Tuesday night saw me finally scramble out the ghetto where i grew feelin second rate (Corstorphine): for a coupla decades i've harboured a nane too secret desire to give out the Message in a live music situation - finally i mustered the baws to git up and do it. Grandmaster Flash might have been furious as fuck as i mumbled my way through the bits i dinnae ken too well (what's a sacrophiliac?) . But my bud, Ben, who also popped his live gig cherry with some blindin ragtime geetar, telt me i sounded like a Beastie Boy. More Brooklyn than Bronx? I'll take dat shit. Guid laugh aw roond - cheers to Leigh and Tom for funky flipflop backin.
Wednesday saw a bunch o us catch Slumdog Millionaire on a big screen made outta 2 bedsheets. I now get the hype. Based on Vikas Swarup's interesting enough novel, "Q&A", Simon Beaufoy's written a crackin wee screenplay for Danny Boyle's dip into India. It looks and feels very much like the India, and specifically the Bombay, that i've seen - right intrigued to hear what the local lads reckon when they watch it up at Tantra hoose. Anyway, beautiful performances from Dev Patel, Freida Pinto and Anil Kapoor. And i laughed ma flippin heid off (hahabonk!) at the joke about Kingussie. Being a bit o a shinty buff, i'd have liked a quick mention o Beauly but hey, even monster smash hits cannae have it all.
Then i read this barry bitto stuff in the Times of India. It's always a bit dodgy gettin too opinionated bout political/cultural stuff goin on in other countries, even if you spend months on end there (bet i spend more time in India than Shir Hun Connery does in Shconnie Botland). But there's clearly nothin wrong in standin up against right wing thugggery wherever it happens. So when the Shri Ram Sene went breengin into a Mangalore pub and whacked awkunt inside cos they dinnae dig burds havin a bevvy, i didnae need askin twice to nash into Chaudi firra pair o pink pants. As Mr X would put it, "FUKKUN!"
