza, but in Turkey whereupon you will have to hand over one crisp Bank of England tenner per person for the priviledge of a franked stamp on your passport. It does also prevent you, law breaking aside, from facing a Midnight Express type experience at the start of your holiday.
Once you get out of the airport, you get the good old transfer bus. With the night time temperature at 25°C, you’d have thought the very least the tour operator would have done was made sure the bus had air conditioning. No so. Never mind though, the driver will always be on hand to pass out plastic cups of chilled water, except when he’s driving that is, which is all the way to the resort where, if you’re very, very lucky, your hotel will be the second last stop and not the very last.
When you get to your room you then have one of those conscience shattering moments where the bell boy stands sheepishly at the door, waiting. All you have is a twenty quid note, some coppers and a wad of traveller’s cheques.
Eventually you find a pound coin that has slipped through the hole in your pocket, down your trouser leg and into your shoe.
His look of distaste says it all but that’s what he gets for not sticking in at school and turning into a moochin little bastart.
Eventually your head hits the pillow at 3am local time (that’s 5am your time).
The bar is blaring some shite that makes the birdy song sound like Beethoven’s fifth and a gaggle of drunken Geordies pour in off the street.

Next morning, you miss it. Completely! You surface at 12.30 just in time to go to the reps welcome meeting where she blabs on some irrelevant shite about boat trips here and beach parties there, all designed to get you to shed all that extra cash you brought with you.
Then there’s the reps’ party night. This is the best night out you’ll ever have! Free admission to some anonymous black and chrome UV drenched club, like a throwback from the 80s, playing drum ‘n’ bass so loud it makes your ears bleed plus, you get a free drink in every pub you can manage after that.
All for 50 Lira per person.
All just a good and legitimate excuse for the reps to get together, get totally shit faced, then pair off and shag one another without feeling guilty about it.

Ah and of course we mustn’t forget the Turkish night. (You can substitute Greek, Spanish, Portuguese or whatever other country you’re in. They all do it and the result is always the same).
...“if you don’t do anything else, there’s one thing you must do while you’re in Turkey, you must go to the Turkish night here in the hotel” she says, “25 Lira a head, eat as much as you like, barbecued kebabs, all the traditional mezes, free belly dancer, break dancing group and traditional Turkish folk dance group”
Then you get all the pep talk about strict baggage allowance and prebooked seats which you’ve heard more often than that song from Four Weddings and a Funeral, so you consign all this to the refuse tip at the rear end of your mind along with all the other shite you’ve heard throughout the year and off you go.

Now duly acclimatised to your surroundings and having found the less than amply stocked mini market, you check out the hotel pool where you are set upon by the hotel activities and entertainments rep.
This will doubtless be someone with boundless energy and a vocal delivery that suggests he was cross pollinated with a hyena then vaccinated with the old gramophone needle tipped with some of Ben Elton’s DNA – and not the funny stuff either.
“Monday night live footy, Bolton versus Coventry. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday night, all the Euro action with Man U, Arsenal and Chelsea; Friday night live footy blah blah.
So in an attempt to escape the dreaded Champions league, you make sure you eat out every night.
Your quest for some gastronomic delight takes you to the beach front.
A nice romantic stroll along the prom; just the ticket for getting you ready for dinner.
You barely manage to get a hundred yards from the hotel before you’re accosted by some dude bearing a wadge of leaflets declaring 20% off or a free bottle of wine if you eat at such and such a restaurant.
If you haven’t experienced this, you’ll have to trust me on this one, but it’s no lie, all the restaurants are the same, they all offer the same discounts and the wine is pish no matter whether it’s free or costs forty lira a bottle.
Take my advice, go to the first place you come to and stick to it. That way you’ll save yourself being hassled more than once.

So you get yourself set up nicely at a table overlooking the lapping waters as they reflect a crescent moon and a splash of multi coloured neon. You survey the menu and, not wishing to dine on egg and chips, you elect to have something from the Turkish section of the menu. A simple chicken shish is just about right. When it comes it is beautifully presented on a bed of rice and accompanied by some pan fried peppers and onion. The kebab itself amounts to about four chicken breasts threaded onto a skewer and is big enough to feed the average family of four. Tastes pretty damn good too, you think.
Things are looking up.
You settle up and find you’ve fed the four of you plus had a couple of beers and cokes for the kids all for under forty quid.
Things are definitely looking up.
You amble into the night, past the numerous other door managers of the ensuing gastro-gauntlet. They all want you to eat in their establishment. Politely at first, you make your excuses about already having eaten, put on your best tweedle dum pose and flap your hand horizontally about your throat.
By the time you’ve gone through this a dozen times, the whole charade is wearing a bit thin and politeness is coming at a premium. To keep it safe you head away from the prom to a street lined with permanently open shops and a seemingly endless array of dance pubs. The try to lure you in with the usual array of cocktails, happy hours and two for one deals. The shops offer the usual holiday wares and the finest, ‘genuine’ designer clothes. Worst of all, they too have door managers. To say the patter is worse than the Barras on a late December Saturday is an understatement.
Genuine designer fakes, 3 for a tenner, cheaper than Asda. The difference between your average barrow boy and this lot is that the barrow boy has at least veered into the path of education. This becomes apparent when the shopkeeper is faced with someone who actually knows what he wants and how little he is prepared to part with for it.
What you are looking at may look like the genuine article Chuck Taylor Converse baseball boot but you know well enough that they are a careful fake. You remark to the dweeb that what you actually have on your feet right now is in fact the real deal, bought from the Converse website and that he is talking through a hole in his bunnet.
Incredulous, he pursues his prey and tries to flog as much of his wares as he can. He knows that even if he sells you one pair at a quarter of the marked price, if there is such a thing, that he has made a profit. He also knows that, unless he is facing a complete f4ckwit, there’s no way on earth he’s going to get his asking price. The fun is in the chase and in trying to shift as much crap onto the unsuspecting customer as possible.
So on it goes.
“Normally these forty pounds” he says
“Forty?” you say, “ten more like. These are only 35 quid at home for the real thing”.
“Thirty” he says “it’s the end of the season I have to sell my stock”
“You’re takin’ the piss” you say “I’ll give you ten”

“For you my friend I give you very good price. I give you my very best price of twenty five” is his retort. He’s getting rattled but he sticks to his course, pulling out more and more different colours and styles.
“Ten?” you respond
“Best price I give you two pairs for forty five”
“I don’t want two pairs. I want one pair and I’ll give you ten pounds. It’s what they’re worth plus that’s what the guy up the road is selling them for”
It’s at this stage that the tone changes slightly.
“They’re not the same! Poor quality! Different to this! If they are same, I give you these free!”
This is shaky ground because he thinks you’re bluffing but he’s rattled and desperate for a sale. You know you’re not bluffing and tell him ten is your final and only offer.
He starts to get a bit abusive so you turn and start to walk out. The floor is strewn with fake converse boots of every colour in the rainbow and the torrents of abuse are equally colourful. You wander 20 metres up the road in a fury at being insulted and buy two pairs for twenty quid.
Deal.
Although you have the moral victory under your belt, you daren’t risk walking back the way you came swinging your purchases by your side, so you amble back to your room just as the footy has finished; just in time for the bar to kick into life. It’s the f4ckin Birdy Song again, swiftly followed by all the party hits from the 80s. By the time you’ve heard half an hour’s worth of Michael Jackson, Prince, Kool & the Gang and Lipps Inc, you’re borderline psychotic. You’re wishing you’d held off on the shopping for an hour.
Eventually, sleep takes over and you enter into the Phil Connors phase of the holiday.
Sleep, Breakfast, Sun, Sand, Book, Pool, Entertainments Rep, Turkish Bath Rep, Footy, Kebab, Barter, Insults, Bar, “Let me take you to, Funky Town”. Zzzzz.
For the sake of your sanity, you’ve been wise enough to pack an impressive selection of tartan noir and enough gigs of iPod to keep you chilled for the duration.
Getting towards the end of the week and you’re reminded that you’re the only person this side of Christendom who hasn’t signed up for the 75 lira extravaganza that is the Turkish night.
“Turkish barbecue, meze, eat as much as you like, free belly dancer, free break dancer, free Turkish folk dance group”
The fact that you’ve dodged the commitment every time you’ve been asked would normally be seen as a signal but these guys are nothing if not relentless so you cave in and part with your 75 lira.
You think to yourself, fair do. It costs about 80 lira for a meal out so it’s not that bad a deal.
What you have failed to account for is that you still have to pay for all your drinks and, since it’s the last week of the season, the hotel is almost empty and the atmosphere is like a tramp’s funeral.
You head for the food and load up on aubergine, peppers and cucumber meze and, not wishing to look greedy, take one piece of chicken and a meatball topped with a spoon of rice.
Tastes ok. You finish your beer and head for seconds.

You get there to find that all that remains is the meze. What the f4ck happened to eat as much as you like.
The chef, having read the script, realises that the turnout is going to be low. He doesn’t want to shuffle loads of barbecued meat into the cat and has no comprehension of the concept ‘eating for Scotland’. Nor does he have any idea of the difference between ‘eat as much as you like’ and ‘being ripped off’.
Oh well, I’ll make sure and grab four desserts you think.
Hah.
Don’t be a complete bam.
Who said anything about desert.
So you settle back with another beer and refuse to participate with the belly dancing charade. She’s not an old boiler, you think to yourself, doesn’t have a face that looks like it’s been on the receiving end of an Andy Roddick serve, at least that’s something to be thankful for. At least she is actually dancing and hasn’t just slapped her arse and flashed off the ripples.
Then it comes, after the humiliation of some poor unsuspecting blokes, and the final dance; the sting. Traditional to the belly dance is the fact that you are expected, nay, obliged, along with all the other punters, to tuck some bills into the dancer’s bra. It’s at this stage that you’re probably wishing you could stick a pelican’s bill up her arse (and the entertainment reps arse too).
All you have is a twenty so that gets slipped inside a sequinned strap and off she goes.
You start to do a quick math and figure she nets about 200 quid. Not bad for a tip.

Then the breakdancers hit the stage. You check your wallet and realise that all you have left are more twenties.
F4ck that for a game of tiddlywinks you think and drag the family back to your room.
75 Lira for two helpings of meze, four mini-burgers and four dried up chicken breasts.
32 lira for a couple of rounds of drinks
20 lira in tips
At least you have the satisfaction of having bailed out before you were another 40 lira shy.
Then Funky Town starts up again.
Soon, Saturday comes, and you’re thinking ah well, it’s the weekend, let’s head for the beach, then you see it.
The very thing you’ve been fearing!
The evil of the satellite!
Worse than the fact that, thanks to Google, you can look down upon anywhere in the world.
There it is in big f4ckin’ white letters on the big f4ckin' black board

Live tonight X Factor Finalists Show
Live on Sunday X Factor Evictions Show

Aw surely the f4ck not.

I’m sure, like me you go on holiday to get away from all that crap.
No?
Really?
Now there’s the problem.

Supply and demand.
What the public will bear.

You look around the pool and it all drops into place.
It’s reality TV central. It’s all Courtneys and Kenzies. Chantelles and Jades.
Tattoos and piercings. Beer bellies and butt cracks.
And the parents aren’t much better.

So you trundle through it enjoying the good bits, but knowing at the end of it all, you will remain unfulfilled.

Then, in the shape of the return flight, the sucker punch comes weighing in like a wrecking ball on speed (talking of which, by the time you get to the airport at 2.30 am, amphetamines are what you’re gonna need).
You get on your flight home, armed with your duty free stash, gratified that you didn’t take up your tour reps offer of prebooked seats at a tenner a throw since you appear to be sitting next to all your family constituents. You think about it for a while then come to the conclusion that it’s an even bigger money spinner than the belly dancers bra.
Boeing 757, roughly 300 seats, £10 per person for a pre booked seat, three grand for doing absolutely sweet f4ck all.
Tommy Cook, you should be ashamed of yourself.
Four hours later, minus two hours time difference and and hour for daylight saving, you touch down in Glasgow airport to find the carpark attendant has gone awol and all that is manning his station is a half empty bottle of Irn Bru.
Ten minutes later, he returns and you realise you have been better taking your chances and talking to the bottle of Irn Bru.

Eventually, you wind your way back onto the M8 at 5am and drive through 20 miles of roadworks. Eager to avoid another three points on your driving licence, you crawl along at 40 mph, by the time you hit the 70 zone and as the white lines hypnotically shoot past you, you’re biting the heel of your hand, the inside of your cheek, your fingernails and anything else that’s available in a vigorous attempt to keep the melatonin in check. Daylight comes with a merciful blast and you finally get home after being awake for 26 hours.
You head off to bed, a frazzled mess and realise that while you’ve been away, a clan of rodents have decided to use your airing cupboard as a squat, the plants have all died and the bathroom is full of flies, presumably having hatched out of one of the aforementioned rodents that has since left this life.

You wonder why you bothered and resolve to go camping on the West Coast of Scotland next year.

As a post script, a week later you go shopping in town, just to see what it’s like to find something you want and hand over the cash without any aggro. You hear so many different accents. See so many exotic looking faces.
You think of why you go abroad in the first place, the sampling of a different culture, the different tastes and smells.
On the way home you pick up a Doner kebab and again, you wonder why you bother.

All of this is of course is partly exaggerated, partly fictional and partly said for effect but, as they say, no smoke without fire. After 5 separate holidays in Turkey, much as I love the place, I fear the writing may be on the wall.

And so the music...

Steve Earle – Live – three different gigs
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5imi1o
http://www.sendspace.com/file/k9bjtq
http://www.sendspace.com/file/vlfj0e

Hothouse Flowers – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/1p7laz

Josh Ritter – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/u2bxzk

Jakob Dylan – Live at the Newport Folk Festival
http://www.sendspace.com/file/2hlai7

Emma Pollock – Live Session
http://www.sendspace.com/file/bqpm4n

Natalie Merchant Cumberland County 1999
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ewxhzu

Common Ground Opening Concert – re upped – old file seems to have died
http://www.sendspace.com/file/f6qoms
http://www.sendspace.com/file/gb4e3n

British Sea Power – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/iy98pm

Pearl Jam – Bridge School 2006 – re upped – old file seems to have died
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qrl0mm

Counting Crows – Atlantic City
http://www.sendspace.com/file/h4f9jg

AA Bondy – Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/gy6r22

Warren Zevon – Captol Passiac NJ
http://www.sendspace.com/file/cf113h

Wilco – Vicar Street Dublin - correct link in comments
http://www.sendspace.com/file/cf113h

Steve Forbert
http://www.sendspace.com/file/62cg7u

Enjoy

Hooli

...I can heal the sick and I can mend the lame, blind can see again it's all the same...

2009-10-04T17:10:00.002+01:00

So the past week and a bit has seen my youngest daughter sent home from school with conspicuous complaints of dizziness, nausea and a full scale body rash; my wife sent home from work with complaints of dizziness, nausea and severe headache; and the teenager kept off school with complaints of nausea, jelly legs and severe headache.

God, I’m feeling insanely healthy right now.
Must be the snake oil.
Either that or it’s the fact that, while my wife travels via public transport looking at the sweaty oxter of the collective germ riddled scum sucker, to arrive at work where she has then to teach the same scummy beings, and the kids spend their entire day in close confines with a veritable menagerie of disease and pestilence that is their class mates; I travel by bike to a factory where germs dare not show their face, such are the evils that lie within.
All of this of course makes me a complete snob and totally smug about not being unwell. God forbid that it should happen because when I get sick it’s like I’ve been harpooned with a spear dabbed with Yellow Fever, Scarlet Fever, Dengue Fever, Cholera, Diptheria and Tourettes all rolled into one. At least that’s what I’m told.

In all seriousness, their collective ailments have of course, brought the inevitable third degree from the medical professionals and their sycophantic impostors– "if you have flu like symptoms you can’t come back to work"; "if you have any symptoms that involve sickness or sore throat you must phone NHS24"; "if you are unwell you must seek medical guidance before blah blah blah".
Everybody has had, or knows someone who has had that; everyone knows what it is that ails you; every single one of them knows exactly what the remedy is; and every person nowadays afflicted has to have some sort of classifiable disease or condition.
Parents no longer see there kids as having been afflicted by sitting too close to snotty Jimmy at school, the kid has to have something-itis or whatsit flu. They can’t just have a dose of the shits. No, they have to have a severe allergic reaction – probably down to eating a couple of kilos of Haribo jelly mix or a trough full of Golden Wonder Cheesy Wotsits.
The amount of kids who have allergies, or rather "intolerances", is alarming to say the least. Lactose intolerant. Gluten intolerant. Nut intolerance.
The parents are doing this. Pushing their insecurities and stresses upon their darling little offspring.
Their illness is probably more down to the stress of worrying about being intolerant to so many things and wondering where their next meal is going to come from.

I guess it’s all for the common good and maybe the evil pig god is visiting some divine retribution upon me for my scathing comments about swine flu, but why can’t people just get ill these days.
I’m no better than anyone else.
In fact, if my dear lady is to be believed, I am the worst kind of patient and the living embodiment of all that has led to the myth of manflu.
I have to disagree because it takes something pretty severe to keep me out of the office.
Last time was when I met with a self-inflicted bout of food poisoning at the hands of some three-day-old turkey broth.
To be fair to myself, on that occasion, I spent a whole night expelling the foulest smelling liquid I have ever come across, simultaneously from both ends.
It felt like someone had, at the same time, stuck one hand down my throat and the other up my arse, and was trying to turn me inside out from both ends.
Didn’t Roxy Music have a song about that?

Fortunately for the rest of the family, and me, this time, the nausea hasn’t blossomed into a full blown dose of the boak.
I say this because I can t deal with vomit.

I remember when the kids were babies and one of them chucked up a load of semi-digested milk in our upstairs lobby.
No great shakes, until I had to pick what couldn’t be wiped up from between the floorboards with a cocktail stick. Put me off toothpicks for a while I can tell you.

No, I simply can’t deal with puke.

I mean, I can deal with my own if needs must but, when it comes to dealing with someone else’s vomit, I’m a total f4cking loser.
My niece, who is studying medicine and as such, has to do spells in various hospitals, claims that you get used to it to the point where it’s just like making beds or sweeping the floor.
I’ll keep an open mind on that one, as I don’t think any amount of conditioning could get me used to that.
When I really think about it, even my own puke makes me sick, it’s just that, well, I’m already being sick so I can’t really be sure if it’s the fact that I’m sick anyway or if it’s my own sick that’s making me feel sick again in a sort of self perpetuating way, if you know what I mean.

No, thought not.

Any way, all this talk of sickness reminds me of a couple of months back, when a picture of myself and some old friends appeared in the local paper, I was trying to fit together all the names and faces.
It was 1979 for f4ck sake.
I could barely recognise myself let alone anyone else but three of the people in the picture are still among my closest friends. Two of them married each other and the other married another of my closest friends.
Having all been at school together and having hung out together for years, there was the inevitable "who the f4ck’s that standing at the back third from the right" or "who’s the geek in shorts with the haircut like a Gerry helmet?" but together, we managed to make all the pieces fit, ok largely, it was down to the one with the best memory, which wasn’t me, but we got there in the end.
I still remember the occasion although I can’t remember the picture being taken. Some people who should be there are absent, my girlfriend at the time for one, but I do seem to be standing worryingly close to my ex.
This brings me back to puke and one of the reasons she became my ex.

When you’re sixteen or seventeen, cleaning up your girlfriends puke isn’t really on the agenda especially after she’s hosed up a whole bottle of Martini.
Even now the smell of it still reminds me of that night.

I’ve never been great with boats either, well big boats to be precise and, to be even more precise, big boats full of puking passengers.
It’s a popular misconception in our house that I get sea sick. Not so. I get sick at the sight of other people howking their guts up.
One time, on holiday in Kos, we took a boat trip to the neighbouring volcanic island of Nysros. Beautiful morning, wind picking up a bit, waves starting to show little white bits on top. By the time we got out of the harbour the waves were ten feet high and the wind was force eight. Anyway, suffice to say everyone but the crew and about four others were giving it the big Technicolor yawn. Trouble was that, unlike the posh airlines, who dish out waxed paper bags, poor old Georghiou could only muster a roll of Snappies. How I managed to keep the contents of my stomach at a level with my epiglottis, with all those plastic bags of breakfast soup, the wretching sounds and the boat bobbing up down like a hoor’s ersehole, is beyond me.
Still, I have never been seasick – pretty dammed close on a number of occasions but never quite got my membership of diced carrots and tomato skins display team.

On which note, some sea shanties for ya...
　
Steve Earle & the Dukes – Copperhead Road Alternate Version
http://www.sendspace.com/file/cieba8

British Sea Power – Glasgow ABC1
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9airuo

Echo & The Bunnymen - Glastonbury
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xbeaoj

Richmond Fontaine – Luminaire
http://www.sendspace.com/file/r7ssx3

Teenage Fan Club – Glasgow Academy 2005
http://www.sendspace.com/file/kvow8c

Prefab Sprout – Town & Country Club
http://www.sendspace.com/file/e1mw3k

Elvis Costello – Live in Falkirk
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pu6czc

Pearl Jam – O2 Arena
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zhl6wx

Simple Minds – Aberdeen Capitol
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5jrmlk

Mike Peters – In Session
http://www.sendspace.com/file/bporn8

Solas – Trumansburg 2001
http://www.sendspace.com/file/dggxlt

Adam Duritz – Shim Sham 2001
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ali75f

Goodbye Mr Mackenzie – River Sessions
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pefm9m

Pearl Jam & Neil Young – Bridge School Benefit 2006
http://www.sendspace.com/file/8c7285

The Cure - Unplugged
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ywbc4i

Trashcan Sinatras – On A B Road
http://www.sendspace.com/file/mzbct4
http://www.sendspace.com/file/n0b8ok

The Burns Unit – Glasgow ABC
http://www.sendspace.com/file/shy7ij

Dick Gaughan & Brian McNeill – Live in Germany
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4b5cun

APB – Something To Believe In
http://www.sendspace.com/file/akr4rj
　
Enjoy

Till next time…

Hooli
　
　
　
　
　

...I don't like those drugs that keep you thin...

2009-09-19T18:02:00.004+01:00

So it’s the 25th London Fashion Week.
All that buzz…
What will be the latest lines on the catwalk?
What can we expect to hit the High Street next year?
What will influence the way we dress over the forthcoming 12 months?
Who will launch the most outrageous pile of crap this side of a pair of steel wool knickers?
Who gives a f4ck?

All the fashionistas will be there, drooling over the latest Costelloe creations or the next slice of Westwood weirdness.
But what does it mean to a scruffy, denim wearing, t-shirty type like me or to my good lady, who has to wear sensible clothes to work.
Lets see…

What about the latest McCartney offerings or the New York offerings of de la Renta?
Do these come in any sizes bigger than a 6. No thought not.
Looking at some of the models, we are in scary territory here. This is not feminine.
How the hell is someone with less meat than a length of barbed wire fence, supposed to make a figure hugging dress look stylish? The whole androgyny of it makes it look like some weird teenage cross dressy type gig.
What we have here is something that is leaner and weighs less than one of my legs! Where this very notion that, to be a catwalk model, one needed to be size zero came from, is beyond me. There’s nothing attractive about it and it must be an absolute bastard getting clothes to fit a toast rack on legs.
I'm not advocating the Fat Slags look here but the female figure generally has the bust sticking out just a teensy bit further than the hip bones (normally).

Yup, these creations are all very well for Keira Knightley and the knotted string brigade but if you’re arse is anything like normal you’d be better off hiding it in one Paul Costelloe’s offerings.

Some of the latest Costelloe creations look like they’ve fallen off of Kokeshi dolls or Samurai warriors. The only thing missing was the top knot or the Kendo Nagasaki wrestling mask to complete the image. Others were so outlandishly shouldered that it would be hard to imagine what shape of being was inside – in the realm of big suits, forget David Byrne or Grace Jones, we are talking Sue Ellen Ewing meets NFL chic. As for the thing with the funny little baseball cap peaks for sleeves, why did he not go the whole hog and have Sydney Op House on one side and the SECC on the other. Some of it is just plain silly. Can you imagine it?
“I say Darling, will you pop down to Harrods and pick me up some smoked elk”
“Of course sweetie, I’ll just have to iron my Costelloe before I go out”

You’d be dead from starvation and the Elk would be extinct.
HOW THE F4CK do you iron something like that.

Me, I’m not naturally talented in the ironing department but I’ll do it if I have to.
Shirts, jeans, T-shirts – fine, but see some of that women’s stuff?
If I was a woman, and I knew that I was going to have to do the ironing, I’m f4cked if I’d be buying something that shape.

I guess though if you can afford a genuine Costelloe you can afford a maid.
Nonetheless, I can’t see there being many couturier designed dresses in Aberdeen next year.

It does make me think though, that buying clothes can be a bit of pain in the arse.
All of my family are fairly average size. Consequently, all the sizes that fit us, generally sell out first.
I went to buy a shirt the other week for a dinner I was going to.
Nothing fancy. Just something new. Just the usual Rocha John Rocha, stripy job, just like all my other shirts (so I'm told).
I prowled around my chosen High Street store and decided on the style I liked best.
I flicked through the crammed rail looking for some clue as to the size. They all either looked tiny or massive. Eventually, I sussed out the deal with the labels – they were hanging down the inside of the sleeve.
Now, will someone please tell me why in the name of suffering f4ck do they do that? Is it some kind of man hating, bitch game or what?
Eventually, I pull up all the tags looking for something that says large or 40”.
Squat! Sweet diddly f4ck all!
After replacing all the fallen shirts on the rack I managed to get hold of an assistant.
“Do you have this in a large” I asked
“No”
“What about this one”
“No”
“This one”
“No”
“Thi…”
“No”
“Do you have anything in large (apart from your vocabulary)”
“Er, No”
“What about a medium”
“No”
“Anything at all that will fit me”

And so it went...
I mean, it’s not as if I’m build like Arnie Schwartzifuckinegger or have three arms or something, I’m just plain old average.

Surely the major High Street Stores can employ a pimply student to study the demographic so that they can get a better understanding of the percentage of different sizes. At least that way they wouldn’t be stuck with twenty XXXL sumo-sized shirts and half a dozen things that look like they’ve met with the boil wash.
And more importantly maybe, just maybe they might get their arses round to ordering enough garments in MEDIUM AND F4CKING LARGE.

And some music??

Why not?

Leonard Cohen – Live in Toronto
http://www.sendspace.com/file/h7fufs

Saw Doctors - Live in Galway
http://www.sendspace.com/file/z9pv7k

Malcolm Ross – Wrong Time Wrong Place
http://www.sendspace.com/file/m6tacu

Lisa Knapp – Wild and Undaunted
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0xqev2

Jonathan Butler – Jonathan Butler
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6qo54m

Jeff Buckley - Shine
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qk8lys

Mull Historical Society – This Is Hope
http://www.sendspace.com/file/r5vmq7

Bob Dylan – Blood On The Tracks Test Pressing
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ny39ab

Lisa Hannigan – Live in Leeds
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xlkeit

Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova
http://www.sendspace.com/file/96rw4c

Bap Kennedy - The Big Picture
http://www.sendspace.com/file/h4vgfg

The Silencers – Edinburgh Castle
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0terk9

Fairground Attraction – Live in Japan
http://www.sendspace.com/file/sdkrfp

Warren Zevon – Wanted Dead Or Alive
http://www.sendspace.com/file/iboyta

Alan Rankine – She Loves Me Not
http://www.sendspace.com/file/u5349a

Iggy Pop – TV Eye
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xhereo

Cheers til next time...

Hooli

...think I'll buy me a football team...

2009-09-13T15:27:00.003+01:00

Time was, in days of dark mediaeval plagues, where a good man and true, need only reap his harvest to tide his family over the winter months.
With no X-Factor or such frivolity to keep him tickled through the bleak, eternal damp, he put aside some additional stock so that he could barter with his neighbours and maybe even indulge in a bit of sucking up with the feudal lord.
Life was simple. He would have grown wheat; I would have grown oats; you would have grown barley; Egbert the grub would have grown corn while Stigtrol the mank would have contented himself with rummaging through the middens for some scraps.

Back then, only the rich had money.
Back then, only the rich needed money.
If they spent it all, it didn’t matter.
They’d just make some more or invent some taxes.
They didn’t really need it anyway. It’s not as if they had to go down to Tesco every week.
They had an endless supply of serfs to provide them with food and all manner of favours in exchange for a damp, rat infested hovel at the edge of a swamp.
The unlucky ones had their hovel in the swamp and got to slop out the septic pits.
If they refused they’d end up being burnt as a witch or being impaled on a big spike then roasted and placed on a huge silver platter with an apple in their mouth and a bunch of juniper up their arse.

Those were simple times and people were happy.
Politics didn’t touch the life of the common man.
There were no terrorists.
There was none of the old e-coli, swine flu or legionella to keep you off your work.
All you had was the bubonic plague.
And as for the credit crunch?
The Black Death was more than enough for the common man to deal with without having money worries on top of that.
Then, after all those dark years of contentment, things changed. Greed set in and some spoilsport screwed the whole deal.
King John and Robin Hood are generally blamed for this and quite rightly so but they were not alone in their complicity.
The serf wasn’t content with his inhospitable little shithole. He wanted to make something of his life. He got ambitious.
He started to hang out with the out of town crowd.
They came with better offerings than the landed gentry.
They introduced money to the masses.
Funny little button-sized bits of metal stamped with illegible pictures became the currency of the common man. These were soon to be replaced by even funnier bits of paper with equally illegible handwriting on the front. The type of handwriting that looked like it had been made by a four year old in charge of some ink and a hen’s foot; one that still had a living hen on the end of it.
This was eventually replaced by something with even more pictures on it.
Usually this was the head of some regal celebrity who’d had a nasty encounter with an ugly potion, surrounded by the random scribblings of some smart arse who went mad with the Spirograph set they got for Christmas.
Eventually, the governments took control and let the poor believe there wasn’t enough money to go round. They locked great stashes away in vaults making money even more valuable and more sought after. This was a great trick which has been replicated throughout history. Make the masses believe something is in short supply, push the value up because it is rare, then charge even more for it when you sell it.

All in all, this wasn’t too bad an idea. The size of the bit of paper matched the value written on the front but nowadays, there is nothing to distinguish one note from the other.
Even worse, money, coinage or paper, is becoming an anachronism. Everything is paid for with a computer transaction and the reading of an intricately embellished slip of plastic.
Most people don’t really know how much money they actually have.

I recently had the misfortune of finding out how little money I had, having to stump for a couple of grand to cover car and household bills.
In an attempt to reduce my monthly outgoings, I changed my energy supplier. Unfortunately for me I hadn’t noticed the considerable debt I had amassed with my previous supplier. Despite my belief that money was not important to me and it had become synonymous with power, the amount of misery was indeed proportionate to amount of my resulting overdraft.
Now all of that has sorted itself out I’ve come to realise that there never is a ‘right’ amount of money to have and no matter how much money we have, it’s never enough.
Having said that, if someone gave me a blank cheque, what figure would I put on it?
If I had a couple of grand burning a hole in my hipper, would I be able to find something to spend it on and would my choice be a popular one.

The love of money may not exactly be the root of all evil but it certainly is at the root of many a family squabble.

And the point of this, and excuse for another Floyd boot...

Pink Floyd – Cruel But Fair
http://www.sendspace.com/file/s90ibu

Mike Peters – The Alarm History
http://www.sendspace.com/file/7d1usd

The Alarm – Hammersmith Odeon
http://www.sendspace.com/file/fu0b4p

Aimee Mann – Live at St Ann’s Warehouse
http://www.sendspace.com/file/fmq3xr

Pearl Jam – Bridge School Benefit 2006
http://www.sendspace.com/file/sagmo5

Various Artists – Common Ground Concert
http://www.sendspace.com/file/71s5gs
http://www.sendspace.com/file/fkaifs

Karine Polwart – Live in Belfast
http://www.sendspace.com/file/mpyfpk

Led Zeppelin – Earl’s Court 1975
http://www.sendspace.com/file/w1raug
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6h07c2
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xyrv4f

Paul Rodgers - Live in Vancouver
http://www.sendspace.com/file/tvb1gq

Idlewild – 24.04.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xmfc5b

R.E.M – T in the Park
http://www.sendspace.com/file/cq1594

Balaam & the Angel – The Greatest Story Ever Told
http://www.sendspace.com/file/41keay

Counting Crows – Maryhill Winery, 17.07.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/m2nx32

Enjoy,

Hooli

...McGinty kicked the rabbit, and was instantly fried...

2009-08-31T19:35:00.003+01:00

The family holiday!
Great isn’t it?
Arrangements all made in advance for some time away; built up to be all conquering, halcyon days where souls are cleansed, bodies rejuvenated and minds invigorated. Family bonds are renewed, free from the rigours of modern working life and the great institution of education. All prejudices cast aside. All agendas levelled.

Perhaps a sophisticated cruise aboard a luxury liner bound for exotic stop-overs in the Caribbean, the Mediterranean, the Adriatic or even Inverness.
Maybe an excitement filled adventure like the one described by some silver tongued poet working in an advertising agency whose closest brush with adventure is deciding whether to go to Burger King or McDonalds for lunch.

Weeks are spent looking forward to the experiences that will be shared.
The sights; the sounds; the smells. The wonder of being somewhere different.
A place where nobody knows your name; where everyone, metaphorically at least, is naked, stripped of everything that sets them apart from their neighbour.
Somewhere that isn’t home because, as everyone knows, a holiday spent at home only ends up with all manner of DIY projects, numerous trips to B&Q and the potential for messy and acrimonious divorce proceedings.

So you read the blurb in the brochure or on the website and choose your destination.
You process all the information available to you and, whether it is visual, verbal or based on your own memories, you start to build up a picture of what it will be like and what you will do.
This, of course, is fundamentally flawed.
If you’re reading or listening to someone else’s opinion then that is exactly what you get.
Their opinion.
If you are relying on your own memories, even if it is without the assistance of rose tinted specs, remember that circumstance will never allow itself to be repeated.
Not as long as your arse points down.

Personally, I prefer to view the world through a pair of drinking goggles.
It makes much less sense that way and let’s be honest, if we ever did manage to make sense of our lot, it would be route one to the nut house for the lot of us.
Either that or we’d be getting a free ride in the big white armoured van and a long vacation at Her Majesty’s expense.
Go to directly to Carstairs. Do not pass GO.
Remember to pick up your straightjacket on the way.

Those are a strange and special type of holiday usually afforded to the criminal fraternity but it never occurred to me before now what a strange concept the family holiday is.
The one thing that is never considered is that everyone has different needs and expectations from a vacation and those needs will be different tomorrow to what they were today.
Especially if you are a teenager.
Why?
Jis cuz!

As anyone who comes here will know, I live in Scotland.
It has been home for many years - all of them in fact.
Growing up, as I did, between the ‘60s and ‘70s, it was a time that predated the great British holiday abroad. Benidorm and Majorca were distant constellations of whitewashed fishing huts unknown to anyone outside of the Iberian Peninsula.
Greece was a place of mythological multi-headed freaks and cross breeds that we learned about in school and Turkey was just something we ate at Christmas.

Because my mother worked in London, I grew up with my grandparents, which wasn’t a bad thing but it meant that holidays were nothing terribly adventurous. Day trips here. Day trips there. Loch Ness was about as far as my Grandfathers old grey Ford Anglia would travel in a single stint and, to be honest, it’s probably as much as the rest of us could have taken of his 80dB whistling of the Three Marys.
Getting pushed through nettles by my cousin into the burn at the bottom of a distant Dundonian relative’s garden was the closest I ever got to having something exciting to show for the six week gap between school terms.
By the time my mother returned to the North the 60s were giving way to a new decade. She had a new man and we were looking more like a proper family. As time wore on and my grandparents got older, it looked more likely that they would take me to live with them.
Summer was coming and I was beginning to think that it might be more than days spent sitting in the car or visiting aging relatives that I didn’t know.
They had planned a trip to Ireland but poor little Cinders got left behind.
Even as a teenager, nothing changed. We didn’t go on family holidays. The summers were spent at home, outdoors, playing football; climbing trees; biking the six miles to our beach hut or playing in the local quarry.
The only exception to this that I can remember was a week in a borrowed caravan at Gairloch where it pissed with rain every day. I remember Alice Cooper was number one so that kind of sets the time.
I was about eleven and the only kid there.

You may think this has no relevance to anything but looking back now, it was all a bit strange and left me with hefty bag of chips balanced on each shoulder.
It did, however, shape my perception of solitude to the point where I was never uncomfortable with my own company.
As with many other things in my childhood, it had a profound effect on my adult way of thinking.
When I got married and began to raise a family of my own, I was determined that they would not miss out on the things I did. There would always be holidays. We would always do things at the weekend. I would never be ‘too busy’ to spend time with my family.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful it’s just that if I’d had the choice or been given the chance to have an input, I’d have planned things a little differently.

Anyway, that one holiday must have had an effect on me because Gairloch is one place I never tire of.
Gairloch was the destination a couple of years ago, incidentally when my eldest was eleven, as it had been for a few days the year before that.
It was on the basis of how great it was then, that we arranged an encore this year and decreed that a-camping we would go.

Despite my reservations about two weeks under canvas and how my aging body would cope with an ever deflating airbed, I geared up for it. Researched all the possible activities for all parties concerned, covering all weather options.
I even managed to squeeze a guitar into our little Italian job although I did have to leave off the bike rack as the whole affair was starting to look a little like the Griswalds’ Scottish Vacation.

From the air of disquiet before we left, I guess I should have known that the teenager would have preferred not to have been extricated from the confines of her bedroom for a fortnight. I should have seen it coming.
Even the presence of a games room was only good for the first week.
The slow pace of highland village life proved too hectic for her and the cries for home became more vociferous with each passing day.
I should have known the kids would find it tough. No hairdryers, no hair straighteners, nowhere to apply make up, no TV, no computers and total fresh air overload.

I should also have been aware that going on holiday with your closest friends is going to lead to a get together every night and, in the truest of all traditions, when the usual suspects gather in one place, it’s very much a case of ‘instant party, just add alcohol’.
Consequently, every morning was heralded by a hangover.

I should also have been able to figure out that because I couldn’t hire a canoe on line didn’t necessarily mean that there would be a plethora of hire shops locally that just didn’t go in for the whole web thing. This was the west coast of Scotland after all, not
the Lake District.
I should have been able to suss out that just because there was a fish and chip van on site didn’t necessarily mean that they would be serving anything remotely like fish and chips. That’s a whole different story that’s better left untold.

Although I was unprepared for these eventualities, they came as little surprise.

Our move to the far north for the second week was also based on previous experience and, as with Gairloch, Durness didn’t disappoint; at least not the adults.
Again, I should have know that day after day on the best beach in the country, in the sun, with nothing to do but relax, would not have them screaming for more.
Even the fact that John Lennon used to holiday there was not going to impress the teenager despite her being a Beatles fanatic.
So no real surprises.
Kids complaining about wasting two weeks of their lives. Adults left with no option but to turn to alcohol.
No surprises.

What happened next though, was a surprise.
It not only surprised me but it totally swept the rug from under my inbuilt sense of self preservation.

Dune running is nothing spectacular.
It’s not even recognised as anything other than a short cut to the beach but, as most kids will tell you, it’s great fun.
Sixty degree slope (or more), dig your heels in and, as the sand gives way take great big, gravity assisted strides while leaning slightly backwards.
No great shakes.
No different to scree running of which I’ve done plenty.
You simply glide gracefully to the bottom then tip the sand out of your shoes.
Thing is, being ill equipped to burrow through granite or loose stones, except in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, rabbits keep themselves to the softer stuff.
The average scree runner never comes face to face with Louis Lapin.
Sand dunes are a whole different proposition and are a veritable metropolis to the long eared, bug eyed rodent populous.
To say this has totally changed my perception of Bugs Bunny is an understatement and I now understand that Elmer Fudd was clearly misunderstood.

Having got about two steps in to my journey, my descent was halted by my right foot being swallowed by the earth. In the process, it made a 90 degree turn to the vertical and sent me spinning onto my arse.
The crack was enough to convince me I’d broken my ankle.
The searing pain backed up my immediate theory.
The string of copulating illegitimates, uttered in one long single sentence that would have given Billy Connolly, Jerry Sadowitz and Gordon Ramsay a collective run for their money, underlines the fact I was in total f4cking agony.
Fortunately I didn’t do a face plant into the marram grass otherwise I might have lost an eye.

The whole concept of Hooli versus sand dune concealed rabbit hole was one that I was totally unprepared for and had no contingency for.
The local doctor was probably shared with every other village within a 50 mile radius and, by the look of it, he also did a spot of moonlighting with Hawkwind.

The nearest hospital was 200 miles away.

Attendance at the local clinic and the attentions of Dr Lemmy, confirmed my suspicion that I was either going to have to put up and shut up or curtail my holiday. His ‘bag of peas’ theory would have been all well and good if the only local shop hadn’t already closed.
As it was, I had to make do with the only sensible course of action.
Instant pain relief, just add alcohol.

I did manage the next day hobbling about like Quasimodo along the beach but in the end, the tennis ball growing out of the side of my leg and the complaints from the teenager were too much.
It was indeed, end of holiday.
The injury aside, I wouldn’t change any of it.
Hopefully, in years to come the kids will look back and go ‘remember that time we went to Durness and dad bust his ankle showing off’.

Back in dear old Foggytoon, x-rays confirmed that there was no broken bone.
I have to say it was a bit of let down to have endured that amount of pain and cut my holiday short to realise that all I had was ligament damage but hey, at least they didn’t check my liver.

And so...

Billy Connolly - Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5bv9qo

Michael Marra – The Lochee Bard’s Visit to James Scott Skinner
http://www.sendspace.com/file/b8ya2l

Warren Zevon – Dublin 26.02.1988
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ns5w1v

Tom Waits – Cold Beer On A Hot Night
http://www.sendspace.com/file/j29ub2

Bob Dylan – Stirling Castle 13.07.2001
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3r0k82

Michelle Shocked – Live In Boston
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jucv58

LAU – Luminaire
http://www.sendspace.com/file/g5nfsy

Heidi Talbot with Kris Drever & John McCusker - Live at the Met Theatre, Bury
http://www.sendspace.com/file/67x98k

Liam O’Maonlai & Marketa Irglova – Vienna Haus der Musik
http://www.sendspace.com/file/s741zz

The Alarm – Live at the RPM Club
http://www.sendspace.com/file/fuj4vn

Tom Robinson - Live in London 1994
http://www.sendspace.com/file/mubdew

R.E.M – Live at Maxwell’s
http://www.sendspace.com/file/1lsuvu

Travis - Live at KCRW
http://www.sendspace.com/file/o1qcmi

Idlewild – Live at BBC Radio Scotland
http://www.sendspace.com/file/eirw5u

Ian McNabb – Ian McNabb
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jaz2xq

Enjoy...

Hooli

...I like to be here when I can...

2009-08-17T20:46:00.001+01:00

Having recently returned from holiday, I think it’s only fitting that I pay tribute to the place I call home. I’ve booted this in and out of the reckoning for a couple of months and each time I’ve been set to post it, something has happened.
Usually a bout of lazyitis but now, I guess having had a month long sabbatical, it’s time to get my ass in gear, so here goes...

As I was saying, I’m just back from my hols which would normally be the only time of the year I picked up a book.
Up until recently that is.
Books didn’t do it for me and I openly admit to a high level of ignorance when it came to modern or classical literary works.
My passion was music and it stole me away from the world of literature.
Books were boring and I never allowed myself the time to read.
All the Shakespeare and Dickens on earth wasn’t going to pull me in, not when I had Dylan and Cohen to contend with and besides, I’d had enough of all that stuff at school.
Austen and the Brontës were too girly and Shakespeare was just too wordy in a completely different language sort of way.
The American classics like Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Steinbeck and Williams were too bloody American and the good old godfather of gloom, Thomas Hardy was just to f4cking grim to be real.
This is a guy who makes Dylan, Cohen, Waits and Cave seem like the Singing f4cking Kettle.

Now that I’ve presented myself with this scenario, it’s quite clear that I’m a bit of a Rita character like the one in Willy Russell’s play but it’s not that I don’t read, I just can’t be arsed fighting my way into the hearts and minds of characters and scenarios that I don’t care a toss about. A book I can’t identify with is as likely to strike a chord as a Diana Ross & Michael Jackson duet.
In brief, if the spaces between the words are more interesting than the words themselves, I ain’t readin’.

A While back, it was commented along the lines that I must be a tartan noir novelist in disguise.
Being a non reader, I’d never really considered it or the likelihood that there was any substance to it.
The closest I had ever come to tartan noir, apart from a walk down Union Street on a Saturday night, was a Taggart or Rebus rerun on the telly.
It’s not that I didn’t ever read. It was just that one book a year on a Turkish beach was more than enough but, as I’ve since discovered, given the right material, I actually like reading.
Recently, having ploughed relentlessly through a selection of Stuart McBride and Christopher Brookmyre, I now understand what Landyjon meant.

Unfortunately I don’t have the time or the patience to write screeds and screeds for a living and I don’t have the faculties to deal with the continual rejection that goes with selling your creative side.
I don’t have the depth in my imagination to be able to construct and deconstruct characters and worst of all I can’t ever manage to develop any sort of cohesive plot.
I remember this from creative writing at school. I could ramble on a load of shite for pages and pages but the trouble always was that I could never end it. Everyone else in the class was sitting arms folded or indulging in some deep cast nasal excavation while I was still scribbling frantically. Eventually, the teacher would get fed up waiting and take my work from me. That I had a final destination in mind but just didn’t have enough time to reach it must have been convincing enough for I always got good marks for creative writing. In the end though, it was just like I said; a load of shite.
Actually finishing anything close to a story or essay was like grappling around in a smoke filled room. Knowing there was a way out somewhere but never being smart enough to get down low to find the door.
Some things never change. I guess that’s why this has been rehashed so many times.

Despite that, I still like writing and using words; playing with them and using their rhythms, alliteration, allegory and analogy to beat out a message.

Last time I was going to post this, I got it all ready and, as I usually do, I slept on it.
Next morning I started reading Brookmyre’s ‘A Big Boy Did It and Ran Away’.

Bastard!

These were my very thoughts.
These were my words.
This man had tapped deep into my very ether.
Either that or we were secretly separated at birth.

It was time for the shelf again.

Now that I have reconciled the fact that just because we think the same doesn’t mean that I’m plagiarising, it really is time to let this one rip.

When I was younger, I looked upon returning home as something special. As soon as I crossed the brow of that hill on the A90 and I could see the lights of the city, I knew I was home.
It’s as if I was at one with the city and if I was anywhere else, I barely felt whole.
Home was everything about the city. I knew the cracks between the paving slabs. I knew all the back doorways and alleys. I knew the faces, young and old.
The restaurants and bars, the parks and gardens, the streets and shops, the tenements and the beach, all said as much about the city as the lights appearing on the horizon.

The northern lights of old Aberdeen...

...It was a grey day.
The fifth in succession!
The clouds wrapped around the cold granite like a miserable shroud.
Just as blanket would cover a dead birds cage long after darkness has passed, so the clouds enveloped the city preventing escape. The damp soaked into the pores of every block of stone claiming all the poor lost souls for itself.
So there it was. Another grey day.
Another day with no f4cking weather to speak of.
A day when the rest of the country was bathed in sunshine.
A day when it should have been sunny here.
The suited guy after the news said so.
A day when every man and his dog had stocked up with bargain bags of bad meat and over spiced crap to char to a cinder on the suburbanite males last great claim on domesticity.
Dolled up like a refugee from Neighbours (maybe that should be nay baaz), the suburban male really comes into his own at the barbecue. Even for those who can cook or tame the furnace like powers of the devil’s campfire, the lure is irresistible. We pile more meat onto the damn thing than the average family eats in a week and then reduce it to an unrecognisable, inedible cinder.
It’s that golden opportunity to show off in front of the family, friends and neighbours – look! I can cook.
In reality, the north east and al fresco dining are unlikely to fare well in the marriage stakes. OK, it never really gets dark in the summer months but it’s always at least five f4cking degrees colder than anywhere else in the land and then there’s the weather. Decent all week then on Saturday, while you’re charging round Tesco filling your cart with more dead animals than Damien Hirst's basement, the clouds start gathering like mobsters at an Italian wake.
Yep, if there’s one thing destined to ruin your pleasant valley Sunday it’s the weather.

I used to think it was odd they way weather forecasters never referred to this part of the country when they did the old Phil Connors bit but just as he was bound to wake up to I Got You Babe every morning, the weather was equally likely to be repetitively crap.
Now I know why.
It’s just what you come to expect living in the north east, stuck like a big plook on the face of the country.
This is the part of the country no one gives a f4ck about.
Why should they? Nobody ever comes here anyway.

Clearly there is no conventional science that can accurately predict what the weather will be like in this part of the world. Somewhere though, in a cobweb filled laboratory filled with rats and bats and cadaverous cats, there is an old crone working some weird witchery and black arts that keeps the fog circling around Aberdeen for days. She must have been here in days gone by and been so pissed off by the lack of charm that she unleashed an evil enchantment. Either that or this truly is the asshole of the world.

“It’s shite being Scottish” screamed Renton in that Trainspotting scene on the bridge in the middle of Rannoch Moor. Maybe so, but it’s even shitier being Scottish and living on the north east coast.

Apart from the weather, one of the things you notice about this place is that everything is a little bit bi-polar.

OK, honestly...
... we’re totally f4ckin schizo.

Aberdeen is a city populated by people with only one thing in common – a mutual resentment for one another.
We are so completely confused about our identity and have no real cultural model, so much so that we don’t even know if we want to be toonies or neep seeds.
The result is a city with a village mentality and all the bad things associated with both and, as Renton observed of the country as a whole, we are colonised by wankers.
The kind of people who make scum look good.
If it’s not rich, fat, cigar chomping Americans telling us how to build our golf courses and how big everything is in Texas, it’s the classless class, ‘fur coat nae draars’ mentality of the nouveau riche, swanking it up in their own little Wisteria Lanes, with their BMWs and 4x4s.
Faceless little twats without an original thought between them, conditioned to believe that if they see it on the TV it must be real.
This must be the way to live.
Little people with little lives and little idea of how to make the most of what they’re given; people with too much disposable wealth who see the route to distinction as having a bigger or flashier car than their neighbour.
The fact that they are prepared to spend endless amounts of money on something that they can’t ever fully appreciate and is exactly the same as the pile of crap their neebs has is a worthy paradox for the shallow minded.
Trouble is they will never see the irony.
They wouldn’t know class if it took a dump in their cornflakes and, like all the reality TV dupes who think they are getting their little slice of fame, the very thing they aspire to be is the very thing they long to escape from. The very thing that sets them apart is what binds them together. Sitting in their all terrain jeeps singing along with Chris Martin, feeling like action man when the closest they get to off-roading is bumping over the speed humps at forty or mounting the kerb when they try to park.
In a converse sort of way, it’s like the shy kids in the choir, refusing to sing because they’re too self conscious about it but only succeeding in drawing attention to themselves by gazing at their feet. We are a choir full of shy kids, all gazing at our Nikes, blending into one another, never standing out with any degree of individuality, all conspiring to create one very big and totally crap choir.

As my beloved author Christopher Brookmyre observes, Aberdeen truly is a grey city, full of grey people in grey cars with grey jobs, grey houses and grey lives.

Slithering around, even further below Brookmyre’s SSCs are the good old minkers.
The Nesbits and Steptoes of the modern world.
Lower than anything depicted in Shameless.
The benefit cheats and spongers whose sense of achievement is centred on getting to the offy early enough to get the first bottle of Concord or Bucky before the Bookies opens. The same people who have new kitchens fitted by the social and have full satellite TV packages installed at our expense. The same cheating bastards who claim to be homeless yet can still afford to have a big f4ck off Alsatian dog sitting next to them.
Ask them why they don’t get a job. I’ll bet their answer is “it’s not worth it mate. I get more off the bru and from my patch in this doorway”.
These are the same people who claim unlawfully against their insurance and push our premiums out of proportion. The same people who drunkenly abuse bus drivers and other passengers. You can always tell where they live by the discarded sofas, beds and electrical appliances lying outside their scabby flats. The same ones that have knee high grass and dandelions instead of a lawn.
Why can’t the lazy f4ckers take them to the skip like everyone else and while they’re there, nick a Flymo and mow their f4cking lawn?

On days when the weather does take an upturn, geography and some architectural improvidence has blessed the Granite City with the greyness it will never shake. Even in blazing sunshine, the buildings turn everything grey.
Silver city my arse.

More like slightly crisp and burnt copper city.
Soon as the sun comes out, they’re out there, like flies round a shite, togged up in their miniscule, undersize and overstretched piece of fluorescent lycra sportswear, cruising down to the beach in their pastel blue cabriolets like badly gift wrapped elephant seals.
I mean, I ask you! Who the f4ck in their right mind wants to own a convertible in a city that gets three days of sunshine a year and, when it comes to it, what the f4ck is all that French shite about.
Cabriolet bollocks, its a f4cking convertible and what’s more, it’s only a Vauxhall f4cking Astra with the top sawn off.
I could see the point if it was a Lotus, an Aston Martin or E Type Jag or if we were in Juan les Pins, the Amalfi Coast or Malibu Beach but it’s Aberdeen, the rain capital of Europe and just another classless piece of junk the same as everybody else’s except for the 4m of tarpaulin stapled to the back.

Architecturally, there are some gems but by god there are some howlers.
The west end, typically enough, has most of the grand granite buildings but these have largely been subject to the change in economic balance which has seen rich oil companies, solicitors and dentists move in, replacing the aging homeowners.
One of the most overblown, overrated and over the top buildings in the city is Marischal College. The second largest granite building in the world no less, it is a giant monstrosity full of neo-gothic self importance with a facade reminiscent of a wedding cake that has been decorated by an overzealous child, used to making drippy castles on the beach.
The fact that it sits opposite the equally absurd concrete and glass tower block of St Nicholas house, the council HQ, is typical Aberdeen. Even more typical is the fact that the same council HQ is about to relocate to, you guessed it, the drippy castle wedding cake across the road.
Even more typical than that is the fact that they still owe more than £2 million on the 40 year old tower block and the conversion of the new premises is expected to reach £80 million.

Even the normal honest Joe is not without his problems.
As an Aberdonian who moved away and then returned, neither time through choice, it is clear to me that the thing that truly sets your average Aberdonian apart from the rest of the country is the massive lumbering chip on his shoulder.
This all revolves around football of course.
Aberdeen were once the best team in Europe.
Home grown, successful, no nonsense winners.
Then the Mancs stole Alex Ferguson away and that was the end of it.
The McLeish & Miller era was over and all that was left was the memory of a Cup Winners Cup campaign that saw off Bayern Munich and Real Madrid. The subsequent humbling of Hamburg in the Supercup which saw the Germans’ striker Felix Magath play the entire match from the confines of Willie Miller’s pocket, confirmed what we all knew. Having taken a bunch of local kids and guys who nobody else rated and transformed them into a little red winning machine, Fergie was destined for great things.

Now of course, Manchester United rack up trophies like bugs on a head lamp while the poor old Dons could barely manage to buy a goal even if they had tango man David Dickinson in tow.
Last game I saw (I actually went twice last season) was such a dismal affair that I began to question how the f4ck they had managed to reach fourth place in the league. I was later advised that it wasn’t only our team that was shite.

With the opening day of the new season and a 3-1 defeat behind us to accompany an early exit from European football, it’s pretty clear that a year of spectacular embarrassment lies ahead.

Yes, the over forty grumpy Aberdonian has little to chirp about.
The weather’s shite.
The team’s shite.
The grub’s shite.
There’s not a decent gig-house in the place and the average pub charges four quid a pint.

There is one positive thing though, as one of my Glaswegian friends is fond of reminding me.
Aberdeen girls are the most beautiful in the world.
Here she comes.
Look at that beautiful clear complexion, caked by a layer of slap.
Doesn’t she have a beautiful year round tan, thanks to her brother who’s a welder?
Look how tightly she can pull her hair. Bet when she frowns it makes her stockings wrinkle.
And wait, that perfume.
What is it?
Chanel?
Dior?
What the f4ck’s that smell?
Smells like fish and we all know that only two things smell of fish.
Only one of them is fish so you can at least be thankful that she works in the fish market.
But the best thing of all is her shapely figure, especially if you’re into the burger look.
You know the one, big lardy belly hanging out over the undersize waist band of a pair of pink McKenzie joggers that cover the fattest arse outside of Tembe.

Side order of muffins to go - undersize bras a local speciality.

Remember Viz and the fat slags.
Must have been on a trip to Aberdeen when they thought that one up.

Never mind though, it’s still got one thing in its favour.
At least it’s never more than four miles in any direction to get out of the place.

Finally, my advice to Christpher Brookmyre...
...for your next novel, go a little further north where the sun simply never shines.
Fog enshrouds the towns of Peterhead and Fraserburgh.
These are places where trees refuse to grow; the dogs go round in pairs and the Silver Cross prams all have front fogs, Recaro seats and rear spoilers.
This is Scotland’s answer to Chavdom.

There’s enough material there for a whole series and personally...
...I can’t wait.

And so to the music...

Pink Floyd – Prism
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0hi1n8

Pale Saints – Slow Buildings
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ac1ow0

Richard Thompson - Folkscene 1993-06-13 and 1999-06-06
http://www.sendspace.com/file/z1zjuf

The Sound – Thunder Up
http://www.sendspace.com/file/d1wj7f

The Waterboys – Aberdeen
http://www.sendspace.com/file/e1wq28

10000 Maniacs - Strawberry Hill
http://www.sendspace.com/file/sr3vmx

DCFC – Bonaroo, 15.06.2008
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wtx71v

Kate Rusby – Edinburgh 15th June 2001
http://www.sendspace.com/file/84548d

River Detectives – King Of The Ghost Train Ride
http://www.sendspace.com/file/nmi8c7

Paul Kelly – Foggy Highway
http://www.sendspace.com/file/920hx7

Moldy Peaches – Live in NYC
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qu29gq

Mood Six - The Difference is....
http://www.sendspace.com/file/f3yo1n

The Alarm – My Father’s Place
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ooz0te

Hue & Cry – Open Soul
http://www.sendspace.com/file/qleo5w

Damien Rice – Live Unreleased Singles
http://www.sendspace.com/file/gsi9vi

…finally, thanks to Heather Browne at I Am Fuel, You Are Friends for this one…
Swell Season – Tiny Desk Session
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ibjdol

Enjoy

Hooli

...you love it, you hate it, you want to recreate it...

2009-07-18T20:56:00.007+01:00

Ok, I admit it, when it comes to trendy yoof telly, I’m right up there with Dumbledore when it comes to knowing what tickles the teenage juice muscle.

Yeah, I can laugh along with Harry Hill or Anne Robinson and I can even take the whole X Factor – Britain’s Got Talent thing, especially now, having read Christopher Brookmyre’s ‘Snowball in Hell’ but I simply can’t get any sort of handle on the imported American pish that MTv offers up.

Pimp my ride was bad enough but right now I’m watching some sort of frantic abomination called My Super Sweet 16 (UK).

WHAAAAT THE F4CKKK!!!

I mean, really, what the f4ck is that all about?

Can you actually believe that in the real world we normal folks inhabit, there are so many egotistical, spoilt little f4ckers, who really believe they are something so special that they can spend something close to the entire third world debt on a birthday party?

A 16^th birthday party.

How can this be?

How can these conceited little c@nts think that the world revolves so perfectly around them that this sort of thing is ok?

Even worse, how can their parents think it’s ok?

In one particular scene, some totally spoilt black dude is sitting in the back of a car (presumably a limo on the way to his party) with his mother. Conversation goes like this...

“What’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s...”

I’m not telli...”

“What’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s...”

“I’m not tel...”

“What’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s my present, what’s...”

F4CK ME PINK! Not even sixteen years old and he’s got all the charm and vocal delivery of Adolph F4cking Hitler.

If I’d been the mother (or indeed the father), I’d have smacked him in the pus and kicked his ungrateful, selfish little arse out into the f4cking street.

Cocky wee shite.

In another scene, there’s a brainless blonde bint bubbling inconsolably with a face full of snotters about how “this is the worst day of my life” all because her boyfriend snogged some other blonde slapper. Wake up sweet cakes, perhaps if you didn’t have a face like a cat’s arsehole that’s been set on fire and put out with a golf shoe, you might be able to saddle you stallion for a bit longer.

All the parties with rap stars flown in from America, Pop groups hired specially for the night, video messages from Nicole Kidman...

Enough to make you hurl so it is.

And all that shite about brand new BM Bastardin’ Ws that they can’t even f4cking drive, keys to their own flat that they can’t legally live in, roles in Hollywood movies...

...too late, my lasagne’s just bounced.

The world should be protected from people like this.

Their parents owe the world that much at least but the trouble is they are just as bad, if not worse.

There is only one cure.

Infantile euthanasia.

If we fail in this, the world will be taken over with Paris F4cking Hiltons.

For f4cks sake MTv, this is your fault.

Sure these spoilt tantrum muching little shites already exist but you’re encouraging them.
Stick to playing music like you’re supposed to.

Speaking of which...

The Alarm – Resistance Tour 2002

http://www.sendspace.com/file/8as0a0

Hipsway – Scratch the Surface

http://www.sendspace.com/file/70bglq

The Snake Corps – Flesh on Flesh

http://www.sendspace.com/file/8meaqu

R. E. M Stirling Castle

http://www.sendspace.com/file/hs7no4

Josh Ritter – Park West 16.10.2007

http://www.sendspace.com/file/hnbev7

Burns Unit – ABC Theatre, Glasgow

http://www.sendspace.com/file/6f5u5z

Stephen Fretwell – Live in Colchester

http://www.sendspace.com/file/jsr92f

James King and the Lone Wolves – Live in Edinburgh

http://www.sendspace.com/file/271dhx

Moldy Peaches – Live at the Bowery Ballroom

http://www.sendspace.com/file/pz6px1

Squeeze – Live from the Orpheum Theatre 1982

http://www.sendspace.com/file/72hlpa

Blondie – Live at the Paradise Ballroom

http://www.sendspace.com/file/t3h8gn

The Alarm – Live in Hamburg 1984

http://www.sendspace.com/file/i06azu

Enjoy...

Hooli

...i saw a film today, oh boy...

2009-06-30T22:14:00.001+01:00

I wouldn’t ever claim to be a film buff despite the fact that there was a time when I saw every movie as soon as it hit the cinema (a year boarding as a teenager in Peterhead saw to that - nae much tae dee in the bloo toun once you’ve seen the carrots on the beach and counted both the trees). Times move on though and I’ve become a bit more discerning in the 30 odd years that have passed. So much so that I seldom find anything that I really want see enough to drag my lazy arse across town to the multiplex. Son of Rambow was one such film but alas, I never made it before it closed. This is the case for most films I want to see – still haven’t made it to the see The Boat That Rocked yet.
I guess big flat tellys, surround sound and lovefilm.com have filled that gap for me and all the thousands like me who, when presented with the chance to see a movie, end up seeing Marley & me or some ridiculous American teen flick starring the insanely attractive and, only just, post-pubescent face of Hollywood.
Shit, if you could bottle that stuff none of us would ever have to work again.
Just slug back some of the old Cyrus-Efron Elixir and you’re literally shagtastic on a major scale within seconds. Perfect teeth; perfect skin; perfect pecs; lean and mean and hung like a donkey – OK, I guess Miley Cyrus isn’t hung like a donkey but I’m sure you get the picture, which is about as close to reality as some of those movies.
Anyway, finally I watched Son of Rambow the other night and I was reminded of what my childhood was like and more so, what a cosseted bunch our kids are today.

The Nanny State; treated with kid gloves; robbed of their childhood.
All statements we readily drop into conversation when pontificating about our kids and their health, safety and welfare.

Searching online a while back for canoe hire in the West Highlands, I was reminded of the times when, as a kid, I used to go canoeing in an old crapped out wooden canoe that leaked like a bastard. On more than one occasion, along with a couple of mates, I simply had to get out of the damn thing and turn it upside down to empty it before it sank.

We used to go rock climbing in a disused sandstone quarry.
We used to climb trees, make rope swings and create fantasy jungles in the local woods.
We used to set up speedway come scrambling circuits using all sorts of junk to make jumps and obstacles.
I even remember one time, making a jump out of an old panelled door and some paint pots. To make it interesting, someone had the bright idea of setting fire to some of the paint pots at the end of the ramp.

All good clean fun. OK, maybe not clean, but still good fun to a twelve year old.
All of this and not a helmet or knee pad in sight. No life jackets or buoyancy aids
No ropes.
No fear!

All this before Indiana Jones was even a twinkle in Speilberg’s eye.

Admittedly the water was barely deep enough to drown a Chihuahua and the quarried rock face was probably no more than six feet at a time, but hey, we were kids, it seemed huge and wonderfully daring at the time. It was an adventure and nobody got hurt (much).
I do remember though, once skidding my bike a little too horizontally on a bend and ending up with a pebble dashed left leg that left me picking out gravel for days but hey, by the end of that lot I felt like Eddy Merckx, Barry Briggs and the Milk Tray man all rolled into one.
I dare say a lot of the things we got up to were things we weren’t really allowed to do but there was no mention of ‘don’t do that, it might be dangerous’. It was just what we did. We were kids.
Now, we worry our kids’ lives away.
Even now I can’t bear to pull the old pound of bananas on my head yet I find myself berating my youngest for cycling with no helmet.
Statements like ‘at least if she’s upstairs on the Nintendo I know where she is’ are tossed about like feathers in the wind.

Even for adults, the fear of litigation and fatal accident enquiries, borne out of a blame culture, means we can’t hire anything without paying extra for insurance, tuition, safety equipment and disclaimers.

Anyway, enough of that shite.

Went to see Neil Young on Thursday.
No real expectation.
Just thought it was time.
Been a bit of a fan for over thirty years so it had to be done.

I’d heard all the stories like the one a few years back about when he played his entire new album (Prairie Wind I think) track by track then, announcing that the audience probably wanted to hear something they’d heard before, proceeded to play the first track again.
I was well aware of his propensity for 20 minute, meandering guitar solos and I’d heard that he could just go off on a political wobbler.
I’d already missed out on his shows last year but at half a ton for a ticket, AECC or not, concrete floor or not, it had to be done.
This was Neil Young.
The man’s a f4ckin’ legend.

Opening with Hey Hey, My My was a taster for what was to come.
A rampaging slice through forty odd years of rock history.
To sum it up.
Two songs I didn’t know.
One spot of self-indulgence on Down By The River.
A cover of A Day In The Life for an encore.

In one word…

Amazing!

And so the music…

Neil Young – Aberdeen AECC, 24.06.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/egonok

And from the night before

Neil Young – Nottingham, 23.06.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jjwp2k

Drever, McCusker & Woomble – ABC Theatre Glasgow
http://www.sendspace.com/file/efoj8w

Pale Saints – The Comforts of Madness
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ihb6ul

Richmond Fontaine – Edinburgh, September 30th 2004
http://www.sendspace.com/file/8boe19

Son Volt 15.02.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/hf5r8a

Blind Pilot – Arlington 27.03.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/maywdz

Joan Osborne - Live 17.09.1995
http://www.sendspace.com/file/cprsic

Waterboys - Birmingham Humminbird 17.02.1989
http://www.sendspace.com/file/haoah4

Gin Blossoms – Konocti, 22.05.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/i9j6zj

Eddi Reader – Stirling Albert Halls, 06.05.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/0ydwmp

Del Amitri – Cleveland 1996
http://www.sendspace.com/file/x1rgc0

...and finally, complete with the anthem for Carribean cruise lovers everywhere...
Iggy Pop – Waves Club, Chicago, 1980
http://www.sendspace.com/file/88ioc0

Enjoy

Hooli

...ain't nobody who can sing like me...

2009-06-13T19:17:00.008+01:00

So my little trainspotting inspired post the other week got me to thinking about Iggy Pop, his insurance ad and what it was that I found so strange about the whole thing.
Not the fact that, at 62 years old, he is too old for the company to actually insure him; not so much that they got some old dude to advertise their insurance; not for the fact that someone whose stage show was frequently known to include self harm, puking or getting his knob out isn’t exactly the most inspiring choice to advertise motor insurance. Not even the fact that he was a one time heroin addict.

I couldn’t put a pin on it.
I guess they thought he would appeal as a good role model to their target audience, whoever they might be.

It also got me to thinking about the absurdity of Lust for Life being used by Royal Caribbean Cruise Line in their ad. Absurd that the clientele on a cruise ship might even know the bare chested and sinewy Mr Osterberg Jr if he were to rise a la Triton from their lobster bisque clad only his transparent pvc hipsters.
Also absurd that the track was spliced to conveniently skip the bits about liquor and drugs, the flesh machine and another striptease. I wonder if any of their cruise clients gave that a thought when they were booking their trip round the West Indies.
Aside from that, I can’t ever hear that song without entering into a Ewan McGregor style rant about choosing life, electric tin openers and the like. I’m actually at the stage where there is a certain synergy between the two. One is synonymous with the other. I hear Ewan’s voice, I think Lust for life. Soon as I hear the beaten out tom-tom intro, I think Ewan McGregor. Presumably those clever chaps at the publicity and marketing department of Royal Caribbean were thinking along similar sort of lines. Somehow, though, it doesn’t work for me.
Think about it.

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a holiday. Choose a cruise on f4cking big boat you can’t afford. Choose lounging around all day between ports with nothing to do except get skin cancer. Choose having nowhere to go except to puke your ringer over the side...
Doesn’t quite work does it?

But get the right song and you can sell cowshit to a dairy farm.
Get your song behind a good advertising campaign and its worth all the air play or playlisting that radio can offer.

I wondered what lengths an artist would go to in order to get their song used in an ad and the lengths advertisers would go to get the right song.
Also the lengths some artists would go to keep their songs off the TV.

Back in the golden days of the Levis ad, many a number one was the product of an advertising campaign.
Marvin Gaye, Ben E King and Percy Sledge all had hits on the back of a pair of denims. Nick Kamen launched a career on the same basis.

We had some classic beer ads with Hipsway, Win, Big Country and Simple Minds.
More recently we’ve had Lucky Jim soundtracking a Kingsmill bread ad, we’ve had Devendra Banhart giving it ‘little yellow spider laughing at the snow’ to an Orange ad and now we’ve got some dumb assed farmer rampaging about the country side with a hen stapled to the back of his quad bike to the iconic strains of Born to be Wild. All to try and convince the public that his eggs are good, happy eggs.
Even if all the hairy arsed bikers who got off to Easy Rider have turned all soft and gotten a free range conscience, I can’t somehow see Steppenwolf breaking back into the charts on the back of that one.

I read somewhere recently about an ad for a well known brand of denim wear using Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Fortunate Son and about how, after some judicious pruning of the song’s text, a totally different message was conveyed to that contained in the songs subtext. The All American, flag waving message was clearly in conflict with John Fogerty’s original meaning.
Despite that, and the fact that some people were incensed by the blatant corruption of the songs subtext, surely John Fogerty himself must have felt the message was ok. Either that or he just needed the money.
Someone who probably doesn’t need the money is Bob Dylan, yet recent years have seen him move from a stance of never allowing his work to be used in ads, to a situation where he has had deals with Starbucks, Apple and, most recently, and bizarrely, the Cooperative.
Then we get all the plagiarised attempts to capture that particular mood or to cash in on the success of something that has been deemed off limits.
Take the recent Magnum ice cream ad, surely one of the most blatant rip offs ever.
I guess Jack White wasn’t too bothered by it and, as far as I can tell, hasn’t raised a legal action against the makers.

Tom Waits on the other hand has stood his ground.
In 2000 he refused a Spanish production company the rights to use his song Innocent When You Dream on an ad for a well known German car (the one with the four circles on it). Undeterred, they went ahead, using not his original version but a soundalike.

How the hell does anyone get to sound like Tom Waits?

Gargle with the diamonte shards of a shattered windscreen?

Chain smoke 60 coyote dung and habanero cheroots a day?

Wash it all down with some old Kentucky bourbon laced with nitromors?

You'd have thought if they were going to imitate someone they'd have picked someone, well, someone a little less unique because, lets face, ain''t nobody can sound like Tom Waits.

You’d also have thought they would have known better especially when, after a similar offence, he hit Frito Lays for around two and a half million dollars some twenty years ago but, undeterred, General Motors tried to pull some similar moves.
Needless to say old Tom took them to the cleaners as well, leaving his professional reputation fully intact.

His parting shot –

“I’m glad to be out of the car sales business once and for all”

And so the music...

David Gray – Live At Joes Pub
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4okluv

Enjoy...

Hooli

...that's like hypnotizing chickens...

2009-05-29T21:39:00.004+01:00

“Choose life, choose a job, choose a career, choose a family, choose a f4ckin big television.
Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance.
Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments, choose a starter home, choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.
Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase and a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose diy and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sittin’ on that couch watching mind numbing, spirit crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish f4cked up brats you’ve spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future, choose life.

But why would I want to do a thing like that?
I chose not to choose life.
I chose something else...”
...and the reasons, there are no reasons, who needs reasons when you’ve got in service days?

For anyone outside either the UK or school age parenthood, in service days are slipped in to the academic year indiscriminately under the pretence that they are training days for teachers, all the while catching unsuspecting parents unaware and forcing them to secure some form of alternative child care or take the day off work.
Having decided that I actually quite fancied Friday off, I decided to pick up the child care baton.
Both kids had invited a friend over so the actual involvement from me would extend no further than a little bit of taxiing.
By the grace of a strange meteorological phenonomenon, the sky was a funny blue colour and there was a strange bright orb thing in the sky.
I think the English call it the sun although I might be getting confused with that thing that shines out of Bechkham’s arse.
Anyway, it was 11am, the patio was behaving in its intended sun trap fashion and I had dealt with the chores left for me.
I had my coffee; I had REM on the dock and nobody around to complain about it.
I had some container gardening to do and all the gear at my disposal.
A nice, relaxing day fanned out before me like a big fat royal flush.
All was going well and I was almost finished my planting. The clouds had started to appear but the promised showers had passed me by and the sun continued its thermal assault on my patio.
As I straightened, I actually felt the trickle of wetness run down to the small of my back.
It really was that hot, not a breath of wind, and I was thinking about what I might do in the afternoon.
Beer?
Guitar?
Hammock?

It was all sounding good when the biggest bastard of a black labrador I’ve ever seen saunters into the garden, tramples the shit out of everything then squats it’s big black hairy arse over the lawn and proceeds to squeeze out something resembling an Amy Winehouse hairdo?

What the F4CK!

I chose life without dogs...
I chose life without having to scoop up handfuls of shite with poly bags.
I choose a life where I can post the perpetrators crap through his owners letterbox.

If I thought I could get away with it without the kids, and everyone I know, tarring me with the same shitey stick as Ted Bundy, I would choose the biggest fuck off bazooka and ram it up the arse of every dog that’s ever opened its shitehole over someone else’s property and let f4ck at the scabby little bastards.

And so, in the absence of an Iggy boot with lust for life on it, this is just as good in a different way...

Del Amitri – Chicago 4th July 1994
http://www.sendspace.com/file/7fje8s

Inspiral Carpets – Dung4 Demo Tape
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zpbgbr

Glenn Tilbrook – The Past Has Been Bottled
http://www.sendspace.com/file/95yntc

In Tua Nua – Live In Manchester
http://www.sendspace.com/file/no8i2c

Idlewild – Live At The Garage
http://www.sendspace.com/file/s2u26y

Steve O’Donohue - Live In London
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3y8ft8

Lucinda Williams – House Of Blues
http://www.sendspace.com/file/r6wjfj

Richmond Fontaine – Live in Edinburgh
http://www.sendspace.com/file/r205t4

Whiskeytown – Acoustic Radio Sessions
http://www.sendspace.com/file/p1hfpj

The Aliens – Astronomy For Dogs
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xgnrs9

David Gray – Live At Joe’s Pub
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4okluv

and finally, Roddy Frame set from around the time of Stray. Short solo set with guest spot from Edwyn Collins followed by full band set. I Threw it all away doesn't actually belong in this set although it was on the set lits. The recording I have had it and a few other tracks removed because they had been released officially as b-sides. If anyone has it, I think on the Crying Scene single, they can link in comments for completeness sake.
Aztec Camera – Barrowlands
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zf5su7

Enjoy...

Hooli

...wondering which of the buggers to blame...

2009-05-16T20:51:00.007+01:00

I don’t know!
I take a couple of weeks off for a sanity check and world goes crazy.

Pigs everywhere.

Now that we’ve got politipiggypox, jordanpiggypox and piggypiggypox, I guess I couldn’t let the opportunity pass.

So what does it all mean?

“the bloodfest has to stop” one minister said, after his expenses details were splattered all over one of the broadsheets like the gore in a John Carpenter movie.
Sweet f4cking mother of suffering, what in the name of the wee man is he on about.
You’d think Freddy Kreuger was rampaging through Parliament decapitating innocent women and children and generally pissing down the necks of his victims.
He needs to trawl his overpaid ministerial arse round some of the country's crime blackspots. Maybe then he'd get a closer understanding of what a bloodfest is really about.

All their dodgy house deals and expense claims.
All their extravagant luxuries donated by the taxpayer.
Are we expected to believe that our beloved parliamentary representatives have unwittingly gotten themselves embroiled in a little bit of a scandal?

Seriously, do they expect us to believe they are the innocent victims of flawed policies and insecure procedures?
If any of us mere peasants were caught with our fingers in the communal cashbox, would we really be so surprised when we were hit with the most severe censure imaginable.
Of course not but the inference from this individual is that he has done nothing wrong and the press are hounding him. If he’s so innocent, why then has he resigned?
For once the press have done the right thing and if, by going for the jugular, they drag down a number of overpaid pompous twats, it’s fine by me.

As far as I can see, it’s quite simple.
A clearly documented procedure backed by a code of conduct. Regulated, not by bought off lap dogs, but by an independent body, unbowing to the slippery antics of those who would claim to be their superiors.
Step outside the lines and you’re well and truly f4cked.
End of career; P45 in the post; appointment with the man in the big white wig; all expenses paid vacation courtesy of Her Majesty; spit roasting in the showers non-optional extra.

Of course that’s never gonna happen is it but the questions now being asked centre around how damaging this will have been, not just for the individuals concerned but also for the parties they represent.
Another way to look at this is the old ‘imagine they gave a party and nobody came’ trick
We’re always being told how important it is to vote. Imagine, with the Euro elections looming, if absolutely everybody boycotted the election and nobody got any votes.
What a f4cking hoot that would be.
Can any of us honestly say ‘I’m voting for Mr or Ms X because I trust them to look after my interests in Europe.
I know that this is guilt by association but let’s face it, if I was Hannibal Lecter’s nephew, would you let me cook your dinner.

Thought not.

Meanwhile, ripping a massive rent through the tabloids this week is the sad news that has rocked the media world to it’s very core.
Poor little Jordyjugs has been dumped by hubby Peter Andre.
Dear God, has little puppy boy finally seen sense.
On a reality TV show, that was the intellectual equivalent of Chat magazine, he hounded someone into a relationship who made her fortune out of flashing tits that invested more in silicone than the entire NASA computer bank. The country drooled, among other things, over her. Did he really think she was his for the keeping.
Soft git.
What did he expect?
Cindaf4ckinrella.

Of course, this could be wrong and possibly unfair to both of them but theirs was not so much a marriage made in heaven as a marriage made in Hello Magazine.

And so, rounding up my suine trilogy, swine flu, mad sow disease, pig fever, H1N1; call it what you will, it stopped the world. Well almost, if you live in Central America.

A few people die in a little Mexican pueblo and suddenly we’re all sprouting curly tails and smelling like Kermits tadge.
In their very own inimitable fashion, the wonderful British press built this up to be something of a global catastrophe but really, who gives a flying f4ck?
It’s not as if it’s aids or hepatitis we’re speaking about here, nor is it the bubonic plague, smallpox or consumption.
It’s the bloody flu for f4ck sake and like MRSA or CDiff, you can pick it up free of charge at any NHS hospital in the country simply by visiting a sick relative.
Spread through an airborne virus by manky bastards who have poor personal hygiene and little or no consideration for those around them, a sensible approach to keeping oneself clean is all that’s required but now, with 27 dead worldwide, just as the press predicted, it’s all reaching fever pitch.

The bollocks it is!
Last I noticed, it didn’t even raise a single mention in the news.

A couple of newlyweds bring back some sniffles with their duty free tequila; next thing my old mate Maxipops is their agent and the story is ready to be sold worldwide.
I watched the two of them on TV the other night spouting all their crap about how bad it was for their families.
Bleuchhh!
Who are they trying to kid.
No doubt they’ll be selling their story for thousands. F4cking parasites!
Movie rights to follow no doubt, cue Brad and Angelina.

In another case, medical staff reported a victim to be suffering mild flu like symptoms while the publicist claimed his 22 year old London client was “in a bad way”
The press ought to know better than to listen to this shite but then, you can only deal with so much truth, then it’s time to make some money.
It’s all about money.
Create the illusion of an imminent pandemic, rope in the unsuspecting public, sell loads of papers.
Make some dosh.

What we have to ask ourselves about this little symbiotic threesome between Clifford, the victims and the press is “where is the real virus here?”

To be perfectly honest, I have a really tough time distinguishing between the three.
And so...

We’ll try for some music.

I would have posted something to reflect my recent gigging but to be honest Blind Pilot, who were third on the bill, were the biggest revelation. Maybe my gigging experiences need to be confined to the smaller venues I’ve always preferred.
Anyway, as I said, some music and not a Counting Crows or Hold Steady album in sight...

...there is only one soundtrack to all thing piggish nonsense...
Pink Floyd - Animal Instincts
http://www.sendspace.com/file/tli80g

...some folky ditties...
Richard Thompson - Atlanta, GA
http://www.sendspace.com/file/iuxgaq

...and more from my fave folk band at their peak. To think Ian Benzie used to sing in my local...
Old Blind Dogs – Close To The Bone
http://www.sendspace.com/file/oxov01

...don’t know what to make of this guy. Times I like him, time I don’t...
Ray LaMontagne - Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/mmntfe

...back on tour supporting the Wonderstuff, catch them if you can, Swill and the gang...
The Men They Couldn’t Hang - Live Rarities
http://www.sendspace.com/file/20vy9m

Another Susanna Hoffs collaboration. Predominantly, this is David Roback of Mazzy Starr with bits of Will Glenn from Rain Parade, Susanna Hoffs from the Bangles and many others. Bit of a precursor to the amazing Hoffs / Sweet album Under the Covers...
Rainy Day – Rainy Day
http://www.sendspace.com/file/40flwm

...great album from Motherwell’s Sam Corry and Dan O’Neill. Two guys, great songs, greater harmonies. Saw tehm live a few times in the eighties, quite simply, they were born out of time. In another generation, they would have been huge...
River Detectives – Saturday Night, Sunday Morning
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9zd8yi

...Thom Yorke doesn’t always flick my switches. Sometimes though, the originality cuts through...
Radiohead – The Basement Tapes
http://www.sendspace.com/file/o50buh

...and where would we be without good old Jackie boy...
The Raconteurs – Live In Edinburgh
http://www.sendspace.com/file/sju4nw

pretty unheard of Glasgow? Band Scheme and a weird mix of eighties new rom post punk reggae funk. Figure they just tried to jam every possible influence in there...
Scheme – Black And White
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9jovjv

and finally, to fulfil the request from a couple of weeks ago, at better bit rate and in all their glory,
the best band of the eighties, The Mackenzies

in the beginning...
Goodbye Mr Mackenzie – Good Deeds
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jndmt5

then...
Goodbye Mr Mackenzie – hammer & Tongs
http://www.sendspace.com/file/50mm4c

...what Shirley did next...
Garbage – Litter From America
http://www.sendspace.com/file/tnnizi

...what Martin, Fin & Kelly did next...
Isa & The Filthy Tongues - Addiction
http://www.sendspace.com/file/06vc0z

As for Big John and Rona Scobie, who knows?

Last time I saw big John Duncan, he was traipsing round Ikea looking decidedly not of a conventional nature. Rona, I think had kids and quit the business but I’m not sure

The Bluebells Young at Heart has just come on VH1 so it’s time to blow.

Cheers and Enjoy...

Hooli

It's all over now baby blue

2009-04-28T19:30:00.003+01:00

Ok.

This is it.
End of the line.

Increasingly over the past few weeks I've been getting less satisfaction from writing this stuff.
Uplaoding has become a nightmare and even downloading has become something of a chore.

Anyone downloading from here will have noticed that all my links have gone over to Sendspace. Simple reason for this is that my RS uploader fell of it's perch some weeks ago.
I have relentlessly tried to fix whatever problem there is with it but nothing is working.
Even consulting the various forums there are on the subject has failed to provide a solution.

Now I'm finding I can barely download anything except from Sendspace.
Rapidshare downloads that used to take a few minutes now take a couple of hours or time out completely.

My connection seems fine and everything else loads fairly quickly, sometimes RS downloads work ok and then nothing so I don't really know what the problem is.
Trouble now is that I don't really care.
There are many ways to string a cat as they say and quite frankly, I can't be arsed with this particular tuning.

Add to that the fact that good old Google have fired off another Cease and Desist notice and quarantined another post in it's entirety all results in a bit of a jaded Hooli.

All I can say now is that most of the time it's been a blast and, although we've been here before and I really appreciated the supportive comments that urged me to continue, now it's over.

I have other things that I should have been doing all along so it’s off to restring some guitars, mandolins and cats.

Thanks to everyone who stopped by and thanks to everyone who commented.
Thanks in particular to Smacky and Landyjon who just kept coming back and were happy to indulge in a bit of banter

Who knows, maybe after a bit of a break, I might find new inspiration but for now…

…here is the last post.

See the smell o’ cabbages first thing in the mornin’

I was reading a book the other day, which anyone who really knows me will tell you, is a strange thing because, as they say in teenspeak, I don’t do lit.

Nevertheless, there I was, for the fifth time this year I might add, reading a book when I get to a great passage in the first chapter about shite and pish and puke, which instantly had me in convulsions.
OK, so there’s nothing particularly funny abour SPP, especially if, like me, you’ve experienced the old salmonella trick where you can project through the eye of a needle from one end and between the Murrayfield posts from the other, but this took on a peculiar humorous slant in light of the fact I was sitting on the crapper at the time.
As I read on there was a bit of descriptive text about the smell and it struck me that smell is something that is quite difficult to describe.

When it comes to senses, everyone can be quite clear about what they like to look at; landscapes, seascapes or skyscrapers; old cars, fast cars or superbikes; bright colours, natural hues or lurid fluorescents; big jugs, little buns or tight butts. Equally, I’m sure we can all be clear about what we don’t like to look at.
Cat’s arses do it for me.
Anyone who’s never owned a cat or isn’t a cat lover will have noticed they way cats always gravitate towards people who are either freaked by them, are allergic to them or just have a plain dislike to them. They can sense it in their evil little Egyptian cat brains and once they have, it’s onto the lap, back arched, tail in the air and a vet’s eye view of their arsehole.
Evil little feline bastards!
This is the reason why I don’t like cats, especially ones with their arses pressed against the rear windscreens of bright fluorescent green sports cars, driven by women with tits like basketballs and complexions like burning rubber that’s been put out with orange sand and a golf shoe.

Similarly, we are pretty clear when it comes to what tickles our tastebuds; beer, wine or whisky; cola, fruit juice or water; coffee, tea or Bovril; Chinese, Indian or Ma’s own; and again, we don’t need a jury to help us decide what we don’t like.
Me, I just can’t go for anything that smells like shite.
Eggs, in almost any form, particularly the high sulphur, yolky variety along with numerous vegetables from the Brassica and Rutabaga families that give off that characteristic peppermint and cabbage shitey yom, when introduced to heat, can instantly trigger my gag reflex.
It actually beats me how we ever managed to convince ourselves that it was ok to eat something that smelled like crap, especially something that looked like a bleached out brain that had been dumped in a bunch of cabbage leaves
Maybe the ancient Greeks were just having a bit of a laugh with us.

In the same way, what we like to feel against our skin follows a similar pattern. Some of us like hairy, some like bald; some like rough, some like it smooth; some like hot and some like cold while some like to be wet and others like to be dry. If you can escape the sexual innuendo and think about it, seldom are we anywhere in between and almost never are we comfortable at both ends of the spectrum.

What we like to hear has pretty much been covered before but smell, now there’s a whole different metaphoric kettle of rancid kippers.

Sense of smell is so variable and even when it works, we can’t agree what things smell like.

My wife would probably agree, unless she was feeling particularly argumentative, that she couldn’t smell a shitey stick supposing it was rammed up her left nostril. I, on the other hand can smell putrefaction a mile off.
Most smells, apart from eggs, I can live with but some things really get to me.

Lemons!

Now I happen to be quite partial to sour things, lemons, limes and so forth but one thing I can’t stomach is the smell of foosty lemons.
One household I regularly visit almost always has a very pungent and acidic waft that I know emanates from the fruit bowl.

A few strategic moves with the apples and oranges and sure enough, festering away at the bottom, a deceased lemon heavily disguised in Penicillin Italicum. The inevitable puffs of blue mould releasing a further acidic assault on my seared nostrils.

Melons are another thing!

Fresh, mouldy or otherwise, to me, they always smell of cat’s piss.
Given that the rest of the family know that any cat that enters the house faces unspeakable things involving Rodger, a baseball bat and some electricity, I know whenever that smell is around that melon is on the menu.

I’m sure by now you’re starting to wonder just what the f4ck the point is that I’m building up to. Well, as I was saying, I’ve taken to reading, generally at the end of the day while resting my butt cheeks over the crapper.

It’s the only time I can get peace and quiet.

There are times when I’ve spent so long sitting there, enthralled by some tale of butchery or murderous mutilation that, on rising to a standing position, I’ve found myself immediately collapsing into the corner like a sack of wet haddock, only realising as I clamber back onto the bog seat that my legs have gone to sleep.
Anyway, the other night, sitting there, locked in mortal combat with my bowels while digesting some very descriptive Christopher Brookmyre, I realised that I was feeling a bit queasy.

Not from the subject matter or from my own stink but from another smell.

Someone had come up with the bright idea of filling the house with air fresheners. You know the sort of thing, looks like glass filled with bright red gel; smells like plastic filled with regurgitated sweets and rotting fruit.
That great artificial perfume that has a particularly nasty knack of fusing with the smell of something foul to produce something much worse.
When I thought about it, these weren’t only in the toilet. They were dotted around windowsills, cupboards even in the bedroom.

Now this came as some surprise as my wife is pretty much a candle fiend.

This extends to the point where she can have anything up to a dozen candles burning around the house in a single evening.

This is clearly some kind of game, like a test for me, just to see if I’m paying attention. Me being the last to bed, I’m sure she thinks if she lights enough of them, I’ll miss one and she’ll have her victory. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve come down stairs in the morning to find the kitchen filled with the scent of mulled wine and forest berries and lit by the faint glimmer of a wax filled glass on top of the hob.
At least now they go on the hob and not on the worktop.
You should see what happens when the heat from a candleholder transfers through the glass, into the formica then forms a bubble underneath which then explodes.
I’m thinking egg in a microwave here…

Speaking of which, being ever the economists, same wife (not that I have more than one) and the teenager decided that it would be a good idea to save all the wax remnants from all the half dead candles and burn it all in an oil burner – I agree, much better than buying new candles all the time and less glass wastage as well.
Unfortunate thing here is that the teenager has obviously been paying attention to the wrong bits of science class while her mother, despite being the product of two eminent scientific minds, clearly didn’t pay attention to any of it.

Using the microwave to melt wax?
Good idea.
Not removing the little metallic disc that anchors the wick?
Bad idea
Realising it was a bad idea but running to get ones mobile and film your own stupidity?
Totally f4cking priceless!

Enter the self-lighting candle.
I was going to add the video clip but like some of my previous posts, it too has been censored

So, as I was saying, house filled with air fresheners, dad out jamming with his mates wife and daughter traumatised by self lighting candle episode, you can see how it all fits together. Clearly the teenager had taken control of the shopping list. And had piled a load of Airwicks into the trolley. Presumably this was as a countermeasure to the melons she had also placed in the trolley, knowing full well I’d come home and start wiring up my baseball bat.

And so, one last stand of defiance...
the music...

Mixed bag of live recordings from Ricky Ross & co
Deacon Blue – Orphans
http://www.sendspace.com/file/lokp9s

Richard Thompson - Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/1rqlyz

Ross Ainslie & Jarlath Henderson – Partners In Crime
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4dxuk1

Yello – One Second
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3q9l9n

Sigur Ros – Odin’s Raven Magic - Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/c3dfc3

Idlewild – Tom Morton Session
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ko45ex

Taste – London Ivasion
http://www.sendspace.com/file/228x3r

Rock Salt and Nails – Live And Hazardous
http://www.sendspace.com/file/04q58k

10000 Maniacs – Human Conflict Number Five
http://www.sendspace.com/file/arw8gw

Kate Rusby & John McCusker - Heartlands
http://www.sendspace.com/file/funj8o

Billy Connolly & John McCusker – Billy Connolly’s Tour Of New Zealand
http://www.sendspace.com/file/iib1c4

Port O'Brien - All We Could Do Was Sing
http://www.sendspace.com/file/uyn6w9

Death Cab For Cutie – You Can Play These Songs With Chords
http://www.sendspace.com/file/587gt5

The Postal Service - The District Sleeeps Alone Tonight
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ujil9r

The Postal Service - Such Great Heights
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ww3sgr

The Postal Service - We Will Become Silhouettes
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zioqli

Shooglenifty – Troots
http://www.sendspace.com/file/70bqt2

The Raconteurs – Stubbs BBQ
http://www.sendspace.com/file/weo4k2

Modest Mouse - The Lonesome Crowded West
http://www.sendspace.com/file/sjy8q3

Jackie Leven – The Haunted Year Winter
http://www.sendspace.com/file/hjsrft

Blackie & The Rodeo Kings – Swinging From The Chains Of Lone
http://www.sendspace.com/file/e0x1mx

Thanks to you all and enjoy…

Hooli has left the building!

...you walk into the office where the boss is making passes at the young girls on the floor...

2009-04-18T21:44:00.003+01:00

We humans, being predisposed to vanity and exhibitionism, are masters at the art of making fools of ourselves. No other animal gets close. No matter how many clips Harry Hill or Les Dennis churn out that leave the kids rolling around on the floor, it’s us humans who are the biggest idiots. It’s probably just as well because who knows where we would be if we didn’t have our own embarrassment to keep our feet firmly planted on the ground.

Sitting here, jabbing away, being distracted by the abysmally embarrassing antics of the idiots on Britain’s Got Talent ???, it strikes me that I’ve never done anything that truly embarrassed me. I never got the whole bit on the side, or flirting with the lassies at work stuff. I see people do it and frankly, I'm embarrassed for them. Sure, I’ve made a twat of myself a few times but I’ve never been the type to get embarrassed, probably because I’ve never put myself into a situation where I was unable find an excuse for twattiness.

I do remember one time, aged about 13, in the midst of a Glaswegian winter, a mate and I went for a spot of snowballing at lunchtime. Being a bit of a growing lad at the time, the inevitable happened when I rashly stooped to scoop up a fresh handful of snow. Rrrrrip. The forgiving nature of my school greys gave up as their seam split from bollocks to waistband.
Ach well, not to worry, it was a Friday and it was sports that afternoon. Bit of a haul down of the blazer, some strategic schoolbag strap adjustment and I’d make it to the gym without getting caught. Quick change, then run home in my footy kit.
What I hadn’t bargained for was some smart arsed teacher deciding we should be doing some Scottish Country dancing because it was getting close to Christmas.
Scottish Country Dancing...
With girls...
And my Ys hinging oot the arse o’ ma breeks!

Another time recently, hill walking around Glen Mark, my eldest daughter and I stopped to fool around beneath a waterfall. Just the usual stuff; chucking stones, flicking water at each other. Eager to show her that my tales of having an affinity with the land weren’t just a pile of pish, I skipped nimbly from rock to rock. Rock to rock. Rock to heather bank. A heather bank that was deceptively overhanging the water. Down I went through fistfuls of heather and bracken.
The Mighty Sploosh.
It was only when the ice-cold water slapped me in the bollocks that I got the strength to pull myself to the bank.

Then there was the time in my late teens when, as a keen photographer, I was chasing a midsummer sunset up the coast, trying to catch that crucial moment when the light was just perfect, the dying glow, perfectly reflected between the water and the evening mist as it rose from some inshore freshwater pools. Another couple of minutes and it would be gone. Just enough time to get over that fence, set up the tripod and squeeze off that killer shot. Quickly slinging my gear over my shoulder, feeling pretty good about it all, I grabbed the top wire of the fence, pulled back and catapulted myself over to the other side and straight into my waist in a foul, gaseous and rancid smelling peat bog.
Fortunately, no-one was around to see me squelching my way back to the car.

All pretty tame stuff.
Always on my side, the built in defence mechanism, the reflex that wakes you from a dream just before you die. Strangely, dreams are where I find most of my embarrassing moments. The old ‘naked in the street’ scenario or the recurring dream where I have to chase to catch a flight only to get to the airport with no passport.

Anyway, last week’s trip to Birmingham turned out to have a bit of an unexpected twist.
My recollection of the last time I went to Britain’s second city was an 8 hour overnight drive in a borrowed Fiat Uno, arriving at such an unreasonably early hour that we had to wait in the car until we were sure our hosts had woken up. I remember watching a Scotland / Australia World Cup qualifier then heading into the Bull Ring. This had been hailed by our host as the last line in shopping. Well, it certainly was the last line in something but I’m still not sure what. Having gotten hopelessly mangled by the road system around Aston University before heading out in the evening for some beer and a curry, I wasn’t wholly impressed.
My memories weren’t on the side of poor old Brum but as it had been a good twenty five years since my last visit, I was prepared to be surprised.
And so it went, surprised I was. Old Brumsville was great. Great shops. Great curry in a little place above the canal. Great bus service. Shame about the hotel beds but hey, that’s the price you pay for great beer prices.

Standing at the airport check in, silently aggrieved at the fact that the website said “online check in from 36 hours before departure” yet still showed the flight as being closed right up until I finally got checked in only two hours before leaving for the airport, I handed over my boarding cards. I noticed the oddly puzzled look on the attendants face. The fact that she was looking to and fro between her computer screen and my assembled paperwork signalled that something wasn’t quite right but then I thought, well, this is what they do. They are trained to check and double check and make absolutely sure that everything is in order.
The fear of terrorist activity has ensured that our ground staff are trained to look impassive when challenged and to look challenged when impassive. From the way she kept looking around her, from side to side, as if she wasn’t quite sure of what was going on and was somehow doubting her own assessment of the situation, I could tell that natural human behaviour had taken over and that this was no manifestation of some training school role play. After some consultation with her colleagues and some double checking against our reservation code on the website it became obvious something is wrong. Somehow, somewhere between me navigating through their website and reaching the desk, there had been one enormous f4ck up.
She was quite clear on the fact that the first flight was not for another three hours and that the date on our reservation was the 6th. Checking the hotel reservation revealed a similar conclusion.
We had indeed booked to depart on the 6th with our first night’s accommodation also on the 6th.
Why, oh why then, were we standing there, in the middle of Aberdeen airport at 11.50 on Sunday the 5th.
How could we have all got it so wrong?
Now, the natural thing would be to take it out on someone else, nearest and dearest perhaps, or maybe indulge in some fruitlessly argumentative stance with the poor unsuspecting desk attendant but no, for some reason, I found it all quite hilarious.

Nothing like making a tit of yourself then laughing at yourself to keep it all real.

And now some music...

The Modern Lovers
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4wtokm

Death Cab For Cutie – Th ePhoto Album
http://www.sendspace.com/file/56gw1b

The View – Live At Glasgow Barrowlands
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ze0fdm

Ian McNabb – Before All Of This
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zjd20x

Ian McNabb – Live At Life
http://www.sendspace.com/file/g4c5dm

Holly Golightly & The Broke Offs
http://www.sendspace.com/file/mvifk3

John McCusker – Goodnight Ginger
http://www.sendspace.com/file/s1x532

Sigur Ros – Hlemmur
http://www.sendspace.com/file/e1wp3w

Aidan Moffat - I Can Hear Your Heart
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ygm0i0

Malcolm Middleton – Sleight Of Heart
http://www.sendspace.com/file/la6meq

Arab Strap – Live In Belfast
http://www.sendspace.com/file/z5ex0q

Natalie Merchant – Live at the Joint
http://www.sendspace.com/file/czjvvd

Various – Rubber Folk
http://www.sendspace.com/file/otmv86

Boo Hewerdine – A Live One
http://www.sendspace.com/file/g8rzmi

Kate Rusby & John McCusker – Heartlands
http://www.sendspace.com/file/huiklk

Green On Red – Live At The Rialto
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ghurho

Neil Young – Prairie Wind Live
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6ahs68

Enjoy

Hooli

...decency and honesty, the things that folk depend on...

2009-03-31T19:58:00.003+01:00

Ah well, don’t say you weren’t warned.

Seems the trouble is just beginning for those nice chaps at Google.
Less than a week after its UK launch, the complaints started rolling in.
Allegedly, they were forced to remove images of a man standing outside a sex shop in Soho and a man giving it the big boak in Shoreditch (expect they call it puke down there).
Google claim the number of images they have been asked to remove is "less than expected" but surely if they expected to have to remove images, they should have avoided using them in the first place.
Anyway, as I was saying last week, it’s not the stuff you can see that is the problem, it’s the stuff you can’t.

The Foundation for Information Policy Research (FIPR), which is an independent foundation type thingy for researching into policies about information, published a report (ah yes, may old favourite, recent studies and independent reports raises its scabby head again).
This was aptly titled the Database State.
In a press statement, they identified 46 government databases that were "fundamentally flawed and almost certainly illegal". If used in conjunction with each other, it is claimed that these could have a "serious impact on citizens’ privacy".
Never mind though, at least it’s nice to know that those funsters in Whitehall have got national security under wraps even though Big Brother really is watching and knows everything about you, me and the grubby looking dude in the flats who gets all those weird looking visitors at odd hours.

Pardon me for being as paranoid as a baboon’s arse in a dildo factory but isn’t this getting a little too close to a chip in the back of the neck?

The systems questioned by FIPR are so invasive that they are almost certainly in contravention of European Law and the European Convention of Human Rights.
The trouble is that the information is so readily available and we gladly pass it on to almost anyone just as readily as we part with our cash.
We all have a National Insurance number; almost every one of us has either a passport or a driving licence. Most of us, with the exception of a few eccentric old grannies with very thick mattresses, have a bank account and the really lucky ones who still have a job, pay tax.

Who handles all of this stuff?
Ah yes, that would be the government.

Add to that all the electronically encrypted cards, chip and pin, CCTV, telephone, e-mail, chat rooms and internet shopping.
It all adds up to a not so very tidy little pack that tells Big Brother exactly what you’ve been up to.
It’s only when you actually use this assimilation of data that there starts to be a problem.
For instance, there may some of us who like a bit of adventure in our lives. Maybe go play with Mischa the bear in the taiga or do a bit of backpacking in Northern Africa. Bit of trekking in the Himalayas or maybe head off to Pakistan or the Persian Gulf for a holiday, get friendly with some of the locals and get snapped on a shooting range. Maybe go to see Mickey Mouse another time, get a speeding ticket on I 95 heading north from Fort Lauderdale. We might even know what happens when you combine fertilizer and old engine oil then introduce it to an ignition source or perhaps we have a nice job in a chemical factory. Some of us might be of Russian or German extraction or maybe of Asian ethnicity.

I guess you can see where this is going – before long, the extradition papers are drawn up and it’s off to Cuba for an extended holiday dressed like Tangoman.
No executive class transfer.
No inflight movie.
No drinks at the bar and definitely no cigar.

Because everything is now electronic, all this information is not just there, it's readily available at the touch of a keypad. When it is used without consent there has to be a pretty damn good reason for it and that reason has to be legally justifiable, necessary and proportionate.
I’m sure all those nice civil servants in their crisp black suits and bowler hats are doing the decent thing and leaving all this stuff well alone but remember the secret terrorist documents left on a train; remember the data stick with everyone’s tax details found in a pub carpark; remember the child benefit records containing recipients banking details that became lost in the post.
Doesn’t exactly inspire faith in the system does it?

Never mind though, we’ve got the good old National Identity Register to look forward to. Once that kicks in, everything else will be irrelevant. It will stand there, like a big overgrown mutant version of one of those washing whirlies, festooned with everyone’s dirty laundry, hanging there, for all to see, tagged OPEN ACCESS.

The big question now is if, like the National DNA database which allowed the police to hold DNA of everyone, charged or otherwise, that they ever took into custody, this all turns out to be one enormous great woolly mammoth of the albino variety, deemed illegal by our lords and masters in the European Court, what happens to the data, the software and the hardware that they can’t use.
The only safe and sensible, decent and honest course of action is to purge and destroy all the data that has no relevance.
Can you really see that happening?
No, thought not, but who really owns the data?
You and I!
Who is it that pays the salaries of the government and the police?
You and I of course!
Who paid for all the sophisticated technology and computer hardware to hold all this stuff?
Yep. That would be you and I also!
So, quite naturally, who has to pay for putting the whole manky affair in order?

You got it. You and I, the taxpayer!

Ian McNabb – Northwest Coast
http://www.sendspace.com/file/899i75

Ian McLagan – Never Say Never
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jdw3rh

Ally Kerr
http://www.sendspace.com/file/65zklt

John Cooper Clark – Ou est la Maison du Fromage
http://www.sendspace.com/file/u8mk7d

Ross Ainslie & Jarlath Henderson
http://www.sendspace.com/file/8g0m2m

The Blue Nile – Peace At Last
http://www.sendspace.com/file/y8edkv

Big Country – Rarities IV
http://www.sendspace.com/file/sx3tvn

Chris Difford – Last Temptation of Chris
http://www.sendspace.com/file/1qfg4a

Roddy Frame – 40 days of rain
http://www.sendspace.com/file/izkt73

All Time Quarterback – All Time Quarterback
http://www.sendspace.com/file/kpwlu6

Blackie & the Rodeo Kings - Bark
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ypk7i4

Bryan Ferry – BBC Session
http://www.sendspace.com/file/7c291p

Enjoy

Hooli

...judge not lest ye be judged...

2009-03-22T15:20:00.003Z

Now, although I may be a grumpy old git and like to get on my old soap-box from time to time, I’m not mean spirited. I don’t bear any grudge or ill will towards anyone – criminals and war mongers excluded – and I always at least try not to judge people solely on my opinions but lately I’ve found myself veering off the path of righteousness, finding a darkness in my soul that I thought didn’t exist.
It’s easy to see that with the correct motivation, a few misplaced remarks and someone pushing the wrong buttons, the step over to the dark side is a mere flick of the light sabre away.

Idly skipping around the web the other day, one of my colleagues asked for my postcode. Thinking nothing of it I duly gave it to him but, intrigued, I wheeled round to his desk to see what he was doing. To my amazement he was looking in my daughter’s bedroom window.
No, not in that way but what’s to say someone else hasn’t?
Google Earth and Google Maps are nothing new to me and I find them a great help when trying to find anywhere more than a couple streets away but the whole, dragging the wee yellow geezer into the street, business is just a little too 1984 for my liking.
I could actually see everything that was on the windowsill.

Now I’m sure good old Mr & Mrs Google have got this all covered and are doing something very sensible to protect the general public but if this is what we know about, imagine all the things we don’t know about.
Imagine all the images stored on secret government or military databases.

Anyway, getting to my point or one of them, in a roundabout sort of way, looking more closely at the view of my house, I could see that it was a Wednesday. I could see that it was July and I could see that it was around two in the afternoon. All perfectly logical and not really going to turn me into a psychotic maniac, but wait, there it was, reflected in my dining room window, something glaringly white and out of place in my little corner of suburbia.
Panning back and sure enough, there it was.
The scabby white tub that belongs to one of my neighbours.
Enough to gie yer arse a nippy taste.
The caravan.

Shortly after she moved into one of the flats across the street, it appeared. Allegedly, she was taking it on holiday the following week.
Smart girl, I thought. No towbar! Maybe she’s going to load it on top of her jeep or perhaps she’ll just hitch it around her waist.
Anyway, said trip came and went along with my expectations that afterwards, the caravan would do the same, returning to its rightful owner.

What a dumbass I am.
Should have known it wasn’t going to be that simple.
Five years later and the bastard thing is still there.
I’m surprised it hasn’t been torched or been taken over by squatters.
Despite phoning my local council office and the police, no one seems to give a f4ck about it. I guess because it’s not a danger or causing them any form of visual cancer, it isn’t really any of their concern.
Even I have got used to it being part of the landscape.

It’s that desensitisation effect.
You know like when you go for a dump, and someone’s been there before you. Someone else’s crap always smells like shit while your own, of course smells like roses. After ten minutes, you can’t smell it at all. You’ve become so inured to the stench that you simply don’t notice it.
And so it is with the caravan.
I see it every day I leave the house.
Every time I open the dining room curtains and now, every time I go on Google f4cking Earth.
Although I have no axe to grind with the owner, one day, just like Michael Douglas’ character in Falling Down, I swear to f4ck I’m going to crack and petrol bomb the bastard. Either that or perhaps those nice people at the Ministry of Defence might lend me a Chieftain tank. With a bit of strategic positioning, I could take out the caravan and the Masonic lodge behind it all in one fell swoop.

Someone else I bore no ill will towards was Jade Goody.
She wasn’t even on my radar, or at least so I thought, but now, with a similar omnipresence to the caravan, and despite the fact that I had ‘tuned out’ to the sight of her baldy heided impersonation of a Captain Beefheart album cover appearing all over the place while the press played out the unravelling saga of her very public death, I find myself in league with my dark side.
At least now we can get back to having real news instead of some juxtaposed muddle of sensationalised twaddle.

The product of reality TV at it’s most embarrassingly grotesque, Pete Burns aside, here is a woman thrust into the public gaze with not even a glimmer of talent to light her way. Her totally shameless hogging of the spotlight makes it hardly surprising that, in death, she should carry on as in life. Somewhere, I assume someone is interested and that all the silly and senseless little chavettes, in search of something to aspire to, will snap up copies of OK or Hello magazine by the pram load, all the while lining the pockets of Mr. Publicist.

Of course if we hadn’t gotten so obsessed with that whole stupid notion of Andy Warhol’s that we could all be famous for fifteen minutes then we might not have created so many pseudo celebrities and People like Max Clifford would be out of a job.
It must be a particularly sad set of circumstances that drives a particular section of the public to be so hungry and craving of the attention of celebritydom; so desperate to connect with the fantasy that they believe to be real, that they have to prostitute themselves into very lifestyle they crave the attention of.
They need to be protected from themselves and all around.
No wonder people like Max Clifford can clean up.
Real talent of course, needs no publicist.
There is no need to court the media and live in the glare of the public spotlight.

This was the case with Natasha Richardson; a real talent, underrated and under appreciated. Someone who lived within the privacy of her own life.
Half the nation are probably still wondering who she was.

Her untimely death made me wonder how many column inches she would be afforded relative to Ms Goody but as I rolled the notion around a bit more I came to realise that she probably wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Jade on the other hand, probably has a Richard and Judy special lined up by her publicist.

Talking of vampires, now that all the fuss has died down a little bit, we can take stock of the whole rebirth of that other ego maniac, Count Jackola.
HOW many dates?

To be honest, I couldn’t care a f4ck about the number of dates. I also couldn’t give a rat’s arse about whether or not he takes up permanent residence at the O2.
For all I care, he could take Priscilla, Bubbles the Chimp, the Seven Dwarves and his entire freak show and pitch an oxygen tent on the lawns in front of Buckingham Palace.
Really, what is all the fuss about?

Apart from dangling his offspring out of a hotel window, here is a guy who has done f4ck all for 20 years then, suddenly all our Easters come at once. I wouldn’t be surprised if his barking mad, wrinkled little ego views this as something akin to the rebirth of Christ.

What a sad parade indeed…

REM – Storytellers
http://www.sendspace.com/file/oo11fg
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ej6r3o

Blondie – Live At Hammersmith Odeon 01.12.1980
http://www.sendspace.com/file/9jjjwz
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ygs06i
http://www.sendspace.com/file/vapz5n

Rory Gallagher – Japan Tour
http://www.sendspace.com/file/74qryy
http://www.sendspace.com/file/2xips3

Billy Bragg – KCRW
http://www.sendspace.com/file/xw2yk9

Damien Rice – Live at Fingerprints
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wa3z0c

Death Cab For Cutie – Live in Eugene, Oregon
http://www.sendspace.com/file/51wzq8
http://www.sendspace.com/file/973nxi

Jackie Leven – Lovers At The Gun Club
http://www.sendspace.com/file/wftqeo

Ian McLagan – Never Say Never
http://www.sendspace.com/file/jdw3rh

Ian McNabb – Northwest Coast
http://www.sendspace.com/file/899i75

Ally Kerr
http://www.sendspace.com/file/65zklt

John Cooper Clark – Ou est la Maison du Fromage
http://www.sendspace.com/file/u8mk7d

Roddy Woomble – My Secret Is My Silence
http://www.sendspace.com/file/8ysq2d

For now...

Enjoy.

Hooli

...I'm afraid it doesn't make me smile...

2009-03-15T21:21:00.002Z

…as I was saying, charity and all that.
No bad thing if it’s done sensibly.
Awareness raising too, has its place but more often than not, the whole thing goes off like an an arrow with half the flights missing and skews pathetically, if not altogether fruitlessly, wide of the target.

In an ideal world there would be no war, no starvation, no pollution, no poverty and no need for charity. Everything would exist in a beautifully balanced state of equilibrium.
Imagine that, a world with no problems, where everything just jollied along in perpetuity.
You could be forgiven for thinking that it would be a pretty dull affair.
Well, here we are with the 21st century well under way, pollution spiralling out of control, global warming following a similar route and we get the same old same old from the fully paid up members of warmongers anonymous.
I have to say, that’s all getting a little bit tiresome.
Sure, it sells papers by the bucketload, fills 30 minutes of prime news time and provides enough material for the next five Al Gore movies but it’s getting tedious. Not the fact that the earth has been screwed in more ways than a Siamese whore house but the fact that all we can do is cobble together a few charity events, spark off a load of awareness campaigns and churn out a couple of annual telethons.

Ah, the great audio visual emotion fest that has become know as the telethon.

Maybe I’m too cynical and can’t accept that people really want to give up their time for the benefit of others or maybe it’s just that I’m a miserable bastard but the telethon has always been a turn off for me. Not only would I avoid being in the same room as a TV but, with the slightest chance that I might be exposed to some celebrity smugness or Davina McCall waving her arms about like a demented Kermit the frog, I would strenuously avoid all contact with radio, newspapers and the outside world in general. To me, there’s always been something slightly sinister about a celebrity with a six figure salary going on TV and asking the public to give him their money. When you multiply that effect and have a whole gang of celebs, it stops nothing short of obscene.
Why don’t they just have a big f4cking whip round or donate half the cost of their greatest extravagance.

Coincidentally, or perhaps not, red f4cking nose day and the whole charity bandwagon lurched up to full steam on Friday as the great cavalcade of mirth that we have come to know as Comic Relief trundled onto our screens like some deranged Reliant Robin with a big red splat on the front and Del Boy and Rodney gasping along after it in a slightly lukewarm pursuit.
If ever anything was a bit tired and overdone to the point of indigestable tastlessness, it’s when that great big world of celebritydom shrugs off it’s ‘up it’s arse’ image and tries to connect with real people.
They can’t half be a patronising bunch of bastards.

So this year, getting all earthy, the good old luvvies decided to trek up Kilimarjaro. Quite what that was about, I’m not really sure but in any case, off they went on their sponsored walk. Big Moylesey and Little Fearneypops from Radio One, the songwritey chap out of Take That, the crumpled nosed fella out of Boyzone and the grinning skull out of Girls Aloud. Accompanied by Denise van Wotsit, some other presenter types and some other, less interseting nobodies, off they went, marching into the wilderness, bold adventurers on a voyage of self discovery. A true rites of passage experience ahead of them.
All good stuff but what do we get from Moyles and his gang?

OK, so they managed to raise one and a half million quid, which is all pretty admirable, but did they really have to moan and winge about how tough it was.
Guys!
Hello!
It’s Kilimanf4ckinjaro.
It’s 19,000 feet above sea level.
It’s not exactly going to be a Sunday stroll in Richmond Park.
Anyway, along with all the sanctimonious guff, I can take all of that because, whether I like it or not, what they have done, is a good thing.
They have made a difference to the lives of those who need it.
What hacks me off though, is that having done all the hard work, having got even the driest of cynics onside, the whole thing still ends up leaving a nippy taste in the mouth.

Why the hell didn’t someone stop Gary Barlow hiring that private jet?
Couldn’t he see that a gensture like that just blows the credibility of the whole thing clean out of the water?
Surely I’m not the only one thinking about the thousands of quid it must have cost and the amount of pollution it would have created.

Fairly typical really, you spend ages battling against the odds, creating the biggest and most outstanding of all red balloons and all it takes is on prick and the whole thing’s f4cked.

Gary, one tip for the future – stick to songwriting.

In spite of all that, they still managed to squeeze me for a few quid.

And so, despite all the adversity Rapidshare threw at me, the music…

The Smiths - Live In Oxford
http://www.sendspace.com/file/2m2o0z

Re-uploaded as promised -
Shriekback - Care
http://www.sendspace.com/file/noc04w

Mike Scott - At The Slaughterhouse (not ex Waterboys)
http://www.sendspace.com/file/sspy4b

Kings Of Leon - Glastonbury
http://www.sendspace.com/file/turd28
http://www.sendspace.com/file/hozb45

Jimmy Jimmy - Here In The Light
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3goz8g

Malcolm Middleton - Live At The Bush Hall
http://www.sendspace.com/file/4qs3ci

Marianne Faithfull - The Very Best Of
http://www.sendspace.com/file/f8frai

Sigur Ros - Odin's Raven MAgic
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zpkydh

Hothouse Flowers - Glastonbury 1990
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ek25d6
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ryob7i

Hothouse Flowers - People
http://www.sendspace.com/file/lx0hb4

Modest Mouse - Atlanta opening for REM
http://www.sendspace.com/file/lfacou

Michelle Shocked - Live in Boston 1989
http://www.sendspace.com/file/88zkxy

Taste - London Invasion
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pjz3ks
http://www.sendspace.com/file/3hwyou

The Silencers - Seconds Of Pleasure
http://www.sendspace.com/file/nj23du

Matthew Sweet - Supervixen 2
http://www.sendspace.com/file/nvzc30
http://www.sendspace.com/file/bldhn2

Morrissey - BBC Radio Theatre 11.02.2009
http://www.sendspace.com/file/n483hp
http://www.sendspace.com/file/5nzmrc

Vic Chestnutt - Live At The Button Factory
http://www.sendspace.com/file/dsxlow
http://www.sendspace.com/file/8p1o7v

The Go Betweens - Live In London 2004
http://www.sendspace.com/file/dbyy1j
http://www.sendspace.com/file/ec778r

and finally, for anyone who has never experienced it in the flesh and, in honour of my little cultural indulgence on Tuesday, although this recording doesn’t do justice to the Russian Ballet…

Tchaikowski - Swan Lake
http://www.sendspace.com/file/njrc2q

Enjoy…

Hooli

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour...

2009-03-06T21:26:00.003Z

So last week turned out to be a bit dry, on the blog front that is.
On the alcohol front, it was a different story.
My head was clearly placing bets that my body would be unable to cash.

Saturday saw the usual suspects gather for a bit of a ‘rugby come birthday come general excuse for getting together’ type of do.
Needless to say they recycling bin took a hammering, as did my ability to remember much about the evening's proceedings.
I do remember the rugby scores and I do remember getting home.
The five intervening hours though, are a bit of a Shiraz infused haze.

Having found nothing to grump about last week and just when I thought there was nothing to get wired about this week, there it was, tucked away in a little corner of the Sunday paper.
Having been on the singing soup the night before, I assumed I was still blootered and didn’t give it much thought (or at least I thought I didn’t give it much thought – if you catch what I mean)

Several hours, some smoked pig on toast and couple of pints of coffee later, I returned to the paper, confident that I had sobered up enough to distinguish one word from the next and that what I had seen earlier in the day wasn’t just onegreatlongjumbleofletterswithnospacesinbetween.
Convinced my eyes had deceived me, I returned to the crime scene.

No, I obviously wasn’t as pissed as it thought.
There it was, quite literally, for all to see in Scotland’s first Sunday rag.

National Pie Week.

Now what the hell is that all about?
I was fully aware that Sunday was the first of the month but surely I couldn’t have lost a full thirty one days in my drunken stupor.
This had all the hallmarks of an April Fool ruse.
Surely they, whoever ‘they’ are, can’t be expecting us all to eat pies for the whole week.
Sweet suffering maw o’ the wee man, by the time the weekend comes around we’ll all be rolling around like Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee.

How can we be expected to absorb or pay any kind of notice to the constant barrage of health warnings and the flood of statistics about how bad the Scottish diet is, when someone somewhere has decreed that it is national pie week.
Why not go the whole hog and declare national lard week or, for the posh and privileged, national saturated fat week.

To cap it all, my local DJ announced it was national tell a lie day on Wednesday.
Come on! Someone please enlighten me as to what the f4ck that is all about?
Why do we have to have national anything week or day for that matter?
This has to be the dumbest craze out.

Since the fifties and Christian Aid week, this has blossomed into the perfect cottage industry with dozens of little munchkins beavering away at titanic scale, steam driven, Heath Robinson like machines, churning out all sorts of nonsensical possibilities so they can ponder what will be next and how they might be able to screw over poor old ‘honest Bob’.
There are now around five hundred ‘national weeks’ disseminated unevenly throughout the year.
Many are slightly sinister and are nothing more than an excuse for chuggers to get their little plastic cans out and pester unwitting shoppers, (kind of reminds me of that old postcard showing two images of Aberdeen’s Union Street, one totally deserted; the other full of people, bearing the respective legend, Aberdeen on a flag day; Aberdeen during a door to door collection)
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve no problem with charity if the proceeds are wisely used and have a positive effect on the intended cause but, pardon me for being cynical, something called National Real Ale Week is nothing more than and excuse for the participants to go and get pissed in some ‘olde worlde’ hovel with spit and sawdust on the floor, while we pick up the tab.

Some of it is just plain daft, national meeting week for instance.
Having said that, I do like the idea of national condom week and national breast-feeding week sharing the same dates - clearly the munchkins have some sense of humour.

Many of these of course are just an excuse for extremists to harp on about their chosen soapbox theory.

"I know what we’ll do!
We haven’t sold many fags lately – let’s have a national smoking week or maybe if the sales of petrol drop in the credit crunch we could have national set fire to your neeb's hedge week".
Then we could have national plant a leylandii week.

Simplest answer for me of course would be to declare national talking shite week.
I’d easy manage to take part in that one along, I dare say, with a fairly large proportion of the country.
You could argue that any week in the House of Commons would qualify.

Ah well, time for another Scotch pie topped off with some extra lard and some mealie pudding.
That should keep me going until national curry week in November.

Ahh the music…

The Smiths - Dundee Caird Hall, 26.09.1985
http://rapidshare.com/files/206147911/Dundee_Caird_Hall__26.09.1985_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/206163348/Dundee_Caird_Hall__26.09.1985_2.rar

Ray Davies – Other Peoples Lives
http://rapidshare.com/files/200547206/Other_Peoples_Lives.rar

Tom Waits - The Early Years 2.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/203145879/The_Early_Years_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/203007064/The_Early_Years_2.rar

Ray Davies - Nashville, TN - 12-03-08
http://rapidshare.com/files/203015467/Ray_Davies_-_Nashville__TN_-_12-03-08_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/203025092/Ray_Davies_-_Nashville__TN_-_12-03-08.rar

Glen Tilbrook & The Fluffers - Oxford, UK 24.10.2008
http://rapidshare.com/files/203031027/Oxford__UK_24.10.2008_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/203039642/Oxford__UK_24.10.2008_2.rar

FunLovin Criminals - Mimosa
http://rapidshare.com/files/203046465/Mimosa.rar

Seth Lakeman – Poor Man's Heaven
http://rapidshare.com/files/203052493/Poor_Man_s_Heaven.rar

Big Country – Porterhouse Retford 18-09-1982
http://rapidshare.com/files/203057316/Porterhouse_Retford_18-09-1982.rar

The Postal Service – Give Up
http://rapidshare.com/files/203062433/Postal_Service__The.rar

Edwyn Collins - Queen's Hall, Edinburgh 21.04.2008.
http://rapidshare.com/files/203071547/Queen_s_Hall__Edinburgh_21.04.2008.rar

Ryan Adams - Live 08.12.2008
http://rapidshare.com/files/203079730/Live_08.12.2008.rar

The Doors with Eddie Vedder – Hall Of Fame
http://rapidshare.com/files/203083518/The_Doors_with_Eddie_Vedder_-_1993-01-12_Rock_And_Roll_Hall_Of_Fame__Century_Plaza_Hotel__Los_Angeles,_CA,_US.rar

Stan Ridgway – The Big Heat
http://rapidshare.com/files/203091087/The_Bigh_Heat.rar

Ruarri Joseph - Tales Of Grime And Grit
http://rapidshare.com/files/203096089/Tales_Of_Grime_And_Grit.rar

Undertones – Regal Theatre, Hitchin – UK – February 22, 1983
http://rapidshare.com/files/203107132/Regal_Theatre__Hitchin_-_UK_-__February_22__1983_Upgrade_.rar

Cowboy Junkies - Live At The Mountain Winery, Saratoga
http://rapidshare.com/files/203135893/Live_At_The_Mountain_Winery__Saratoga__C_Pt_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/203120111/Live_At_The_Mountain_Winery__Saratoga__C_Part_2.rar

Enjoy

Hooli

...and the clown does a fart and we all fart back...

2009-02-20T23:09:00.003Z

So firstly a quick thought, if that’s the right word, about society and the state of our miserable little earth corner.
Really, I have to ask myself, what the f4ck is going on?
What’s it all about Alfie?

As if it wasn’t bad enough that some dozy pair of f4cking nobodies have been found seriously wanting in the sex education department, now we have their 13 year old offspring, who barely looks capable of recognising the crack of dawn let alone getting a stiffy for long enough to impregnate the local Vicky Pollard a-like, being treated like a f4cking celebrity.
It doesn’t even stop there.
This bulging mass of testosterone has now got himself a f4cking agent.
Thirteen f4cking years old and Max Clifford is sniffing round him like a beagle round a foxes arsehole.
Newspaper access rights to the story have been negotiated and the rights to the TV documentary are reputed to be worth around £50k.
Quite literally unbef4ckinglielevable.
Some snottly little waste of jizz, dips his wick irresponsibly and earns, in all probablility, four times the salary of the average working man.

To cap it all, the recipient of this little spunkfest doesn’t even know who the father is.
Although she’s only fifteen years of age, she’s as well ridden as a gypsy merry go round.
Chuff like a bucket is the ultimate in understatements.

There’s even talk of a DNA paternity test, live, on TV.
Live on f4cking TV!
How totally screwed up can things get?

Think next time I go for a crap I’ll invite Richard and Judy along.
As I said, unbef4ckinglievable.

Despite anything I may have alluded to in the past or may yet hint at in the future, this is surely confirmation that British society is totally screwed.

Anyway, back to a favourite topic of mine, incompatibility.

Looking at the state of the floor in my daughter’s bedroom and the menagerie of charging devices from her various bits of gadgetry, all slithering around each other like a thousand asps as I tried to guide the vacuum cleaner’s nozzle around them, the sense that the bed may have been concealing a severed Gorgon’s head had me regarding the whole scenario from the relative safety of a mirror’s reflection.

Soon though, this could be a thing of the past and such mythical nonsense will be confined to...
...well, mythology.
Finally, after years of being a bunch of self obsessed egomaniacs, Mr Nokia, Mr Eriksson, Mr Samsung and all their cronies have got their act together.
The mobile phone makers of the world have united in a move to create a super charger.
One that will fit my phone as well as my wife’s and my kids’ phones!

Yippeee!
About bloody time too.

Wouldn’t it have been easier to have done this at the start instead of each thinking they were better and more important than the rest?
They did, after all, manage to achieve some parity at the other end of the cable which fits every mains socket in the world either directly or via an adaptor.
Maybe that was just because they had to.
Freedom of choice wasn’t open to them and the market had to get what the market needed.
To have offered anything other than a standard 13 amp plug in the UK would have been as popular as pork chops at a Bar mitzvah.
The appliance end though, was a whole different set of rules and it didn’t stop at phones.
Anything hand held and portable had to have its own unique interface.
But now that all is rosy in the great technological Eden, we can look forward to having one, and only one, charger
Presumably in the future, when we buy a replacement phone and don’t need a replacement charger, the new phone will cost less than the old one.

Who am I trying kid!!!
In doing this, don’t they simply create another little crevice from where an additional cost can seep out to the consumer?

I can’t even say this is the shape of things to come because this is literally the shape of here and now.

Ever tried ordering a take away pizza?
Anything other than a Frisbee of dough splattered with the odd pulpy red stuff and a sprinkling of cheese will cost you more with every extra topping you add.

Similarly if you’ve ever bought or tried to buy a flight online, which I’m sure you have, you’ll find all sorts of misleading offers to tempt you.
If you look far enough ahead, at dates on which you don’t actually want to travel, you’ll be sure to find fights for ONLY 99p.
This of course is total bollocks and should never be taken with any kind of seriousness.

Numerous airlines are opening up new reduced rates and special offers, even to and from the inaccessible and sparsely populated corners of Scotland.

Cheap flights to Inverness or Birmingham for instance.
£39.99, £29.99, £19.99, £9.99!
All that good psychology that we know so well!
A penny below the nearest tenner.

I’ve done that myself, explaining the cost of a guitar, or something equally and indispensably practical to my beloved.
“Yeah it was a real bargain, only 500 quid” when in reality it was a penny short of six hundred.
The thing now is that once they’ve lured you in with the cheap flight, you then have to pay taxes, so suddenly your £119.94 family return to Brum costs you £360 of the Queens good beer vouchers.
What really gets my goat about this though, is not the fact that it’s expensive but the fact that the taxes are only the start.
They are levied by the government and, despite whatever we all chose to believe, there is some form of regulation involved.
All the other extras, levied by the airline, that can almost double your bill appear to be much more woolly around the edges.
It pretty much looks like they can do whatever they please and make the prices up as they go along.

If you don’t have access to the internet and have to be old fashioned, you’ll need a real ticket as opposed to an eTicket. This means you’ll have to manually check in – bang, that’ll be £10 thank you very much.
If you want to sit together with your family that will be an additional £10 per person thank you kind sir.
If you want an in flight meal (bizarre I know), that will cost you another £10 per person unless of course you’re unfortunate enough to be a vegetarian which will cost you double.
The one consolation though, is that you can eat the in flight magazine which is actually free.
If you’re the type who are really interested in looking at the inside of clouds (not an Aberdonian trait I can tell you) then you’ll be wanting a window seat. That privilege will set you back another £10.
The good old excess baggage charge is consigned to history. Now, instead of having to pay £10 per kilo over 20, you have to pay an ‘any baggage charge’
A flat rate £30 to put anything in the hold.
You might be a nervous flier or get a bit stressed by the whole affair. God help you if you suffer from IBS or if you’ve been for a curry the night before. Next thing, you’ll have to pay to use the loo and then find that the toilet paper is metered.
Makes you wonder where it will all stop.
Soon, passengers will be charged by weight although, having endured an 8 hour transatlantic flight wedged next something resembling a blimp, that may not be a bad thing.

In truth, there’s only one word for this.
It rhymes with grunts and I like to prefix it with greedy and thieving.

So anyway, back to Mr Moto and his chums, presumably when this new super-dooper all singing, all dancing, philanthropic charger unit becomes available, we will all be expected to join the surge for a new phone with the micro-USB connector interface.

What then happens to all the multitudes of obsolete chargers and redundant mobies?

So much for their improved environmental footprint!

Considering the fact that, in our house alone, there are at least twenty different chargers, I would say it’s more of an environmental arseprint.
Just like the one the technology fat cats have been collectively dragging around behind them for years

Anyway, back to my earlier rant, oddly, or perhaps not, as I write this, I’m listening to one of the greatest English songwriters of our time, Ray Davies.
It occurs to me that he’ll probably write a song about this latest example of public immorality.
But when I think about it...
He probably already has...

And so the music...

Ray Davies – Other Peoples Lives
http://rapidshare.com/files/200547206/Other_Peoples_Lives.rar

Arcade Fire - Joker's Wild
http://rapidshare.com/files/199774013/Joker_s_Wild.rar

Deacon Blue - London Marquee Show – Nov 1986
http://rapidshare.com/files/199784939/London_Marquee_Show_-_Nov_1986.rar

The Gin Blossoms - Live In The USA
http://rapidshare.com/files/199797990/Live_In_The_USA.rar

The Gin Blossoms – New Miserable Experience
http://rapidshare.com/files/199823973/New_Miserable_Experience.rar

Garbage - Live Tokyo, Japan (Fuji_Rock_Festival) 08.01.1998
http://rapidshare.com/files/199809298/Live_Tokyo__Japan__Fuji_Rock_Festival__8_1_1998.rar

Pete Yorn - Music For The Morning After
http://rapidshare.com/files/199817978/Music_For_The_Morning_After.rar

Stephen Fretwell – Man on the Roof
http://rapidshare.com/files/199828564/Man_on_the_Roof.rar

Belle & Sebastian – Milking It
http://rapidshare.com/files/199837261/Milking_It_-_Belle___Sebastian_Live.rar

The Aliens - Luna
http://rapidshare.com/files/199846906/Aliens__The.rar

Damien Jurado – Gathered In Song
http://rapidshare.com/files/199851069/Gathered_In_Song.rar

Frightened Rabbit – The Midnight Organ Fight
http://rapidshare.com/files/199858540/Frightened_Rabbit.rar

Rich Kids – Ghosts Of Princes In Towers
http://rapidshare.com/files/199877863/Ghosts_Of_Princes_In_Towers.rar

The Beta Band – Hot Shots
http://rapidshare.com/files/199884800/Hot_Shots_II.rar

Rachael Yamagata - Happenstance
http://rapidshare.com/files/199896044/Happenstance.rar

Tori Amos – Little Earthquakes
http://rapidshare.com/files/199906424/Little_Earthquakes.rar

Enjoy

Hooli

Manners maketh man or so they say...

2009-02-01T13:41:00.007Z

So, having performed CPR on this ailing box of crap for the fourth time, I finally managed to access the internet without coming down with something terminal. There I was, idly chuffing my way around the web the other day, trying to source a weekend of culture for the Easter hols and what did I stumble upon? This superb little guide to all things cultured in our splendid little country subtitled ‘Acceptable Behaviour in England’
I suspect Messrs. Lucas and Walliams may have had a peek at this too. Perhaps they might even have inspired it and, although I somehow doubt that, you can almost hear Tom Baker reading it.

Amusingly, it carried a disclaimer, presumably added so as not to offend the rest of the UK.
Please note: We have mainly written about England, as that is the country within the UK where our students live. We would be very happy for schools and visitors to send us information we can add to our website on Wales and Scotland.

It struck me after reading it that this is not the norm.
It asked, “Which of the following social customs are similar or different to your country?”
In reality none of these really exist anywhere outside of Windsor. It’s all so frightfully public school.
It also struck me that it would have been much more exciting to have provided a guide to Acceptable Behaviour in Scotland.
Nonetheless, it was a riveting read.
In it’s absence, I've decided to provide my own version of what to expect in Scotland - just in case anyone gets lost on their way to Win-zarr.

Much of the text in italic, the English version of things, has been lifted from the Woodlands Junior School in Kent webpage and I’ll apologise in advance if I’ve offended their tender sensibilities but this is screaming out to be lampooned…

The British are said to be reserved in manners, dress and speech.
We are famous for our politeness, self-discipline and especially for our sense of humour.
Basic politeness (please, thank you, excuse me) is expected.
The Scots in particular are reserved in manners; this is what comes of not getting out much and being shat on by one’s neighbours for centuries. The Scottish sense of humour is wry to say the least.

In England...
How to greet someone.
British people are quite reserved when greeting one another. A greeting can be a bright 'Hello' 'Hi' or 'Good morning', when you arrive at work or at school.
In Scotland...
We prefer ‘fit like’, ‘howzitgaun’ or ‘awrightryihooryi’ sharply followed by a slap in the puss or a swift kick in the bollocks (males only).

Do Shake Hands.
When you are first introduced to someone, shake their right hand with your own right hand.
In Scotland, it is the custom to avoid meeting people and indulging in pleasantries. This comes from generations of mistrust of everyone. If forced into this situation, a simple slanted nod and a firm but not crushing handshake will suffice. Any vague notion that you may harbour that it's cool to do all that silly Americanised high five, wiggly fish, knuckle knocking crap with a triple salco, pike and a full twist, should be discarded. This is not cool, especially if you're in the centre of Paisley with rain pissing down around you or in Peterhead, sticking of fish and getting dive bombed by seagulls. Such behaviour will most certainly earn you a bonus kick in the bollocks.

Do not greet people with a kiss.
We only kiss people who are close friends and relatives.
Greeting with a kiss is more popular in Scotland than in England, particularly the Glesga kiss. This originated in Glasgow and is now finding favour throughout the country. It involves leaning slightly backwards from the neck and nodding the head forwards in the direction of the recipient’s nose. There is something of an art to this and it is said that, in the finest practitioners, the motion is barely perceptible.
Kissing of any other kind is less common unless you intend to shag the recipient later.
If a shag is not on the cards, expect a kick in the bollocks instead.

Terms of Endearment - Names we may call you.
You may be called by many different 'affectionate' names, according to which part of the Britain you are visiting. Do not be offended, this is quite normal. For example, you may be called dear, dearie, flower, love, chick, chuck, me duck, me duckie, mate, guv, son, ma'am, madam, miss, sir, or treacle, according to your sex, age and location.
North of the border you might be called pal if you’re lucky.
Otherwise it will be ‘cock’ or ‘min’ if you’re male; ‘hen’ or ‘doll’ if you’re female.
Sometimes you will get ‘shite! I thought yi wur someone else’ usually as you recover from a Glesga kiss and a kick in the bollocks.

Manners are Important
DOs and DON'TS (Taboos) in England
In England...
Do stand in line.
In England we like to form orderly queues (standing in line) and wait patiently for our turn e.g. boarding a bus. It is usual to queue when required, and expected that you will take your correct turn and not push in front. 'Queue jumping' is frowned upon.
In Scotland we also like to queue. This is especially evident during the early hours of Saturday and Sunday mornings where, at numerous taxi ranks and bus shelters, the popular sport of bitch baiting can be seen. This is the one where boozed up little tarts have a go at slagging each other off while their male companions ram as much Doner kebab down their throats in a single stream before giving it the big boak in the nearest doorway.
Queue jumping is tantamount to buggering someone's pet and carries the sternest of punishments. It is not uncommon, especially after a Saturday night on the bevvy, for an entire queue to end up either in the cells or in the infirmary.

Do take your hat off when you go indoors (men only).
It is impolite for men to wear hats indoors especially in churches.
Nowadays, it is becoming more common to see men wearing hats indoors. However, this is still seen as being impolite, especially to the older generations.
Scots don’t wear hats. Hats are for jessies

Do say "Excuse Me".
If someone is blocking your way and you would like them to move, say excuse me and they will move out of your way.
‘Beat it bawbag’ or ‘gitootomaroad yi wee shite’ are more common in the north. If you say excuse me, every on will think you’ve dropped one and bugger off. Same result I guess.

Do open doors for other people.
Men and women both hold open the door for each other. It depends on who goes through the door first.
In Scotland it is particularly common where there are double doors for everyone to funnel clumsily through only one. This may be because it has been bolted shut by the practicality police or may simply be because we are too closely related to sheep to be capable of independent rational thought.

Do Pay as you Go.
Pay for drinks as you order them in pubs and other types of bars.
Do say "Please" and "Thank you":
It is very good manners to say "please" and "thank you". It is considered rude if you don't. You will notice in England that we say 'thank you' a lot.
North of the border, getting a drinks order in is like finding the Holy Grail. Even if you actually get to the bar, if there are women around you haven’t a hope of getting served. Faced with women, the barmen suddenly come on like Casanova. The more this pisses you off, the less chance you have of getting served. You can wave your tenner all you like, make eye contact with him and shout out your order but you will invariably find he’s serving the blonde standing behind you.
If its getting to the end of the night, chances are that by the time you’ve got you order in, some other poor souls got caught short and wazzed in your pocket.
It is common to use terms of exasperation.
You will find in Scotland that we say f4ck off quite a lot.

Do cover your Mouth.
When yawning or coughing always cover your mouth with your hand.
Scots hack and cough all the time. This is the result of generations of coal dust, asbestos and carbon monoxide inhalation along with habitual addiction to fags and whisky. If that doesn't give you a cough then the shite weather will.
The cough though is an involuntary action and cannot be made right by a voluntary action.
Best not to draw attention to yourself. All that'll happen is some smart arsed boy scout will end up giving you the Heimlich manoeuvre and everyone else'll think he's shagging you.
Yawning, of course, is for children and cisses.
We don't do it.

Do say sorry.
If you accidentally bump into someone, say 'sorry'. They probably will too, even if it was your fault! This is a habit and can be seen as very amusing by an 'outsider'.
Heyminlookwherryirgaun yi wee f4cker is a common term used in Scottish cities. They will probably echo the phrase where after the two of you are obliged to beat the shit out of one another.
In the countryside, there are so few people there is absolutely no danger of bumping into somebody (unless of course you class sheep as somebody)

Do Smile.
A smiling face is a welcoming face
Don’t do it, especially if you are an American who has had expensive dental work done. Scots are famous the world over for their bad teeth and being greeted by a mass of gleaming white porcelain is insulting to someone who has a shameful row of pegs resembling 100 year old gravestones. This will most likely result in said expensive dental work having to be repeated and you'll probably get a kick in the bollocks into the bargain.

Public Behaviour
Avoid talking loudly in public.
It is impolite to stare at anyone in public.Privacy is highly regarded.
Nobody talks loud better than the Scots, except perhaps the Germans, but that a whole other story.
It is commonplace in Scottish cities at the weekend for youngsters to get completely off their tits on breezers and WKD. This incites all sorts of roaring, shouting, leering and a general disregard for privacy. The tendency to goad anyone into some form retaliatory action in the name of some sport just proves that Chatham is on the march and coming to a town near you.

Do not ask a lady her age.
It is considered impolite to ask a lady her age
In Scotland, this too will result in a kick in the bollocks.

Avoid gestures such as backslapping and hugging.
This is only done among close friends.
This is reserved for loud Americans with cigars the size of small zeppelins. Again, this will earn no respect and will get you a kick in the bollocks. In the case of hugging, it might be a knee in bollocks but the end result is the same.

Do not spit.
Spitting in the street is considered to be very bad mannered.
Spitting, along with forced unclogging of a nostril, is reserved for the football pitch.
This is only one step away from taking a dump in the street.
Kick in the bollocks, kick up the arse followed by another kick in the bollocks for good measure.

Do not ask personal or intimate questions.
We like our privacy. Please do not ask questions such as "How much money do you earn?" "How much do you weigh?" or "Why aren't you married?".
You guessed it - kick in the bollocks

Do not pick your nose in public.
We are disgusted by this. If your nostrils need de-bugging, use a handkerchief.
If you are hungry, go to a kebab shop. If you need to unclog, because of the weather, be prepared to release a full pint of toxic waste. A hankie will not do the job. Try a shopping bag instead.

Do not burp in public.
You may feel better by burping loudly after eating or drinking, but other people will not! If you cannot stop a burp from bursting out, then cover your mouth with your hand and say 'excuse me' afterwards.
Learn some restraint if you must but generally, no one will notice for all the loud shouty chav types and their boom boxes.

Do not pass wind in public.
Now how can we say this politely? Let's say that you want to pass wind. What do you do? Go somewhere private and let it out. If you accidentally pass wind in company say 'pardon me'.
If you must crack one off, make sure a dog is present. If this is not possible, divert attention by setting light to your arse crack. This will burn off any smell.
Your colon may spontaneously combust and explode out through your abdomen but at least every one will have forgotten that it was you who farted.

Do not talk and eat simultaneously.
It is impolite speak with your mouth full of food.
If you can talk and eat at the same time you will soon become a legend so long as you keep the contents of your mouth in it. If you spray food everywhere you will be branded a lunatic or a geriatric and get locked in a piss smelling home for the rest of eternity.

Women and status.
Women in Britain are entitled to equal respect and status as men (and indeed vice versa) in all areas of life and tend to have more independence and responsibility than in some other cultures. Women are usually independent and accustomed to entering public places unaccompanied. It is usual for women to go out and about on their own as well as with friends. Men and women mix freely.
Scottish women are entitled to the same respect and status as sheep.
Sheep are money.

It is ok for women to eat alone in a restaurant.
In Scotland, it is also perfectly acceptable for women (and sheep) to eat alone in restaurants. It is however, a commonly accepted fact that any woman eating in a restaurant on her own is either gay or has a face like the bottom of a boat.
Any sheep eating alone in a restaurant is simply being fattened up before finding it’s way onto the menu.

It is ok for women to wander around on their own.
Scottish women have been know to wander around on their own but, like sheep, this is something they have great difficulty in coping with.
Besides, in Scotland, this is considered unsafe. The only women who wander around on their own are prostitutes.

It is ok for women to drink beer.
Northern women only drink beer if it is served with a whisky chaser.

Visiting people in their houses.
When being entertained at someone's home it is nice to take a gift for the host and hostess. A bottle of wine, bunch of flowers or chocolates are all acceptable.
Sending a thank you note is also considered appropriate.
If you are fortunate enough to be invited into someone's home, remember all that crap about lumps of coal and shortbread is total nonsense. Scots tend to resort to the old favourites – 6 tins o’ special brew for him and some Domestos for her (just for her hair).

Eating.
We eat continental style, with fork in the left hand and the knife in the right.
The British generally pay a lot of attention to good table manners.
Even young children are expected to eat properly with knife and fork.
We eat most of our food with cutlery. The foods we don't eat with a knife, fork or spoon include sandwiches, crisps, corn on the cob, and fruit.
In the north, we had to sell off all the cutlery to pay the bookies tab so there’s no chance of such pleasantries. We were born with five fingers on each hand and, if it was good enough for the Picts, it’s good enough for us.

Things you should do.
If you cannot eat a certain type of food or have some special needs, tell your host several days before the dinner party.
If you are a guest, it is polite to wait until your host starts eating or indicates you should do so. It shows consideration.
Always chew and swallow all the food in your mouth before taking more or taking a drink.
You may eat chicken and pizza with your fingers if you are at a barbecue, finger buffet or very informal setting. Otherwise always use a knife and fork.
Always say thank you when served something. It shows appreciation.
When eating rolls, break off a piece of bread before buttering. Eating it whole looks tacky.
On formal dining occasions it is good manners to take some butter from the butter dish with your bread knife and put it on your side plate (for the roll). Then butter pieces of the roll using this butter. This pevents the butter in the dish getting full of bread crumbs as it is passed around.
When you have finished eating, and to let others know that you have, place your knife and folk together, with the prongs (tines) on the fork facing upwards, on your plate.
If you are lucky enough to be invited to guest at a Scottish dinner party, chances are that by the time the food reaches the table, your host, and everyone else for that matter, will be so blootered that you could swallow a whole pig sideways and wash it down with a bucket of ox blood, all while dancing naked on the table, and no one would notice.

In a restaurant, it is normal to pay for your food by putting your money on the plate the bill comes on.
Scots don't eat in restaurants because they are overpriced and crap but if they did, they'd be well on the way to the pub by the time the bill arrived.

Things you should not do.
Never lick or put your knife in your mouth.
It is impolite to start eating before everyone has been served unless your host says that you don't need to wait.
Never chew with your mouth open. No one wants to see food being chewed or hearing it being chomped on.
It is impolite to have your elbows on the table while you are eating.
Don't reach over someone's plate for something, ask for the item to be passed.
Never talk with food in your mouth.
It is impolite to put too much food in your mouth.
Never use your fingers to push food onto your spoon or fork.
It is impolite to slurp your food or eat noisily.
Never blow your nose on a napkin (serviette). Napkins are for dabbing your lips and only for that.
Never take food from your neighbours plate.
Never pick food out of your teeth with your fingernails.
Things that are ok to do:
It is ok to pour your own drink when eating with other people, but it is more polite to offer pouring drinks to the people sitting on either side of you.
It is ok to put milk and sugar in your tea and coffee or to drink them both without either.
Such pleasantries are the reserve of the English Home Counties where food, cutlery and good manners are plainly of greater abundance, and greater importance, than common sense.
If you are at a Scottish dinner, do not, under any circumstances put a knife in your mouth unless you are also prepared to do some fire eating and some chainsaw juggling after dessert. This will only be seen as a challenge and it won’t be long before big Dougie fae Oban gets his Claymore out.
Chewing with an open mouth, talking while eating, spraying food around and general rudeness is frowned upon if noticed.
This is the reserve of the elderly and infirm. If you are caught raving and drooling like a lunatic then that's exactly how you will be treated. This will result in your host forcibly ejecting you from their table and having to place his foot upon your gonads.
Other things that are frowned upon are the removing of false limbs, false eyes and false teeth at the table along with spilling drink. Your host takes the evening aperitif very seriously.
Buckfast is expensive stuff and not to be wasted.

How to eat Soup.
When eating soup, tip the bowl away from you and scoop the soup up with your spoon.
Soup should always be taken (without slurping of course) from the side of the spoon, and not from the 'end' as in most of the rest of Europe.
Back to the good old Scots sense of humour, don't be surprised to find only bread, roll or oatcakes to accompany your soup. Your sole weapon is likely to be a fork especially if the soup is runny.

How to eat peas.
To be very polite, peas should be crushed onto the fork - a fork with the prongs pointing down. The best way is to half load the fork with something to which they will stick, such as potato or a soft vegetable that squashes easily onto the fork. It's sometimes easier to put down your knife and then switch your fork to the other hand, so you can shovel the peas against something else on the plate, thus ensuring they end up on your fork.
In general, Scots never eat anything that is green. If you are unlucky enough to be presented with peas, the simplest thing to do is take your knife in your right hand and scrape the little green pellets into your female companion's handbag. Years later, when she next goes to use the old Louis Vuitton, she will find them and think that a rabbit has crapped in it.
If it’s a posh do, a napkin will suffice.

How to eat pudding (desserts).
To eat dessert, break the dessert with the spoon, one bite at a time. Push the food with the fork (optional) into the spoon. Eat from the spoon. (Fork in left hand; spoon in right.)
Scots don't have dessert. Dessert is for girlies and reminds us of camels. The only pudding we eat is battered haggis, mealie or black pudding from the chipper.
If someone offers you a pudding, be prepared to go down on a thing that looks, and probably tastes, like a donkeys knob.

How to use a napkin or serviette.
The golden rule is that a napkin should never be used to blow your nose on. This is a definite no-no. Napkins should be placed across the lap - tucking them into your clothing may be considered 'common'.
If, in Scotland, you are at somewhere a bit posh, you might be presented with a napkin. Most Scots, unless they are accustomed to dealing with peas, have no idea how to sport the old serviette and resort to the fancy dress technique, tying it like a neckerchief a la Milky Bar Kid. If have to excuse yourself during the meal, be sure to leave your napkin behind as it is not to be used as any form of substitute for toilet paper, especially if it's a linen napkin.

How to negotiate leftovers.
What do you say or do if you've accidentally taken too much food and you cannot possibly eat it all?
Say:
"I'm sorry, but it seems that 'my eyes are bigger than my stomach'.
or
"I'm sorry. It was so delicious but I am full".
The main thing is not to offend your host.
If you don’t manage to clear your plate and all the debris from around you, you will probably be branded a cissy. If you have simply been a greedy bastard and taken too much, you will be branded a greed bastard for taking too much.
One of America's greatest inventions though, is the doggy bag which, if you manage to find somewhere good to eat, is a good way of bunking off the catering duty for the rest of the week.

Driving.
What is it like to drive in Britain?
In Britain, we drive on the left-hand side of the road, so the steering wheel is on the right. However the pedals are in the same position as in left-handed cars, with the accelerator (gas pedal) on the right. The gears and almost always the handbrake (parking brake) is operated with the left hand.
Most cars in Britain are manual cars i.e have a gear stick.
In Scotland we drive where ever we want. The steering wheel might as well be on the roof for all the use it gets and as for the brake, well that’s just to give you something to tap your foot on so can pretend to be Animal from the Muppet Show when you get stuck in the inevitable traffic jam. The hand brake is largely irrelevant in Scotland as nobody ever uses it and the gearstick is generally removed from all but ladies cars. In your male car, this can be found in the glove box and used along with the wheel brace as a supplementary drumstick.

Petrol (Gas) in Britain is one of the most expensive in the world. We pay on average 98 pence a litre.
The further north you go the more you get ripped off. A litre of petrol on the Isle of Lewis will set you back around forty quid. Most cars have been converted to run on sheep’s piss.

Minimum driving age in the UK
The minimum age for driving a car in the UK is 17, and 16 for riding a moped or motorbike with a maximum engine capacity of 50cc.
In Scotland, the average age for beginning to drive is 12. In some cities, if the hot-wiring and bricking skills meet the criteria, this can be as low as 10.

Roads.
There are some 225,000 miles (362,000 km) of roads in Britain. Many of the roads are built on the old roads laid down by the Romans centuries ago.
Roads in Britain range from wide modern motorways down to narrow country lanes usually bordered by hedges, stone walls, grassy banks or ditches. Cities and towns tend to have compact streets because they date back to well before cars were invented, and were certainly not planned for large lorries (trucks).
In Britain, our three main roads are "M" roads, "A" roads, and "B" roads.
"M" roads are like American freeways. They are known as motorways and are fast roads. They have three or four lanes.
"A" roads are not controlled-access: they range from two-lane divided highways ("dual carraigeways") down to one-lane roads. They are the main routes between towns.
"B" roads are the smaller of the three. They may be in the open or have impentrable foliage right up to the road. Road markings (curves, etc.) may be sparse.
In Scotland, the roads get worse the further north you go.
General Wade, that great visionary comedian, road builder extraordinaire and veteran of two Scottish rebellions, fairly knew how to take the piss out of technological advancement and get his own back on the Scots. He gave us the hump back bridge. Driving over one of these is akin to driving over a woolly mammoth. If your car has a wheelbase greater than a mini you can expect to end up like that old cartoon of Noah’s Ark perched atop Mount Ararat.
Like England we too have three types of road.
Crap, crappier and crappiest.
All of these, without exception, you will find inhabited by 40ft articulated lorries, bendy buses, tractors, JCB’s and taxis.
If you have to nip out to the shops or perhaps to your local takeaway, you are bound to get stuck behind at least one of these as it shortcuts its way past the local primary school.
Be sure to take some sandwiches and a nice flask of tea as you may be gone for some time.

Tolls and speed.
Some motorways have tolls (pay a fee to drive)
All speed limits and distances, on signs, are given in miles or miles per hour.
1 mile is about 1.6 km.
Round signs indicate speed limits with the limit amount circled by a red band. When the speed limit has stopped then there is a black line at an angle crossing over a white circle.
The National Speed limits
National Speed limit on motorways and dual carriage ways: 112kph / 70mph
National Speed limit on unrestricted single carriageway roads: 96kph / 60mph
National Speed limit in built up areas e.g. towns and villages: 48kph / 30mph
National Speed limit in some residential areas: 35kph / 20mph
In Scotland, speed limits are universally ignored. Speed cameras are normally empty and the road signs are only there for local scallys to indulge in a bit of target practice. Anyone seen observing a speed limit will easily be identified as a tourist and will probably get mugged.
Toll roads do not exist.
Toll booths would only be targets for thieves.

Do Drive on the left side of the road.
In England we drive on the left hand side of the road and speed limits are strictly observed. We give great consideration to our fellow road user and relish to joy and freedom of motoring.
Unless you are from another planet, or completely and criminally insane, don’t drive in Scottish cities at all. All Scottish cities have been blessed with road planners who couldn’t finish a join the dots puzzle for a three year old. This is the only explanation for the fact that all our ring roads go directly through the city suburbs - kind of like your heart surgeon explaining your heart by pass is going to consist of him tunnelling through the middle of your pericardium with a spoon.
Scottish drivers and Scottish roads are the worst on earth, which is nice because they can share a wonderful symbiotic relationship where each can blame the other ad infinitum.
One of the scariest things you will encounter on the Scottish highway is the roundabout. Well, perhaps not so much the roundabout but peoples attitude towards it.
Because we have no concept of lane discipline, it is common to pick the shortest and fastest route. We have this thing in Aberdeen called the Haudigan (that’s short for haud it gaun – Which translates as hold it or keep it going) How apt a moniker that was. Nobody ever stops.
Three lanes of total stupidity all wrapped round a silly little 3m-diameter bollard.
Parking in Scotland is one of those finely honed skills of which we are justly proud.
Never park in a single bay at a supermarket if you and take up two. Better still use the disabled spaces. They're extra wide so neighbouring cars won’t open their doors into yours. If anyone asks what kind of disability you have, you can freely use the expression "Tourette's Syndrome, now f4ck off".

Sport.
The English public schools have bred a culture of Cricket and Rugger. These are the civilised sporting pursuits of many a gent on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.
In Scotland, we too play rugby but we’ve never been as good at it as the English so we try to keep quiet about it as much as possible.
We don’t play cricket – only jessies play cricket.
We have our own game, which is a cross between golf, hockey and polo (minus the horses).
Shinty is basically a legitimised battle between two teams with a ball and camans, These are like bats and are introduced just to make it look like sport.

The one thing, above all, to remember if visiting Scotland and meeting a Scots person is to never, ever, under any circumstances, utter the phrases "see you Jimmy" or "it's a braw bricht moonlit nicht"
This is the sort of stereotypical nonsense that is put about by bad English comedians who should have been drowned at birth.

On the subject of stereotypical nonsense, that covers pretty much all of the above.
Still, if you can't laugh at yourself what can you do?

Generally, Scotland is a wonderful and beautiful place if you're visiting.
It's only crap if you have to live here.

And so the music...

Sting – Chicago Sessions
http://rapidshare.com/files/160799233/Chicago_sessions_1.zip
http://rapidshare.com/files/160806736/Chicago_sessions_2.zip

Bush - Virgin Megastore NYC
http://rapidshare.com/files/192195588/Virgin_Megastore_NYC.rar

Bruce Springsteen – War And Roses
http://rapidshare.com/files/192209293/War_And_Roses_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/192222304/War_And_Roses_2.rar

The Charlatans – Us And Us Only
http://rapidshare.com/files/192233068/Us_And_Us_Only.rar

Oysterband - Ride
http://rapidshare.com/files/188498988/Ride_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/188508183/Ride_2.rar

Nick Cave – Viva Las Vegas
http://rapidshare.com/files/188539062/Viva_Las_Vegas_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/188549837/Viva_Las_Vegas_2.rar

Neil Young -World On A String, Oakland 20.03.1999
http://rapidshare.com/files/188577209/World_On_A_String__Oakland_20.03.1999_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/188582391/World_On_A_String__Oakland_20.03.1999_2.rar

Skuobhie Dubh Orchestra – A New Cat
http://rapidshare.com/files/188995479/A_New_Cat.rar

The Sweet – Desolation Boulevard
http://rapidshare.com/files/189003874/Desolation_Boulevard_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/189010172/Desolation_Boulevard_2.rar

Malcolm Middleton – Into The Woods
http://rapidshare.com/files/189016728/Into_The_Woods.rar

Counting Crows - Royal Albert Hall, London http://rapidshare.com/files/188519274/Royal_Albert_Hall__London_-_6_6_2003_1.rar http://rapidshare.com/files/188528142/Royal_Albert_Hall__London_-_6_6_2003_2.rar

Counting Crows - West Palm Beach, FLA, 31.08.2006 http://rapidshare.com/files/188556543/West_Palm_Beach__FLA__31.08.2006_1.rar http://rapidshare.com/files/188565855/West_Palm_Beach__FLA__31.08.2006_2.rar

Rory Gallagher – Le Casino, Paris
http://rapidshare.com/files/189056723/Le_Casino_Paris__05.12.1986.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/189068722/Le_Casino_Paris__05.12.1986_1.rar

Matthew Sweet – 100% Sweet
http://rapidshare.com/files/189078456/matthew_sweet_-_100_percent_sweet_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/189084050/matthew_sweet_-_100_percent_sweet_2.rar

Enjoy

Hooli

...funny how they shoot you down when your hands are held up high...

2009-01-24T01:02:00.005Z

So that was that.
All too prematurely, the New Year feel-good bubble burst.
I didn’t even make it past the middle of January before the ephemeral nature of peace and calm was made clearly evident with all sense of harmony disappearing like piss on a campfire, leaving me totally stressed out and thoroughly pissed off.

Anyone who visits the comments section will know this already but last week became the week from hell.
Well at least as far as my computer activity is concerned.

So now, as well as trying to reload my entire collection back onto iTunes in my own inimitably anal and precise way, I have nothing posted from last week and nothing prepared for this week.
All I have is confusion and frustration as I juggle with one of modern life’s great puzzles, a mystery of such unfathomable depth that I can’t even begin to find an answer.
All I can do is accept it for what it was. A total pain in the arse!

So what is it that inspires someone to write a computer virus?
What form of gratification or satisfaction can someone possibly get from unleashing a mini plague of nano-bits that then totally f4cks up someone else’s weekend?
What kind of person is shallow enough to do that!

When someone writes a song or a piece of poetry, a novel or a play, they do so with the hope that someone will like what they’ve done, the hope that in some way, their work might bring some enjoyment or tweak a certain emotional string in someone. Everything, from embalmed cows encased in acrylic to the latest ‘Rock Band’ or ‘Call of Duty’ X-Box games, is aimed at giving something to the end user.
If it’s really good, they might even part with some cash for the privilege.

Your computer spod though, he is a different beast. He has no notion of giving.
To bring joy to another being is a concept completely alien to him. Clearly, he must have suffered badly as a child. The only excitement he will have experienced is pulling wings off bumble bees. Locked in a darkened attic from an early age, dangerously deficient in vitamin D, he is almost certainly a zit infested specimen with no mates to speak of, no pleasant memories of childhood, no toys and no ambition. He is so socially inept that the only way he can interact with the outside world is by releasing his nasty little germs in the hope they infect some poor passer by. I rank this along the same lines as those pervy little scumbags who jerk off over the seats of ladies toilets.
They know they’ve done something.
They know someone’s going to get it but they don’t have the bollocks to hang around to see the results of their endeavours.
All they can do sit in their own smelly little private geekdom with their virus porn, specs all steamed up with their bell ends stuck to their kegs.
Surely to f4ck it isn’t worth the excitement.

This of course is a mere trifle compared to the shit some people have to deal with every day and, at the end of it, nobody died and nobody got hurt; nobody got ripped off or were held to ransom. From my point of view, all my data is backed up externally anyway so all I’ve lost, apart from a whole weekend, is a couple of utilities that I can simply download again.
OK, so it took three attempts to rid my hard drive of whatever crap had infected it; by the third restore I did feel like I’d been kicked in the bollocks on the way to the executioner and there were the odd thousand brain cells that I must have lost from banging my head on the desk before emerging looking like Eistein after 10 rounds with a pack of pit bulls but all in all, looking back, my machine is running faster and better than before.
To keep things that way though, I now have to re-evaluate where I go on the internet.
It’s not that I’m sloppy but the things I previously took for granted, I no longer can.
It makes me think twice about downloading.
It makes me think very long and hard about whether I want to buy anything over the internet.
It makes me seriously think twice about blogs or torrent trackers who carry advertising or subscribe to the idea that, because they are offered money, it’s ok to flash up any old shite.
This, for any who are concerned, is where said virus came from. I can’t tell exactly where but there are a couple of places that I won’t be visiting again.

When I think about it, this is similar in a way to how terrorism works.
Let’s face it, nobody wants to go to Mumbai any more.
A few suicide bombers and a couple of plane crashes and everyone is suddenly thinking of holidaying at home.

It makes people fear doing the normal things.
It makes you change they way you live and stop you doing the things you want to do.
The pattern of normal life becomes altered and they have won.
Even now, after three factory resotres, I’m twitchy about using the internet.
My activity is bound to be curtailed.

The point here I guess, is that anyone who comes here to download, probably goes to the same places I do.
That being so, BE WARNED, there’s bugs out there.
Although, as a matter of principle, I will NEVER use ads, banners or allow pop ups on this space, there are plenty others who have the opposite opinion.
I don’t understand why.
It’s supposed to be about the music.
If it’s about making money they should go get a job.
As for the geek who screwed my weekend? He probably sees himself as the mastermind of some mythical cyberspace version of Al Qaeda.
He probably thinks he’s won.

Well Mr Scumsucking F4cking Shitebag, you might think you won.
BUT ONLY IN YOUR F4CKING DREAMS!

And so, somewhat gingerly but phoenix like nonetheless, the music…

The Alarm – Greatest Hits Live 2005
http://rapidshare.com/files/188474814/The_Alarm-Greatest_Hits_Live_2005_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/188482974/The_Alarm-Greatest_Hits_Live_2005_2.rar

Zutons – MTV Acoustic Session
http://rapidshare.com/files/160844584/MTV_Acoustic_Session.rar

Zutons – Koko Club, London (14.02.06)
http://rapidshare.com/files/160832238/Koko_Club__London__14.02.06_.rar

JoeBonamassa – Live in Denver 27-01-07
http://rapidshare.com/files/160843386/Live_in_Denver_Joe_Bonamassa_27-01-07_Pt_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/160841325/Live_in_Denver_27-01-07_Pt_2.rar

An Emotional Fish – Junk Puppets
http://rapidshare.com/files/160827614/Junk_Puppets.rar

Modest Mouse – Good News For People Who Love Bad News
http://rapidshare.com/files/160811856/Good_News_For_People_Who_Love_Bad_News.rar

Sacred Spirit – Chants And Dances Of The Native American
http://rapidshare.com/files/160790021/Chants_And_Dances_Of_The_Native_American.rar

10000 Maniacs – Orpheum Boston 1988
http://rapidshare.com/files/160779438/10000Maniacs_Orpheum_Boston_1988_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/160785015/10000ManiacsOrpheum_Boston_1988_2.rar

The Motors - 1
http://rapidshare.com/files/160774292/1.rar

The The – Matt Johnson – 2000 Sept 25 Winnepeg Canada
http://rapidshare.com/files/160768720/The_The_Matt_Johnson_-_2000_Sept_25_Winnepeg_Canada_pt1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/160761948/The_The_Matt_Johnson_-_2000_Sept_25_Winnepeg_Canada.rar

Led Zeppelin (almost) – The New Yardbirds – London Blues
http://rapidshare.com/files/160750072/The_New_Yardbirds_-_London_Blues_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/160756219/The_New_Yardbirds_-_London_Blues_2.rar

Thirteen Senses - The Invitation
http://rapidshare.com/files/160744010/The_Invitation.rar

Skip James – Illinois Blues
http://rapidshare.com/files/160738083/Skip_James_Illinois_Blues_1.rar
http://rapidshare.com/files/160817981/Illinois_Blues_2.rar

Ofra Haza - Shaday
http://rapidshare.com/files/160733386/Shaday.rar

The Sundays - Reading, Writing And Arithmetic
http://rapidshare.com/files/160727741/Reading__Writing_And_Arithmetic.rar

Pale Fountains – Pacific Street
http://rapidshare.com/files/160722335/Pacific_Street.rar

…and finally, the most over used word last weekend…

f4ck (a seriously funny lesson in modern language)
http://rapidshare.com/files/188483208/f___.rar

Apologies if any of these are repeats but I quite literally have files scattered everywhere.
Kind of like an eighties equivalent of the morning after the night before - CDs strewn to the four walls and not a jewel case in sight.

Anyway…

Enjoy…

Hooli