No Bad Bein a Scot

Ah've just come doon fae the Isle o Skye....It's late May and i didnae expect closed bridges, broken trees and a big fat lorry lyin on its side but shit like that happens when it blows a proper hoolie. Late May fir fuck sake and the scariest drive i've ever had. Aaaargh!

So ma hands and peepers were strugglin furiously to keep the bus on the road and ma mind wiz thinkin stuff this firra game o sodjers, i wanna move tae Goa. Made it back to base though to hook wi Mand an the Axminster firra coupla pints and as the beer slipped doon and the spraff flowed i slowly minded that it's really nane too shabby bein a Scot. And by 'Scot' i mean anyone livin in this wee spit o land in the north o Britain - many o the best yins mos def werenae born here.

Aye the weather's a challenge, the fitba's pish and there are societal challenges associated wi the politics o greed and religion. But maist cats i ken are cool as milk, we've got mair soul soothin scenery than you can shake a shitey stick at and we get the odd bit o barry news.

Like this pair:

Religion: the crusty auld Church o Scotland edges further and faster than many to the blindingly obvious realisation that it doesnae matter how consenting adults rub their rude bits the gither, if they wanna spread thon gospel pish that's good enough fir the Kirk. Check dis oot.

Whisky: not just the water of life, not just a massive earner for the (soon to be defunct) UK treasury, not just a means of employment for barley farmers, distillers, coopers, blenders, bottlers, drivers and erm tour guides but now also a potential source of biomass energy generation. Check oot dis. And that comes on top o dis from a year ago.

Aw guid i reckon.

PS time tae get ma camera back oot and chuck some snaps up here.

Kevin Keegan

It's a shite state of affairs that Scotland arenae in the World Cup (Tommy) and all the fresh air in the world in the world, etc.....but every cloud.....

I'd almost forgotten how much of a clown Kevin Keegan is til up he popped on Saturday with his pre-match prediction of a 4-1 win for England. I'd been lyin on the settee, feelin sorry for masel wi slightly dodgy guts when i heard that pish and near fell off said couch guffawin.

And Kev's got form when it comes to giein me a titter.

His rant against Ferguson was kinda tasty. But back in 1976, Superstars was the best thing on tv and when KK fell aff his bike and blew any chance o winnin, i'd truly learned the meaning of schadenfreude (tho i didnae ken it yet).

Thank you to that rude boy at De-evolving for mindin me o this. He's got a mucky mouth but i'm sure his heart's in the right place.

Last week i'd been gonna avoid this World Cup as far as poss. Now i'll be tunin in as oft as poss in the hope that Mr K's gob is unleashed on us once again. Or mibbies he'll fall off his seat - ye cannae whack a pratfall.

And if cuddly Kevin does come up trumps, i won't have felt that good since Archie Gemmil scored against Holland in 1978. (That's no quite true.)

Here Comes The Summer of Love

It's been months since i wrote anyfink in this blog. Been busy learnin to spraff about Scotland to backpackers and sometimes to posher b&b types. It's been stressful, tiring and frankly no good for my close relationships but there's nae denyin it's been hugely educational, barry fun and erm....a bit o an ego boost anaw.

While i've been away i've missed Mand (boo!), the shitey election (yay!), the Embra snickers (boo!), crap on the tellybox (yay!) Gil Scott Heron, LCD Soundsystem and the Charlatans (boo!) But the long, deep winter has deffo gone and my cactus has sprung the huge red flower shown above so i'm convinced we're on the verge o a long hot summer of love.

Shit i'm even gonna miss mosta the World Cup. How barry is that?

Headspin

From a week past Sunday to Saturday just passed i worked 62 hours, all manual, all pretty flippin tiring. So i was knackered and ready for a quiet night in front o a good film and maybe a glass or two o the vino. What my body really didnae need was to hook wi Giz an Mand in the Nix then head on up to Headspin at the Bongo Club.

But bugger ma body (no really), a proper night out was what the soul craved and that's precisely what it got. I used to be a bit o a Headspin regular but frequent long trips to Goa, the erm...ageing process and a distinct shortage o funds of late meant i hadnae darkened the Bongo's door since Halloween. I'd clearly forgotten how much fun you can have in a dark, sweaty room wi a friendly bunch o like minded groovers.

Like most o ma pals, my favourite Headspin nights have tended to be when the residents hold court - big name guests often disappoint and, while it's ay good to meet a different crowd o punters, sometimes the star gazing types dinnae really engage wi the ethos and detract a bit fae the barry random vibe. (Or maybe i'm just an elitist ersepiece who envies students their youth and vitality.)

Anyway, Saturday was a different kettle o coconuts cos the guest in toon was DJ Format. Not only is he a right decent gadge who supports his home team even though they're gash, he also spun some well tasty choons in the right order and segued supremely. In my no too humble opinion, Format was the best guest at Headpsin in living memory. Clearly my memory's been shredded by too many nights in clubs and no enough kip but hey, i have no higher accolade to offer.

The truly keech pic above was taken on my mobie and does nae justice whatsoever to what was really goin on.

Twas great to let ma suede headed hair doon, dance my skinny ass off and talk pish to peeps i hadnae seen in ages plus a few i'd never met. Though work yesterday was a bitto a struggle (too may kg's to too many top floor flats), my soul was refreshed by a wee wash in the Headspin waters and i'll try no to leave it as long til i'm back next time.

No really sure what soul is by the way, but i ken i've got it.

The Heelans

Last week i was lucky enough to be driven round bits of the Highlands as part of an assessment for the tour guide/bus driver job thingy. We had 3 sparklingly still, blue-skied days to keek at frozen lochs and snow topped peaks and it all looked flippin beautiful. Our driver guide was funny, informative and sympathetic to the demands of a varied group of youngish singles and middle youth couples from Australia, USA, India, China and Sooth Efrikay.

I right wanna do the same job as her but the bams (groovy peeps really) who run the outfit are draggin matters out to the point that i'm braced firra knock back. Reckon they're all too damn nice to gimme the kb and imagine them all huddled round a phone givin it "Aw goan you phone and let him down gently. Goan. Please." Or mibbies they sussed me for a fud and binned my application as soon as the bus got back to Embra.

Hmm...i dinnae do patience well and hate when matters are out my own hands.

In the meantime, the pic at the top is of Buachaille Etive Mor (the Bookle) as seen through the front bus windae - better than the view from every office i've ever worked in.

Below's the view west from Rannoch Moor. Chilly but cool and proof that it's no always shite being Scottish.

This next yin's how Eilan Donan looked. It's probs the corniest castle in Scotland, i could almost smell the shortbread but hey, you've gotta love it.

Here are the Black Cuilins from Slighachan where we had a wee picnic and lobbed lumps of frozen ice at each other (in a friendly way, natch).

And finally, a wee view sorta north towards the Old Man of Storr.

So come on phone - ring now, ya bugger ye!

H.A.P.P.Y.

Despite bein a generally dour fecker, i can be annoyingly chirpy at times and right now's one o them. Winter's clearly essential in the big scheme o stuff but when you've been skint in the dark and cold since the end of October, it seems only fair that things should change a bit come March. And change appears to be happenin.

Yesterday i went wi the cool gardenin crew from Dr Neil's to Cambo Gardens firra gawp at their world class woodland snowdrop collection (some of which is shown above). In my ignorance, i didnae realise how many thoosands of snowdrop varieties there are or how spectacular they can look mixed in woods wi crocuses and other early risers. Cambo's a groovy wee spot on the East Neuk and i'll def make the effort to get back there in summer to check the roses and prairie grasses in its walled garden. 

On the way back we grabbed a bit strollin action in Anstruther and Pittenweem. Flippin barry and the chips were nane too shabby anaw (tho slightly let doon by overly broon chippy sauce).

So, filled wi the joys o Spring and Fife and that, i also scheduled in a coupla def gardenin jobs for Thursday and Friday this week, a very probable 2 day gardenin makeover for the tail end o next week and a definite 3 day assessment trip wi backpackers to Glencoe, Inverness and Skye for the start o next week. If i like them (i love awkunt) and they like me (who wouldnae?) i might well be doin the tours thing as a proper job in the very near future.

I'm jumpin aroon like a bairn on chrimbo eve right noo. Things are so damn fab, i've even just been called by ma supermarket boss to say i can have an unexpected night off the night. This means me an ma lovely lemon curd can use the voucher we won at an LGBT fundraiser last Sat for a free meal fir 2 wi wine chucked in anaw.

Tasty weather, mair work than i can shake a stick at and now free scran and wine? Sometimes i feel like throwin ma hands up in the air....

Bummer footnoote: things woulda been so very much better if Michael Foot had beaten Thatcher in the 1983 general election and i've just read this. At least Mikey got to have a decent kick at the baw so i'm still happy.

Holidays In The Sun

"I don't want a holiday in the sun".....hmmmm.....easy for the Pistols to say.

Despite no long havin had a 3 weeker in Goa, i'd love a holiday in the sun right now. I'd happily settle for a holiday in the rain as it happens (greedy, i ken). The diary of my time in Goa's all about swimmin the bay, gently joggin the beaches, munchin barry scran, sippin gin, hangin wi mates and walkin the dog (ahhhh.....wee Roxy, ah pure miss you, hen).

My diary since returnin's all about humfin tonnes o concrete (Giz's garden project), deliverin supermarket messages to gadgies who recognise me from youth club days (scary) and whingein bout the cold. Despite a few brave bulbs pokin green shoots above ground and a tangible lengthenin of daylight hours, it still feels awfy like winter and it's startin to do my nut in.

Still no sign of the IT game pickin up so i've applied to do a full time course in horticulture, landscaping and garden design, i'm def on a grow yer own veg course in March and tomorrow i start voluntary work at the very special Dr Neil's Garden in Duddingston. Also had an interview on Friday for a job as coach driver/tour guide for backpackin travellers to Scotland so time will tell on that front.

On Sat me, ma burd and Chipster went on the Scotland United anti-fascist demo in town. Twas most gratifying that there were so may more of us than there were the so called scottish defence league (sdl) - a bussed in crew of mainly English fitba casuals intent on terrorising Muslims. The thugs weren't allowed to march so cowered in a coupla city centre boozers afore scurrying homeward tae think again. (I like to think they have quieter moments when they do actually think.)

My view is that many peeps attracted to neo-fascist groups are daft wee, frustrated lads and lassies who cannae come to terms wi their own homosexuality (Griffin's Question Time description of 2 men kissing as "creepy" looked highly hypocritical to me). It's time these radges lightened up and had a good shag - twould be good for them and very good for the minorities on whom they take out their frustrations.

Apart from that, Hearts have just won 2 games in a row, Hibs have just lost 3 and i've just read this about Embra's Central Mosque Cafe. Maybe Spring is on its way.

Christ The Commie

It's been a funny old year, Saint, and i don't mean funny haha. Started with 3 idyllic months loafin in South India and ends with achey limbs every morn as my body adjusts from the cushy life of a pen pusher to the rigours of manual work.

If (as i'm fairly sure) Jesus Christ was indeed the first Communist, i've moved closer than ever to being a Christian these last 12 months. Still no buyin that son o God shit but all his chat bout kickin out the money lenders, lovin thy neighbour and of course "from each according to their abilities to each according to their needs" has deeper resonance than ever for me.  (JC didnae really come out wi that last yin but i bet he'd've coined it if Karlo (or Louis Blanc) hadnae beat him to the punch.)

Prior to 2009 an average working day consisted of sitting on a wee seat wi wheels, pressing buttons on a keyboard, spraffing on the phone, speaking and staying awake at the odd meeting, drinkin a bucket of black coffee and occassionally wondering what possible value there could be to society from the shit i was doing. I was overpaid for this nonsense to the extent that i never worried about what was spent on music, books, films or the pub and could always take a few months off between contracts to faff about in South Asia.

During 2009 my average working day has been a bit more tricky to define - maybe cos i've done 8 different jobs that spring to mind right now. Whatever, the very best paid of these jobs (fishing of course) has remunerated to the tune of less than a 3rd of what i got as a test analyst. Every one of them (bar telephone market research) has involved far more physical effort and a lot more personal danger than the IT stuff.

I am truly struggling to understand why capitalism values IT testing as more worthy of cash than work which makes a tangible improvement to the world we all live in. I dinnae get it but i like to think Jesus would. Maybe it's time for a second coming and i don't mean a slightly disappointing lp by the Stone Roses.

So, as i stoat aboot waitin on the new Messiah and, if you aint gonna make it to the party of the decade in Leith's own Village Bar, may i wish you a very happy New Year.

And i mean that most sincerely, folks. Gouranga yakuntz!

Never Mind The Bollocks

It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid.

Unless yer job's to humph lazy gadgie's (erm...sorry...valued customer's) messages up 4 flights o tenement stairs. What was it wi those cheapskate Victorians that they didnae speak to Otis or Schindler and instal lifts in the flats? Sheesh!

And what is it wi some good peeps of Embra that they cough up actual dosh for bottled water instead o turnin on a tap?

I hate to moan (honest, guv) but fir fuck sake, last Friday night some radge valued customer had me heavin 84 litres o bottled water plus assorted crates o beer, boxes o wine and frozen vol au vent cases (gastronome superbique) to the top floor of a Polwarth flat. I lived for many a year in Polwarth and the tap gear tasted like Himalayan dew.

Taste the thunder!

Moan over. My belly's shrunk a bit, i've got muscles again and the weirdo plastic water guzzlers indirectly pay me a wage. It may be the root of all evil (it is for sure, nae doots there) but cally dosh is mighty handy when you've been largely without for a while.

So right now i'm kinda diggin this xmas consumption madness. I may hardly see ma pals and get mighty jealous of a weekend when they're out there doin the stuff but come New Year i'll be trimm as trab and back in the black.

And i can only thank the sweet baba Jesus for that.

A One Eyed Dug

One night when i was 19 i got blootered on about 8 pints of McEwan's Export wi rum and coke chasers then went home and smoked a few bongs wi ma flatmates. I whiteyed. Next morn i woke up rough as broken biscuits, scraped the smell o booze off ma teeth and crawled off to get the bus to work (accounts department, Scottish Gas, Granton).

Halfway down Pennywell Road i felt shaky sweats and had the sinking realisation that a big bad spew was in the post. I made the bus doors just as the gut heaved and the insides o ma cheeks filled wi vile fizzy barf. The doors swung open, i chucked in the gutter and swayed towards a lamppost outside the Gunner Bar. Then i really got into the swing o the whole projectile vomiting thing.

Bent round a lamppost, throwin up ma ring i was aware of passing school kids havin a laugh and takin the piss right outta me. I didnae care, just wanted to die really. Then i thought a bairn had grabbed me round the waist but, as i twisted ma neck for a swatch, realised i'd been jumped by a big slavery dug. This wisnae good.

So i hooked ma heel under the dug's face and booted it backwards off me. Relief turned very sharply to horror when i glanced back to see a grey muzzled, one eyed brute with its bright pink cock most definitely ootnaboot. I'm sure it licked its lips as it rolled onto its back, took aim and gushed doggy spunk over ma face, hair and spew ridden suit.

I got straight back on a bus home and phoned the work. My maw was a telephonist at the gas board for 20 years and of course it was she who answered my call. I spewed again when she told me the whole place was buzzin wi news of the summer temp who'd been sick in the street and molested by a dug.

Mothers shouldnae have to hear stuff like that about their boys.

Weeds

Jodie Foster's character (agent Starling?) put it pretty well in Silence of the Lambs (overrated apart fae Foster) when she said, "If you assume, you make an ass of u and me." Or somethin like that. Twas a visionary aphorism, spesh given it was dished in the dim and distant pre-text message era.

I've always assumed that a weed was simply any plant growing where it's not wanted. Well it is that of course, but according to the best English dictionary in the world, it's also "a skinny, feeble or ineffectual man".

During the long, damp summer of underemployment just passed i've no been very skinny but have often felt feeble and ineffectual. In any other recent week, that feeling mighta been reinforced by the other type o weed.

While removing unwanted items from a vast, tangled gravel path i spotted 3 alpine lookin plants which i reckoned would look okay planted up among a few winter pansies, violas and erm....other stuff. So i duly planked them into half an old whisky barrel only to be telt by my horticultural guru that the one pictured above is mos def a weed and the sooner i bin it the better. Part o me thinks sod it, i like it, it should stay but frankly, i'm still a gairdnin learner and it has to go.

So aye, that weed info woulda been a right bummer had it not followed hot on the heels of news that i've earned masel a proper non min wage, part time job. After a ridiculously complicated application form, full on psycho babble interview, drivin test and recommendation fae Cupar Debs (love you, honey) i've been accepted to start as a Customer Deliveries Assistant (delivery driver) for erm....one o the big bad supermarket companies.

Probs (def) wouldnae have been ma first choice but the future boss seems sound as a pound, the money's no bad, Debs digs it and the hours'll fit neatly wi the other activities i wanna develop. Oh - and beggars cannae be choosers. So next (first?) time you order groceries on-line get ready for a big Naldo sized chap on yer front door. You nivir know.

By the way, whatever happened to Jodie Foster?

Cup Cakes

It's been a slow week - virtually naeb'dy wants gardens tended, walls painted, electric cabling replaced or even fish howked oot the sea. And absolutely naeb'dy wants software tested. Ho hum.

Working highlight of the week has been home delivering Chinese meals - always a pleasure to be the bearer of barry scran, but hours are anti-social, pay is keech and the gaps between deliveries are as dull as the SPL.

Social highlight of the week was gettin el reekio on Sunday in the really rather jolly Port O Leith. The Port has a fine selection of competitively priced bevvy, a jukie to die for and lenient yet clued up barstaff, all of which encourage the kinda clientele only a proper misanthrope could fail to love. And they let dugs in. Perfect.

Culinary highlight of the week was baking cup cakes - pictured above just after i'd scoffed yin. These may look like a drunk 2 year old wi a broken arm made them but they were in fact deliciously moist and chocolatey til i stuck them in the fridge for 24 hours (they went all stodgey). Ta very much indeed to Jelly for the inspiration - Jelly, your cakey obsession's a fine one to have and i'll see and keep this weekend's batch ootra fridge.

So here comes another weekend. "Weekend" loses much of its lustre when work's irregular but this one has Ruth and Ming's wedding to jazz things up a bit. Yeeahaar - bring on the ceilidh!

Ibrox Park And A Mystery Solved

Big SHOUT OUT! to Johnny for recognisin the ghosty wee gadge in the top right of the pic above. A version of her/him was sprayed on a wall at La Cala beach (Andalucia) and Johnny pinned it to "He Man And The Masters Of The Universe".

I'm way too old to have watched the telly prog but i've heard of Castle Greyskull. It's where those cuddly Glesca Rangers play their home games.

Can any of my Teddy Bear chums tell me which players are shown in the pic above? There's something bout the boy in the middle reminds me of Fernando Ricksen but i could be mistaken.

Homage To Caledonia

The post title's pockled straight from the book by Daniel Gray about Scotland and the Spanish Civil War. I first spied it on Tocasaid, whose most recent post is the sorta thing i wish i could write masel. Well worth a peek.

It got right up my substantial hooter that the folks were way too staunch to ever take a family holiday in Spain while Franco ran the show. We hadnae been taught much about fascism at primary school and i couldnae see why a few "lucky" pals came back from summer holidays wi sun tans, sombreros and those big bull fight posters while i got a stick o rock and a Beaver's Club badge fae Butlins. To be fair, family holidays (even in Leven) were barry as a bairn, but i was ay a bit jealous o the crew who got to Spain.

Like my close shave wi private education, i'm now well chuffed (and unjustly smug) that i never went to fascist Spain. 34 years on, private education still puts a brake on equality but Spain's now an apparently shining example of modern, secular democracy (despite, or maybe even because of its King Juan Carlos). Nae doots, many citizens of Basque and elsewhere in Spain would argue that point.

But enough o that stuff.

We took our freebie in Spain last week to eat, drink, swim, read and run (a wee bit). The scran was ace, the wine was €1.85 a bottle, the sea and pool were refreshingly cool, i finished James Robertson's fantastic Fanatic and knackered ma good knee in the hilly terrain around La Cala de Mijas. We also took road trips to Ronda (pic'd above, looks no bad if ye click and enlarge) and to Nerja and we saw wheens o great graffiti, a wee selection of which is shown below.

Al and Mel D reckon this dude was on telly in the 80's but i've nae idea:


I like this even if my picture's a bit pish:


this is good anaw:


and finally, tis guid to note that the bullfighters arenae as macho as they mibby like to think they are:


Hats off to Enrique!

Espania Porfavor

Today's been a guid yin (depsite ma team bein pish and gettin beat off St Mirren). All summer long, thanks to my rather wonderful mates (in collusion wi they econmy wreckin, pensioned up, bank chief fuckwits), i've done all kindsa crazy ass jobs that no middle aged office boy ever expects to get a crack at. I've been indulged by my skilled chums as labourer, learner, tea boy, driver and some time sad sack dead weight.

Today i struck out on ma ain and did my first coupla real jobs on behalf o " Naldo Gardening Services" (aka summat else). I cut grass, sheared privets, trimmed shrubs, snipped edges, shifted trampolines, hoed off moss, sawed out pampas, dead headed roses, swept up clippings and even advised on composting techniques. The punter cats seemed impressed. They made me coffee, offered biscuits, told me bout their D Day experiences and asked me back. I'll be back (a week on Monday).

And in the meantime, me, Mand, Meljo and Al are off to Andalucia for a free week's hol. Really. Meljo won it in a tombola at last year's Embra Tree Fest. So we'll be brushin up our Flamenco, whackin back the cervezas and guzzlin doon the tapas.

Naekunt digs a gloater and i do love yiz aw, but for a week at least, "consígalo bien arriba usted". In a nice way natch.

Gouranga, kiddywinks.

Tutti Frutti

Tutti Frutti is finally available to buy (or chorie) on dvd and, as it's in my top 5 tv progs ever, i watched all 6 episodes in 2 sittings over the last coupla weekends. There's a wee scene which reminded me of a bit o daftness my maw got up to when i was 6 or 7.

We'd no long moved to Kent and one long hot summer day there was a chap at the door. Rather than just answer it, my maw shooed me through to the kitchen and under the table, with a "wheesht" finger at her lips. I hadnae a clue what was goin on but was fair enjoyin the game til there was a sharp rap on the kitchen window and this posh voice went "I say, are you alright in there, i can see your leg under the table." We were rumbled and out crawled my maw to make a false confession to the local vicar.

She telt him we were "lookin for something under the table". Chat was then reasonably pleasant if a little stilted til, after inviting us to next Sunday's service, our man o the cloth went on to suggest that Vote Labour posters wouldnae go down well in the area and should be removed from the window as soon as poss. To her shooge credit, my maw lost it at this point and told the rev we were athesits who'd never attend his stupid church and we'd put up whatever posters we fancied. Get it right up ye, Mr vicar (she didnae add).

So it's been 22 years since Tutti Frutti first hit the screen and judging by the nick o sound and picture quality on the dvd, the tapes have been festering away in a dusty old cupboard since then. Thankfully the writing, direction and outstanding cast make up for this shortcoming and after a while it's like watchin a great subtitled film, you stop noticing and just enjoy.

I'll no say too much about Tutti Frutti. If you've seen it before, you'll ken what i'm on about and enjoy it again. If you've never seen it, do yirsel a massive favour and track it down. For my dosh it's easily the best telly or film work ever done by Robbie Coltraine, Emma Thompson and Richard Wilson (pictured above wi Katy Murphy), all 3 of whom made it big on the back o this.

A wop bop a loo lop, a lop bam boo!

Ullapool

The royal family and the obeisance they inspire in otherwise sensible peeps give me the boke. So i was delighted to hear some architect gadge on the radio ripping into Luggy's Poundbury project the other day. His main point was that there's no good organic reason for this place to exist and that all successful settlements have an obvious raison d'etre. I ken bugger all about architecture, town planning or any of that stuff but i couldnae help agreeing.

Ullapool's organic reason for being is very obviously the sea. It was founded as a sheltered, deep water, easy access point to the vast herring shoals which used to head this way from the Atlantic Ocean. Today, most of the herring is gobbled up by floating factories much further west. The herring fleets of the British Isles and Scandinavia mos def aint wot they used to be. There's still fishing to be had out of Loch Broom though - most of the catch is shellfish and most of that ends up in restaurants in Spain and France. So Mand loved every second of our self-guided tour of the fishing boats last Saturday (oh no she didnae).

U-pool's also where the CalMac ferries head to Stornaway even on a Sunday and there were a fair few yachts and cruisers bobbin round the bay. The town's sea-going credentials are clearly alive and kicking despite the scarcity of herring. But we werenae in town to fish, ferry or faff in the sea, we were in town to catch up wi Goa chums, Eve and Donald. Oh aye, and to get reekin oot wir coupons on the booze.

To be fair, we did take my fascinating tour of the boats and we hit the barry wee Ullapool Museum for an hour or so. The museum's housed in a converted church originally designed by the prolific and highly talented Thomas Telford. (Bit wrong i ken, but i cannae help crackin a wee smile when churches are converted into somethin a bit more useful than erm...houses of worship.) TT also designed the grid pattern streets of the old town as well as the Village Hall where we caught Super Furry Animals 4 years back.

And that was pretty much that on the culture and tourist trail for us. We knocked back the chance to head south to Gairloch, Gruinard Bay or the wondrous gardens of Inverewe. We failed to head north and climb the spikey peak of Stac Pollaidh, pictured below by the snaptastic Dave Henniker.


We couldnae even be ersed jumpin 15 miles along the road to Corrieshalloch Gorge with its fab swingy rope bridge thing. Instead we hit the Argyll, the Arch and the Seaforth - scene of Al D's infamous karaoke incident. Al better relate that tale one day soon right here cos if no i'll do it for him and he'll come off a lot worse in my version.

As well as the sea, the scenery and the touristy stuff, U-pool's got a great rep for live music with local bands, traditional music sessions and erm...karaoke on most nights somewhere in town. This weekend coming it'll host the annual Loopallu festival (didja see what they did wi the name there?) I'm a daftie cos i shoulda planned the trip for this weekend so we could've seen our groovy chums, got pished and grabbed some top notch live music. But Ullapool's no gonna disappear anytime soon and there's always next year i spose.

In the meantime, Jo of the Isles will have some of her poetry read out on Ullapool based Loch Broom FM. I'm gonna try and get some kinda podcast link to it up here but should you fancy a cheeky wee taster of her works (and i think you should), follow this link to Ottertalk. It's right guid gear.

Sconny Botland

The man in the picture, George Burley, was manager of Hearts for about 3 months. His record in competitive games was won 8, drew 1 (against Celtic at Parkheid and theirs was a dodgy offside goal). That's the best run of 9 games the Jam Tarts have had in their 125 year history, even better than anything done in the '50s when Hearts and Hibs regularly won the League, League Cup and Scottish Cup - oops, sorry.....Hibs havenae won the Cup since 1902.

Burley was sacked as Hearts manager cos the owner, bad Vlad Romanov, is a megalomaniac who likes to pick the team himsel. Within a few months Vlad went on to sell Hearts' 3 best players including the captain to Celtic. This was too much for me to take and i've never paid to see Hearts at home again. I miss the fitba, don't see as much of my dad and have lost touch with a few peeps because of the self imposed ban but i'll no be back til the owner's gone (probly once he's stripped every last asset and flogged the ground to a property developer).

George Burley's now manager of Scotland and despite the balloons who run the Scottish Fitba Association and the overpriced, substandard guff we usually have to watch, i've long been keen on big match days out in the Weege. Most folk dinnae rate Burley as highly as i do - they're no fellow Jambos, they didnae see much o the barry way we played under his stewardship and, frankly, his record with Scotland's been fairly keech (i blame the dearth of decent Scottish players no the manager).

Scotland games arenae often memorable for the actual match but it's fab to have a day at the game wi non-Jambo footy chums. On Saturday there was me, a Sheep, a Hun, a Tim, an Arab and 3 Hibbies (trendy fuckers). We got tipsy in Glesga boozers, spraffed nonsense wi randoms and fuck me if we didnae get to see our team win for a change. Win in style. Score a coupla peaches. Spend the last 40 mins sprayin the baw and takin the tash. It was feckin magic. Okay, we were playin Macedonia not Brazil but check this oot (groovy Arabic commentary included) and tell me you wouldnae have loved to have been there. Hampden Park was rockin even at half time when we'd been shite beyond belief so when we actually scored goals the joint went bonkers.

We probly still need to beat the Netherlands on Wednesday to have any chance of qualification for the World Cup in Sooth Efrikay. We probly won't do that. But for the unrestrained joy of Saturday, i remain extremely grateful to G Burley and the team he put out. Shame Copie nutted me when the second goal went in but my egg shaped lump will recede far faster than the memory of a top day out.

Moan the Sconny Botland!

Long Hot Summer Just Passed Me By

32 years after the Jam's first single release and 37 after he first formed the band, it's still tres cool in some quarters to bang on about how barry Paul Weller is. In some eyes, the so called Modfather cannae put a foot wrong. Everyone loves the Jam and a lotta cats dig Weller's patchy solo output but most peeps dinnae really get the Style Council. Personally i loved them, dodgy boatin clobber anaw.

They dressed like fuds but this was was the early 80's and let's be honest, who didnae? Early on the band released a tiptop cheap as chips soul-infused mini album, nane too originally entitled Introducing The Style Council. This smashin wee platter included the doleful Long Hot Summer single with its catchy line "...the long hot summer just passed me by".

I ken how they felt. September awready. Cheesy peeps.

Back In Denim

When i was a bairn i had this recurring nightmare where i was stuck on a haunted, cartoon stylee roller coaster a la Scooby Doo (think i was Shaggy's wee brother). It used to scare the shit outta me. I was reminded of it a week past Sunday on the 10 hour boat journey from Girvan to Port Ellen. There was a force 5-6 hoolie blowin and our 50 foot trawler felt like a twig. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to get off. I wanted my ma to come through and tell me it was all just a dream. But as tea cups flew round my lugs and the sea scooshed over the prows, as up and down became tricky concepts to fathom, i knew this was no dream and i'd have to hang grimly on til we reached land. Or just died, i really didnae care which. (In truth, a hug off Mand woulda helped a lot.)

By next morn, the wind had eased right off to erm....quite flippin stormy, so we were away at the back o 4 in search of queenies. It occurred that i hadnae spewed and probly wasnae gonna, which was a big bonus. But i was still strugglin to stay balanced and kept whackin my napper, elbows, knees and shins off hard metal surfaces. So the fear subsided but the physical pain was really kickin in all over my body.

The bangs and bumps were nowt compared to the pain induced by shovelling though. 3 times a day, i shovelled 1.5 tonnes of queenies from the deck into a 5 foot high hopper. This had to be done at top speed as the hopper feeds a "riddle" - a spinning metal tube with holes to allow smaller, immature queenies to escape back to sea. The riddle errs on the side of rejecting larger queenies and needs a constant flow or it'll chuck everything back.

If i wasnae shovelling, i'd be perched at the other end of the riddle, stopping anything that wasnae a queenie (cod, dog fish, plaice, dover sole, lemon sole, squid, octopus, sea anemone, jellyfish, big clumpy weed) from slipping down a chute for bagging in the fish room. From an average 1.5 tonne lift, we'd be doing well to bag 600 kilos of clean, trawled queenies (less if i was shovellin than if it was Demetrei, my very hard, very funny wee Rumanian crewmate).

There were 3 other boats working the same patch and each night after trawling we'd all tie up at Ballycastle and unload our catch into the same refrigerated lorry for despatch and processing at a fish factory in Kirkcudbright. Most nights there'd be a spot of net mending or deck tidying then 3 or 4 hours kip before heading back out to sea. A coupla times we'd unload then head straight back out, depending on the weather and likely sailing time back to that bitto sea between Rathlin Island, Kintyre and Islay.

So, aye, this was physically the hardest thing i've ever done. I got used to rough seas quite sharpish but i never did stop fallin about the place and have scratches and bruises the length of my body. Despite the use of heavy gloves, all that shovelling and unloading ripped shreds out my hands, which are now scabby and claw like. And the work meant i lost a bucket off my belly and developed visible muscles across my upper body. Shame i'm still too knackered to actually use them.

Living for a week at a time in a dangerous wee wooden box with no bog or shower and a sleeping berth slightly shorter than masel and the height of my forearm meant i was gonna get dependent on those around me for support. Demetrei was great though his grasp of Embra Scots meant he never knew what the feck i was on aboot (no sure why but i slipped deeper into Embrese on the boat than i would on a Sunday sesh in the Nix - reckon langauge was a wee comfort blanket for me). And Demetrei cannae steer a boat for love nor money.

Skipper D and assistant Skipper P love the sea and when not dishin out the orders, showing me how to steer or thread net-mending needles, they espouse their passion for conservation of what's out there. They desperately want European politicians to get a grip and tighten up the rules on what's allowed to be taken from the sea. They don't like greed in any form and particularly dislike the factory dredgers which hoover up 10 times what we can, direct from the seabed. Great guys.

I got an occasional glimpse of wonderful scenery - the cliffs of Rathlin, Kintyre and Islay are a splendid sight for weary peepers, though i was usually too busy to sit back and really enjoy them. (Got some great pics but left my camera on the boat, erse that i am, so i'll post them when i get it back.) The coast road from Larne to Ballycastle is really spectacular and i cannae wait to get back there next summer for a wee campin trip.

For now the queenies are off the agenda, the lads are further north and west looking for clams. This only supports a 3 man crew so i'm ashore for the foreseeable. I'm back in the market for a job but if nothing's come up by November, i'll be back out there on the boat, this time hauling in prawns.

Hmm....all that work, no enough sleep, shitin in a plastic bag AND freezin winter weather. Hud aes back.