So to all who pop by, have a very merry Christmas and a happy new year.
Tuesday, 23 December 2008
Happy Christmas!
So I'm heading out to Lanark for Christmas tomorrow. Dinner at Shona's ma's is always a three day event so I'm taking jogging bottoms for extra belly expansion. I'm also looking after my nephew tonight, he's three years old and full of three year old thunder. But I can take him. Look at what happened to the last kid that messed with me.
So to all who pop by, have a very merry Christmas and a happy new year.
So to all who pop by, have a very merry Christmas and a happy new year.
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
The Day After.
I had friends from Leeds up at my flat last night. I feel like somebody has slapped my head with bricks. It was nice to see them but I will never, never drink again. Ever. Well, at least until my next crimbo night out.
It was my girlfriends cousin David and his wife Lynne who were visiting. Davids a doctor and Lynne is now a full time mum. She used to work with the people that created Dolly the sheep. The first cloned animal. Interesting stuff when you're half canned.
I matched Doctor Dave drink for drink, AND got up for work at half six this morning. This is not me bragging. This is me trying to explain just how bad I feel.
Now if you will excuse me, there is a toilet bowl destined to have my head in it.
It was my girlfriends cousin David and his wife Lynne who were visiting. Davids a doctor and Lynne is now a full time mum. She used to work with the people that created Dolly the sheep. The first cloned animal. Interesting stuff when you're half canned.
I matched Doctor Dave drink for drink, AND got up for work at half six this morning. This is not me bragging. This is me trying to explain just how bad I feel.
Now if you will excuse me, there is a toilet bowl destined to have my head in it.
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
Monday, 1 December 2008
John Mair
Today, I want to write about my next door neighbour, John Mair. I've stayed beside John for five years now. The first year I never really saw him. He was always away with his girlfriend Liz, to some caravan she owned just outside Edinburgh. Both John and Liz are in their 70's.
In my first year of living in the flat, I was unlucky enough to have a group of neds in the flat above me. They would have constant all night parties and fights. The police were phoned by me and other neighbours on a regular basis. Eventually they caused so much damage to the flat they were evicted.
When the neds left the flat, all was quite; apart from the occasional junky trying to kick in my security entrance. This is when I first noticed that I could hear everything that was going on next door. There is a cupboard in my bedroom, built into the wall. John has one on the other side. I can literally hear a pin drop from next door.
I became aware of this when John and Liz were having a blazing argument. It was like I was in the room with them. These arguments continued, and sometimes ended up in violence. Eventually, Liz got sick of getting hit by John, and left.
For weeks after I would hear John coming in at night loaded. He would spend his days and nights in the pub, just like other older men in Glasgow.
After a while, I would get up for work in the morning to find that someone was urinating in the close. I never caught whoever was doing this until one night, when I was coming home late, I caught john lying at the bottom of the stairs in a pool of his own urine. He had also been sick.
Months rolled by and John was getting worse. He would rattle my door with his walking stick at 2am to get me to come out and give him the chat. If I answered, he would try and force his way into my home. He could also be heard in his bedroom at the wee hours of the morning shouting the F word at the top of his voice.
This went on for 3years. I was getting increasingly sick of his behaviour. At one stage I thought about smacking him. I hoped that it would teach him a lesson. But it would just have brought me down to a level I was not prepared to go to. I could imagine the headlines, “Hairy man Strikes OAP”. Not good. Not good at all.
So, this continued, much to my annoyance, until last year. John had yet again spent the day in the pub until chucking out time. Some young guy who was in the pub offered to give him a hand up the stairs. Half way up the stairs, John started trying to hit the young guy. The guy left him to it. No doubt disgusted that his good deed was being rewarded by a torrid of abuse and attempted assault. John, left to his own devices now, started up stairs. He managed to make it up half way when he fell back.
The loud crash John made when he hit the floor was followed by silence. I quickly got out of bed and dressed. When I found John at the bottom of the stairs he was unconscious in a pool of his own blood. I phoned an ambulance and they came and took him away.
After 2 weeks John returned from hospital, and all was quiet for a couple more weeks. Then he began to drink again. Things got worse than before. He would regularly collapse at the bottom of the stairs. He would also go up and down the stairs mumbling to his self. On rare occasions, he would come in and out of his extremely squeaky door, go down stairs, open the close door, go outside and start pressing everyone’s buzzer, while shouting let me in and kicking the door. Some nights he would collapse, and not move until an ambulance arrived. Then he would swing punches at the paramedics. Also, he would turn up at my door with a letter that he got from the TV licence people, and ask if it was mine. He had done this every day for a month.
At 2am on Saturday, there was a knock at my door. It was the guy from the top flat just letting me know that John was in hospital. Apparently he’s on his last legs.
Now, it’s fair to say that I hated the old shit. So hearing that he was just about to die should have made my day. But it didn’t. Instead I feel sad. What’s that about? I wont miss being woken up at 2am, or getting up for work in the mornings to find Johns urination from the night before, but for some reason, I feel a sense of lose. The kind of feeling I got when my dad passed away.
That is why I wrote this blog entry. I wrote it to make sense of the whole situation. To understand why I’m feeling the way I am. Is it the fear that I might end up the same way? Is it guilt because I wished him dead? Or do I just recognise something familiar in him? Are we all a heartbreak away from being a John Mair? Is the old bugger going to haunt me? Is retirment just a waiting room for the dead?
In my first year of living in the flat, I was unlucky enough to have a group of neds in the flat above me. They would have constant all night parties and fights. The police were phoned by me and other neighbours on a regular basis. Eventually they caused so much damage to the flat they were evicted.
When the neds left the flat, all was quite; apart from the occasional junky trying to kick in my security entrance. This is when I first noticed that I could hear everything that was going on next door. There is a cupboard in my bedroom, built into the wall. John has one on the other side. I can literally hear a pin drop from next door.
I became aware of this when John and Liz were having a blazing argument. It was like I was in the room with them. These arguments continued, and sometimes ended up in violence. Eventually, Liz got sick of getting hit by John, and left.
For weeks after I would hear John coming in at night loaded. He would spend his days and nights in the pub, just like other older men in Glasgow.
After a while, I would get up for work in the morning to find that someone was urinating in the close. I never caught whoever was doing this until one night, when I was coming home late, I caught john lying at the bottom of the stairs in a pool of his own urine. He had also been sick.
Months rolled by and John was getting worse. He would rattle my door with his walking stick at 2am to get me to come out and give him the chat. If I answered, he would try and force his way into my home. He could also be heard in his bedroom at the wee hours of the morning shouting the F word at the top of his voice.
This went on for 3years. I was getting increasingly sick of his behaviour. At one stage I thought about smacking him. I hoped that it would teach him a lesson. But it would just have brought me down to a level I was not prepared to go to. I could imagine the headlines, “Hairy man Strikes OAP”. Not good. Not good at all.
So, this continued, much to my annoyance, until last year. John had yet again spent the day in the pub until chucking out time. Some young guy who was in the pub offered to give him a hand up the stairs. Half way up the stairs, John started trying to hit the young guy. The guy left him to it. No doubt disgusted that his good deed was being rewarded by a torrid of abuse and attempted assault. John, left to his own devices now, started up stairs. He managed to make it up half way when he fell back.
The loud crash John made when he hit the floor was followed by silence. I quickly got out of bed and dressed. When I found John at the bottom of the stairs he was unconscious in a pool of his own blood. I phoned an ambulance and they came and took him away.
After 2 weeks John returned from hospital, and all was quiet for a couple more weeks. Then he began to drink again. Things got worse than before. He would regularly collapse at the bottom of the stairs. He would also go up and down the stairs mumbling to his self. On rare occasions, he would come in and out of his extremely squeaky door, go down stairs, open the close door, go outside and start pressing everyone’s buzzer, while shouting let me in and kicking the door. Some nights he would collapse, and not move until an ambulance arrived. Then he would swing punches at the paramedics. Also, he would turn up at my door with a letter that he got from the TV licence people, and ask if it was mine. He had done this every day for a month.
At 2am on Saturday, there was a knock at my door. It was the guy from the top flat just letting me know that John was in hospital. Apparently he’s on his last legs.
Now, it’s fair to say that I hated the old shit. So hearing that he was just about to die should have made my day. But it didn’t. Instead I feel sad. What’s that about? I wont miss being woken up at 2am, or getting up for work in the mornings to find Johns urination from the night before, but for some reason, I feel a sense of lose. The kind of feeling I got when my dad passed away.
That is why I wrote this blog entry. I wrote it to make sense of the whole situation. To understand why I’m feeling the way I am. Is it the fear that I might end up the same way? Is it guilt because I wished him dead? Or do I just recognise something familiar in him? Are we all a heartbreak away from being a John Mair? Is the old bugger going to haunt me? Is retirment just a waiting room for the dead?
Friday, 28 November 2008
It's Friday, time for a little Blessed!
Have I Got News For You - UNCUT - Brian Blessed (Part 1,2,3 and 4)
Thursday, 20 November 2008
The Greatest ever fight!
I love this. It is the finest example of great TV, I have ever seen. If I am feeling low, I shove this on.
Friday, 14 November 2008
The Pechs
As you know I've been working on my writing. This is a story I found while I was investigating local Scottish myths. I really liked it and I'm hoping to add some part of it in my story.
I also found a story about the Brownies. The Brownies were mythical elf's who would be at their happiest when cleaning. JK Rowling used this idea for her house elf Dobby in the Harry Potter books. It is also how the girl version of the cubs in the UK got their name.
"LONG ago there were people in this country called the Pechs; short wee men they were, wi’ red hair, and long arms, and feet sae braid, that when it rained they could turn them up owre their heads, and then they served for umbrellas. The Pechs were great builders; they built a’ the auld castles in the kintry; and do ye ken the way they built them?—I’ll tell ye. They stood all in a row from the quarry to the place where they were building, and ilk ane handed forward the stanes to his neebor, till the hale was biggit. The Pechs were also a great people for ale, which they brewed frae heather; sae, ye ken, it bood (was bound) to be an extraornar cheap kind of drink; for heather, I’se warrant, was as plenty then as it’s now. This art o’ theirs was muckle sought after by the other folk that lived in the kintry; but they never would let out the secret, but handed it down frae father to son among themselves, wi’ strict injunctions frae ane to another never to let onybody ken about it.
"At last the Pechs had great wars, and mony o’ them were killed, and indeed they soon came to be a mere handfu’ o’ people, and were like to perish aft’ the face o’ the earth. Still they held fast by their secret of the heather yill, determined that their enemies should never wring it frae them. Weel, it came at last to a great battle between them and the Scots, in which they clean lost the day, and were killed a’ to tway, a father and a son. And sae the king o’ the Scots had these men brought before him, that he might try to frighten them into telling him the secret. He plainly told them that, if they would not disclose it peaceably, he must torture them till they should confess, and therefore it would be better for them to yield in time. ‘Weel,’ says the auld man to the king, ‘I see it is of no use to resist. But there is ae condition ye maun agree to before ye learn the secret.’ ‘And what is that?’ said the king. ‘Will ye promise to fulfil it, if it be na anything against your ain interests?’ said the man. ‘Yes,’ said the king, ‘I will and do promise so.’ Then said the Pech ‘You must know that I wish for my son’s death, though I dinna like to take his life myself.
My son ye maun kill,
Before I will you tell
How we brew the yill
Frae the heather bell!’
The king was dootless greatly astonished at sic a request; but, as he had promised, he caused the lad to be immediately put to death. When the auld man saw his son was dead, he started up wi’ a great stend,’ and cried, ‘Now, do wi’ me as you like. My son ye might have forced, for he was but a weak youth; but me you never can force.
And though you may me kill,
I will not you tell
How we brew the yill
Frae the heather bell!’
"The king was now mair astonished than before, but it was at his being sae far outwitted by a mere wild man. Hooever, he saw it was needless to kill the Pech, and that his greatest punishment might now be his being allowed to live. So he was taken away as a prisoner, and he lived for mony a year after that, till he became a very, very auld man, baith bedrid and blind. Maist folk had forgotten there was sic a man in life; but ae night, some young men being in the house where he was, and making great boasts about their feats o’ strength, he leaned owre the bed and said he would like to feel ane o’ their wrists, that he might compare it wi’ the arms of men wha had lived in former times. And they, for sport, held out a thick gaud o’ em’ to him to feel. He just snappit it in tway wi’ his fingers as ye wad do a pipe stapple. ‘It’s a bit gey gristle,’ he said; ‘but naething to the shackle-banes o’ my days.’ That was the last o’ the Pechs."
I also found a story about the Brownies. The Brownies were mythical elf's who would be at their happiest when cleaning. JK Rowling used this idea for her house elf Dobby in the Harry Potter books. It is also how the girl version of the cubs in the UK got their name.
"LONG ago there were people in this country called the Pechs; short wee men they were, wi’ red hair, and long arms, and feet sae braid, that when it rained they could turn them up owre their heads, and then they served for umbrellas. The Pechs were great builders; they built a’ the auld castles in the kintry; and do ye ken the way they built them?—I’ll tell ye. They stood all in a row from the quarry to the place where they were building, and ilk ane handed forward the stanes to his neebor, till the hale was biggit. The Pechs were also a great people for ale, which they brewed frae heather; sae, ye ken, it bood (was bound) to be an extraornar cheap kind of drink; for heather, I’se warrant, was as plenty then as it’s now. This art o’ theirs was muckle sought after by the other folk that lived in the kintry; but they never would let out the secret, but handed it down frae father to son among themselves, wi’ strict injunctions frae ane to another never to let onybody ken about it.
"At last the Pechs had great wars, and mony o’ them were killed, and indeed they soon came to be a mere handfu’ o’ people, and were like to perish aft’ the face o’ the earth. Still they held fast by their secret of the heather yill, determined that their enemies should never wring it frae them. Weel, it came at last to a great battle between them and the Scots, in which they clean lost the day, and were killed a’ to tway, a father and a son. And sae the king o’ the Scots had these men brought before him, that he might try to frighten them into telling him the secret. He plainly told them that, if they would not disclose it peaceably, he must torture them till they should confess, and therefore it would be better for them to yield in time. ‘Weel,’ says the auld man to the king, ‘I see it is of no use to resist. But there is ae condition ye maun agree to before ye learn the secret.’ ‘And what is that?’ said the king. ‘Will ye promise to fulfil it, if it be na anything against your ain interests?’ said the man. ‘Yes,’ said the king, ‘I will and do promise so.’ Then said the Pech ‘You must know that I wish for my son’s death, though I dinna like to take his life myself.
My son ye maun kill,
Before I will you tell
How we brew the yill
Frae the heather bell!’
The king was dootless greatly astonished at sic a request; but, as he had promised, he caused the lad to be immediately put to death. When the auld man saw his son was dead, he started up wi’ a great stend,’ and cried, ‘Now, do wi’ me as you like. My son ye might have forced, for he was but a weak youth; but me you never can force.
And though you may me kill,
I will not you tell
How we brew the yill
Frae the heather bell!’
"The king was now mair astonished than before, but it was at his being sae far outwitted by a mere wild man. Hooever, he saw it was needless to kill the Pech, and that his greatest punishment might now be his being allowed to live. So he was taken away as a prisoner, and he lived for mony a year after that, till he became a very, very auld man, baith bedrid and blind. Maist folk had forgotten there was sic a man in life; but ae night, some young men being in the house where he was, and making great boasts about their feats o’ strength, he leaned owre the bed and said he would like to feel ane o’ their wrists, that he might compare it wi’ the arms of men wha had lived in former times. And they, for sport, held out a thick gaud o’ em’ to him to feel. He just snappit it in tway wi’ his fingers as ye wad do a pipe stapple. ‘It’s a bit gey gristle,’ he said; ‘but naething to the shackle-banes o’ my days.’ That was the last o’ the Pechs."
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
TIMMY MALLET
It wasn't till after 2am that I got to my kip last night. I had a cheese & toast sandwich around about 1am with a cup of tea.
I know what you're thinking. I shouldn't have had the cheese sandwich so late as it would obviously give me nightmares. You would be right, but nobody likes a smart arse. (that one's directed at my girlfriend)
So anyway, I started having strange dreams. Not nightmares per say, but really frickin strange. From what I can remember I was in this video.
It wasn't a scary dream as I've said, but it still freaked me out.
So for that reason, I'm putting Timmy Mallet up there with clowns and carnival folk. No more cheese at night for me. EVER!
I know what you're thinking. I shouldn't have had the cheese sandwich so late as it would obviously give me nightmares. You would be right, but nobody likes a smart arse. (that one's directed at my girlfriend)
So anyway, I started having strange dreams. Not nightmares per say, but really frickin strange. From what I can remember I was in this video.
It wasn't a scary dream as I've said, but it still freaked me out.
So for that reason, I'm putting Timmy Mallet up there with clowns and carnival folk. No more cheese at night for me. EVER!
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Alter Bridge
So I'm off to see these boys tonight at the Carling Acadamy.
I met my girlfriend five years ago today at the Glasgow Green fireworks display. So tonight is our anniversary. I'm looking forward to the gig. there's nothing like a bit of rocking out to clear the cobwebs. Have a lovely Bonfire night everybody.
Marky, Who loves to rock!
I met my girlfriend five years ago today at the Glasgow Green fireworks display. So tonight is our anniversary. I'm looking forward to the gig. there's nothing like a bit of rocking out to clear the cobwebs. Have a lovely Bonfire night everybody.
Marky, Who loves to rock!
Saturday, 1 November 2008
Loch Vachlan
We sat close to the fire. Huddled in its warmth; hypnotised by the flames like a couple of human moths. The crackling of wood and occasional sparks, were for that moment, more engrossing than our need for conversation. Our fishing rods where beside us, perched on Y shaped branches.
The Loch was still as ice, cold and uninviting in its dormant state. Silver moonlight danced across its black surface. Trees surrounded us, like shadowy giants. Their tips roughly conducted by the rhythm of the wind.
Simon was first to notice it. “Daya hear that?” The fire cracked in anger as my attention wavered. “Hear what?” Simon pressed his finger to his lips and held up his free hand. “Shhh, listen.” I cocked my head and strained to hear. Coming from what seemed miles away, were low thumping noises. They were uneven and growing louder by the second. I straightened my head. The noise kept building to a heavy thunderstorm level until eventually, it became unbearable. Simon was shouting something, but there was no way to hear him. The ground began to shake and our footing became unsure. To the east of where we crouched covering our ears, trees exploded into more trees. Clots of earth flew up and plummeted to the Loch, sending a wave on us, and our campfire. Then it stopped.
As I removed the wet hair from my face, and flicked water from my beard, I noticed a boat floating a few meters away to my left. In the light of the now full moon, I could see a blond haired kid lying on his back in the boat. His hands tucked behind his head, he stared up at the mast. He seemed lost in a daydream. Too captured in the moment to notice the chaos around him. I turned to Simon, my mouth agape. I pointed to the boat, just as a roar, which made the previous noises sound like a mouse scurrying across a wooden floor, erupted to our right. Clutching our ears and screaming, we collapsed. When the roar stopped, the thunderous footsteps started again. I staggered to my feet and grabbed the nearest tree. I looked across. A dark fog engulfed the Loch side trees.
The fog quickly started to dissipate. The trees cursed by its touch, stooped and ashen: resembled a cigarette when left to burn. The faintest sneeze from a bird would bring them down. The fog, almost gone now, still had a dark core. It moved up and down, in time with the hellish footsteps, finally stopping at the edge of the Loch. It began to grow again, seeping out into the night sky. Creeping ominously towards the water, giving it the appearance of a passing steam train. I still held the tree, like some paternal shield, transfixed on the mysterious vapour.
Gently, as the fog touched the Loch, it collapsed into itself; a monstrous forked tongue snaked out and dove under the water. In a second, it was out of the water again. A massive pike flapped furiously, imprisoned, in the coiled end of the tongue. “Fish!” Simon, still lying on the ground, shouted. I actually took my eyes off the thing to look at him and shake my head.
When I retuned my attention to it, the tongue was drawing back to a long snout. A snout lined with teeth the size of men. Its jaws were vast; they measured at least half the Loch in breadth. The black fog was coming from its cave size nostrils. As it brushed over the massive pike, which now looked like a baby goldfish stolen from the safe haven of its bowl. The pike stopped flapping; the forked tongue unfurled its thin tip and let the fish drop lifeless to the water. The creature then moved forward, into the Loch.
Seeing the creature in its entirety when it entered the Loch was like watching an old Japanese Godzilla movie. It had the shape of an Alligator. If an Alligator, could grow to the size of a battleship. Apart from the ash of the withered trees on its back, it was pure white. Its scales reflected the silver of the moonlight. It would have been almost beautiful, if it were not for the one burning red eye perched atop its huge snout, and its three mountain shaped cranium ridges. It lay in the water, half in, half out and started to open its mouth in a yawning motion. Water began to rush in through its gaping jaws. As if it was breathing in the entire Loch. When it closed them, the water flooded back out, creating a wave. The boy and the boat moved slowly forward, towards the monster.
The rest of this tale can be found on a cereal box near you soon.
Marky.
The Loch was still as ice, cold and uninviting in its dormant state. Silver moonlight danced across its black surface. Trees surrounded us, like shadowy giants. Their tips roughly conducted by the rhythm of the wind.
Simon was first to notice it. “Daya hear that?” The fire cracked in anger as my attention wavered. “Hear what?” Simon pressed his finger to his lips and held up his free hand. “Shhh, listen.” I cocked my head and strained to hear. Coming from what seemed miles away, were low thumping noises. They were uneven and growing louder by the second. I straightened my head. The noise kept building to a heavy thunderstorm level until eventually, it became unbearable. Simon was shouting something, but there was no way to hear him. The ground began to shake and our footing became unsure. To the east of where we crouched covering our ears, trees exploded into more trees. Clots of earth flew up and plummeted to the Loch, sending a wave on us, and our campfire. Then it stopped.
As I removed the wet hair from my face, and flicked water from my beard, I noticed a boat floating a few meters away to my left. In the light of the now full moon, I could see a blond haired kid lying on his back in the boat. His hands tucked behind his head, he stared up at the mast. He seemed lost in a daydream. Too captured in the moment to notice the chaos around him. I turned to Simon, my mouth agape. I pointed to the boat, just as a roar, which made the previous noises sound like a mouse scurrying across a wooden floor, erupted to our right. Clutching our ears and screaming, we collapsed. When the roar stopped, the thunderous footsteps started again. I staggered to my feet and grabbed the nearest tree. I looked across. A dark fog engulfed the Loch side trees.
The fog quickly started to dissipate. The trees cursed by its touch, stooped and ashen: resembled a cigarette when left to burn. The faintest sneeze from a bird would bring them down. The fog, almost gone now, still had a dark core. It moved up and down, in time with the hellish footsteps, finally stopping at the edge of the Loch. It began to grow again, seeping out into the night sky. Creeping ominously towards the water, giving it the appearance of a passing steam train. I still held the tree, like some paternal shield, transfixed on the mysterious vapour.
Gently, as the fog touched the Loch, it collapsed into itself; a monstrous forked tongue snaked out and dove under the water. In a second, it was out of the water again. A massive pike flapped furiously, imprisoned, in the coiled end of the tongue. “Fish!” Simon, still lying on the ground, shouted. I actually took my eyes off the thing to look at him and shake my head.
When I retuned my attention to it, the tongue was drawing back to a long snout. A snout lined with teeth the size of men. Its jaws were vast; they measured at least half the Loch in breadth. The black fog was coming from its cave size nostrils. As it brushed over the massive pike, which now looked like a baby goldfish stolen from the safe haven of its bowl. The pike stopped flapping; the forked tongue unfurled its thin tip and let the fish drop lifeless to the water. The creature then moved forward, into the Loch.
Seeing the creature in its entirety when it entered the Loch was like watching an old Japanese Godzilla movie. It had the shape of an Alligator. If an Alligator, could grow to the size of a battleship. Apart from the ash of the withered trees on its back, it was pure white. Its scales reflected the silver of the moonlight. It would have been almost beautiful, if it were not for the one burning red eye perched atop its huge snout, and its three mountain shaped cranium ridges. It lay in the water, half in, half out and started to open its mouth in a yawning motion. Water began to rush in through its gaping jaws. As if it was breathing in the entire Loch. When it closed them, the water flooded back out, creating a wave. The boy and the boat moved slowly forward, towards the monster.
The rest of this tale can be found on a cereal box near you soon.
Marky.
Friday, 31 October 2008
Trick or Treat
Black Donald, Clootie, Boobrie, Brownie, Fachan, Fionn, Ghillie Dhu, Kelpie, Lothian, Monster of Loch Ness, Red Cap, Scotia, Selkie, Shellycoat and the Sidhe are all Monsters and legends of Scotland. They’re all available on the World Wide Web, if you’re inclined to wander. There are many more, each more bazaar and fantastic than the next. We use them to scare kids into brushing their teeth at night, or to go to sleep. “Stay in bed or Clootie will steel yer toes” would be the cry of many a frustrated parent, using fear as their last resort in the war for an hour of peace.
The Myths and Legends of Scotland have fed many a mouth. Droves of tourists with Nessie hats wobble down the banks of Loch Ness every year, photographing wave formations and the odd floating branch. Searching for a monster in the midst of nature’s splendour is horribly cruel to the vista, but the sweet sound of tinkling cash registers, holds us from making any such remarks.Yes, we unashamedly lap it up. Give us your coin and we’ll tell you a story. Some older than mountains, some younger than a newborn calf.
There is a tale, you will not hear in any pub or out of the way shop. A tale not shared on the internet. It is the tale of Venlak Vachlan, The first King of Scotland. Forgotten by time and lost in its remembering It is a tale I myself never stumbled across in all my years of feverous myth hunting. A tale of kingdoms lost and found where men walk in nightmares and struggle against Gods. Be warned though, I do not share this willingly or lightly, I Share this to warn those who would follow me.
Tae the auld path search,
If ye hiv the heed.
Hawd yer eyes tae Clootie,
Cross yer hert twa times.
Fur if it's Hallowe’en,
on a moonlicht nicht.
Ye ken’d yer boon,
When ye first looked doon.
V.V
1.
Three years ago, an old school friend, Simon, pressed me into a fishing trip. He had recently endured a bitter separation, and felt a weekend in the wilds of Inverness would calm his head. The War of the Roses re-enactment that would ensue was inevitable. Two previous marriages had taught him that much. ‘Maybe the next one will teach him monogamy’ was my only thought as he shared his misery on our six-hour journey.
We parked the Range Rover in a remote spot that Simon had spied from the crest of a hill. A gap in the tree line had revealed a dirt track leading down to a Loch. A Loch that was on neither of the maps we owned.
Excited at the prospect of fishing an unknown Loch, Simon’s mood had lifted. The conversation had changed from his morose marriage mishaps, to the catching of huge untouched fish.
As we ventured to take advantage of the failing light, hurriedly setting up camp, I noticed the flat, moss covered patch we had chosen to pitch the tent, was solid rock. On further inspection of a small cleared space, we found it to be a rather beautiful floor, adorned with small faded symbols. Moss and the encroaching darkness hindered any further exploration, so we quickly tied our guy ropes to neighbourly trees, and pegged what we could into any willing ground we could find.
After a fire lit, canned chilli and beer consumed, we set about scanning the Loch. It was a fair size Loch. Its banks were crowded with trees save for the clearing we camped in. A bowl shaped Loch, lined with haunting Scots pines and the occasional Douglas fir. Gazing out across the Loch; scanning for turning fish, I noticed how calm the water was. The treetops rushed with the cold October wind, our tent flapped violently every now and then, but the Loch showed no disturbance.
We both sat in silence, half asleep by the warming fire. That was when we first heard it……
But wait…. All stories that are true in their telling need an end. A place to gather our thoughts of deeds past and present. A lone star, to head towards on our journey.
There are things I must know, and Halloween night is the only time when such knowledge avails itself. So I set fourth again to find Loch Vachlan. To capture a moment in the past, to save all our futures.
If I do not return, remember me. For if this tale is lost once more, our world will be a darker place.
Marky
To Be Continued……
The Myths and Legends of Scotland have fed many a mouth. Droves of tourists with Nessie hats wobble down the banks of Loch Ness every year, photographing wave formations and the odd floating branch. Searching for a monster in the midst of nature’s splendour is horribly cruel to the vista, but the sweet sound of tinkling cash registers, holds us from making any such remarks.Yes, we unashamedly lap it up. Give us your coin and we’ll tell you a story. Some older than mountains, some younger than a newborn calf.
There is a tale, you will not hear in any pub or out of the way shop. A tale not shared on the internet. It is the tale of Venlak Vachlan, The first King of Scotland. Forgotten by time and lost in its remembering It is a tale I myself never stumbled across in all my years of feverous myth hunting. A tale of kingdoms lost and found where men walk in nightmares and struggle against Gods. Be warned though, I do not share this willingly or lightly, I Share this to warn those who would follow me.
Tae the auld path search,
If ye hiv the heed.
Hawd yer eyes tae Clootie,
Cross yer hert twa times.
Fur if it's Hallowe’en,
on a moonlicht nicht.
Ye ken’d yer boon,
When ye first looked doon.
V.V
1.
Three years ago, an old school friend, Simon, pressed me into a fishing trip. He had recently endured a bitter separation, and felt a weekend in the wilds of Inverness would calm his head. The War of the Roses re-enactment that would ensue was inevitable. Two previous marriages had taught him that much. ‘Maybe the next one will teach him monogamy’ was my only thought as he shared his misery on our six-hour journey.
We parked the Range Rover in a remote spot that Simon had spied from the crest of a hill. A gap in the tree line had revealed a dirt track leading down to a Loch. A Loch that was on neither of the maps we owned.
Excited at the prospect of fishing an unknown Loch, Simon’s mood had lifted. The conversation had changed from his morose marriage mishaps, to the catching of huge untouched fish.
As we ventured to take advantage of the failing light, hurriedly setting up camp, I noticed the flat, moss covered patch we had chosen to pitch the tent, was solid rock. On further inspection of a small cleared space, we found it to be a rather beautiful floor, adorned with small faded symbols. Moss and the encroaching darkness hindered any further exploration, so we quickly tied our guy ropes to neighbourly trees, and pegged what we could into any willing ground we could find.
After a fire lit, canned chilli and beer consumed, we set about scanning the Loch. It was a fair size Loch. Its banks were crowded with trees save for the clearing we camped in. A bowl shaped Loch, lined with haunting Scots pines and the occasional Douglas fir. Gazing out across the Loch; scanning for turning fish, I noticed how calm the water was. The treetops rushed with the cold October wind, our tent flapped violently every now and then, but the Loch showed no disturbance.
We both sat in silence, half asleep by the warming fire. That was when we first heard it……
But wait…. All stories that are true in their telling need an end. A place to gather our thoughts of deeds past and present. A lone star, to head towards on our journey.
There are things I must know, and Halloween night is the only time when such knowledge avails itself. So I set fourth again to find Loch Vachlan. To capture a moment in the past, to save all our futures.
If I do not return, remember me. For if this tale is lost once more, our world will be a darker place.
Marky
To Be Continued……
Friday, 24 October 2008
Seasick Steve
So I'm off to see this boy at the Queens Hall in Edinburgh at the weekend. Much excitement is building within me. I found out about him from The Jules Holland show(this video). He has three strings on his guitar, and an amazing blues sound that will blow you away. But hey, I'll let Steve tell his own story.
Monday, 20 October 2008
Thought for the day.
A Grandfather from the Cherokee Nation was talking with his grandson.
"A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy.
"It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves."
"One wolf is evil and ugly: He is anger, envy, war, greed, self-pity, sorrow, regret, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, selfishness and arrogance."
"The other wolf is beautiful and good: He is friendly, joyful, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, justice, fairness, empathy, generosity, true, compassion, gratitude, and deep vision."
"This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other human as well."
The grandson paused in deep reflection because of what his grandfather had just said. Then he finally cried out; "Oyee! Grandfather, which wolf will win?"
The elder Cherokee replied, "The wolf that you feed."
"A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy.
"It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves."
"One wolf is evil and ugly: He is anger, envy, war, greed, self-pity, sorrow, regret, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, selfishness and arrogance."
"The other wolf is beautiful and good: He is friendly, joyful, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, justice, fairness, empathy, generosity, true, compassion, gratitude, and deep vision."
"This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other human as well."
The grandson paused in deep reflection because of what his grandfather had just said. Then he finally cried out; "Oyee! Grandfather, which wolf will win?"
The elder Cherokee replied, "The wolf that you feed."
Bill Bailey, Man or hairy beast!
Bill Bailey in concert is one of the funniest gigs I've ever been to. If you ever get the chance see one of his gigs, please go.
Here's a wee sneaky taste of the kind of stuff he does.
Here's a wee sneaky taste of the kind of stuff he does.
Thursday, 9 October 2008
CARNAGE AS FACEBOOK MOVES EVERYTHING SLIGHTLY TO THE LEFT
HOSPITALS were struggling to cope last night as rival Facebook gangs fought running battles across a dozen British towns and cities.
.
Bridport: A hellish symphony of fire and bloodViolence erupted as Facebook ignored the warnings of more than one million protesters and moved everything very slightly to the left.
Martin Bishop, commander of the Lyme Regis brigade of Keep the Old Facebook, said: "I was waiting for my page to load, looking directly at the centre of the screen, when suddenly my life became a storm-tossed fishing boat in a sea of confusion.
"Everything that mattered to me was now three centimetres to the left of where it normally is. And a little bit wider. And the blue-grey panel on the right was a bit wider too."
He added: "Death and those who support the new design are now friends."
Roy Hobbs, from Dorchester, who makes weapons for We Like the New Facebook, said: "This is a motorcycle chain with dozens of tiny screws welded on to it. You have to wear gloves when you're swinging it in someone's face."
He added: "That blue-grey panel was always far too narrow. Don't you think?"
The violence peaked at around 5pm when the Bridport faction of What About Moving Everything Slightly to the Right? burned down the local church and pushed a van full of policeman into a quarry.
Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg has given the protesters until noon to surrender before he starts machine gunning them from a helicopter.
News brought to you from the Daily Mash.
LOHAN URGED TO FIND SEXIER GIRLFRIEND
Lindsay Lohan needs to find herself a much hotter girlfriend - and quickly, men said last night.
Lohan's gayness was initially greeted with enthusiasm by men eager for masturbatory fantasies involving the Freaky Friday actress entwined with another stunning lesbian.
However, the early euphoria turned to anger when it was revealed Lohan's lover was Samantha Ronson, a disc jokey and Britain's leading David Miliband lookalike
Wayne Hayes, a masturbator, said: "It's a log cabin, lit only by firelight, Lohan is lying naked on a fur rug, she's fondling her own breasts, This is good. This is really good.
"The door opens, it's her girlfriend - bonus! She steps out of the shadows, she's naked too, but oh no! It's the foreign secretary, with a strap-on!"
He added: "Well, that's ruined it. I'm going to have to start all over again with Cameron Diaz, Lucy Lui and a vibrating egg."
Charlie Reeves, 14, from Didcot, said Lohan had a responsibility to young fans who had followed her breasts since Herbie: Fully Loaded.
He said: "When she jumped up and down I got a weird feeling in my underpants and my dad made a funny noise."
He added: "What's wrong with a naked splash fight with Charlize Theron? Or smearing Nutella over Scarlett Johansson's quivering buttocks and then having a shower together? Nutella only comes off if you use lots of soap, apparently."
Top five foreign secretaries you least want invading your sexual fantasies
(Last year's position in brackets)
1: Margaret Beckett (1)
2: Malcolm Rifkind (2)
3: David Miliband (-)
4: Lord Carrington (8)
5: Douglas Hurd (3)
.
Bridport: A hellish symphony of fire and bloodViolence erupted as Facebook ignored the warnings of more than one million protesters and moved everything very slightly to the left.
Martin Bishop, commander of the Lyme Regis brigade of Keep the Old Facebook, said: "I was waiting for my page to load, looking directly at the centre of the screen, when suddenly my life became a storm-tossed fishing boat in a sea of confusion.
"Everything that mattered to me was now three centimetres to the left of where it normally is. And a little bit wider. And the blue-grey panel on the right was a bit wider too."
He added: "Death and those who support the new design are now friends."
Roy Hobbs, from Dorchester, who makes weapons for We Like the New Facebook, said: "This is a motorcycle chain with dozens of tiny screws welded on to it. You have to wear gloves when you're swinging it in someone's face."
He added: "That blue-grey panel was always far too narrow. Don't you think?"
The violence peaked at around 5pm when the Bridport faction of What About Moving Everything Slightly to the Right? burned down the local church and pushed a van full of policeman into a quarry.
Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg has given the protesters until noon to surrender before he starts machine gunning them from a helicopter.
News brought to you from the Daily Mash.
LOHAN URGED TO FIND SEXIER GIRLFRIEND
Lindsay Lohan needs to find herself a much hotter girlfriend - and quickly, men said last night.
Lohan's gayness was initially greeted with enthusiasm by men eager for masturbatory fantasies involving the Freaky Friday actress entwined with another stunning lesbian.
However, the early euphoria turned to anger when it was revealed Lohan's lover was Samantha Ronson, a disc jokey and Britain's leading David Miliband lookalike
Wayne Hayes, a masturbator, said: "It's a log cabin, lit only by firelight, Lohan is lying naked on a fur rug, she's fondling her own breasts, This is good. This is really good.
"The door opens, it's her girlfriend - bonus! She steps out of the shadows, she's naked too, but oh no! It's the foreign secretary, with a strap-on!"
He added: "Well, that's ruined it. I'm going to have to start all over again with Cameron Diaz, Lucy Lui and a vibrating egg."
Charlie Reeves, 14, from Didcot, said Lohan had a responsibility to young fans who had followed her breasts since Herbie: Fully Loaded.
He said: "When she jumped up and down I got a weird feeling in my underpants and my dad made a funny noise."
He added: "What's wrong with a naked splash fight with Charlize Theron? Or smearing Nutella over Scarlett Johansson's quivering buttocks and then having a shower together? Nutella only comes off if you use lots of soap, apparently."
Top five foreign secretaries you least want invading your sexual fantasies
(Last year's position in brackets)
1: Margaret Beckett (1)
2: Malcolm Rifkind (2)
3: David Miliband (-)
4: Lord Carrington (8)
5: Douglas Hurd (3)
Monday, 6 October 2008
Self-taser-tastic.
The below item was doing the rounds of the world's emails in early 2008. It appeared first in a college alumni newsletter in the US and describes an individual's detailed account of his experience of self-tasering.
Last weekend I came across a 100,000-volt, pocket-sized taser for sale as a means of self-defence. The effects of the taser were supposed to be short-lived, with no long-term adverse effects on your potential assailant.
Long story short, I purchased the device and brought it home. I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing - I was disappointed. I quickly learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time I'd get a blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs. Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to my wife what that burn spot is on the face of the microwave.
So, I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that dangerous with only two AAA batteries in it. There I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, instructions in one hand, and taser in the other, thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a real target.
The directions said that a 1-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a 2-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a 3-second burst would reportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than 3 seconds would be wasting the batteries. And all the while I'm looking at this little device loaded with two tiny AAA batteries and thinking to myself: 'No possible way'.
What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best. I'm sitting there with my cat looking on with her head cocked to one side as if to say, 'Don't do it dumbass,' reasoning that a 1-second burst from such a tiny little thing couldn't hurt all that bad. I decided to try just for the heck of it. I gingerly touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button and....
I'm pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up in my chair, then body-slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. It hurt like hell.
A minute or so later (I can't be sure, because time was relative at that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they get up there? My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed a ton. I'm still looking for my testicles. Do not try this at home....
Last weekend I came across a 100,000-volt, pocket-sized taser for sale as a means of self-defence. The effects of the taser were supposed to be short-lived, with no long-term adverse effects on your potential assailant.
Long story short, I purchased the device and brought it home. I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing - I was disappointed. I quickly learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time I'd get a blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs. Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to my wife what that burn spot is on the face of the microwave.
So, I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that dangerous with only two AAA batteries in it. There I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, instructions in one hand, and taser in the other, thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a real target.
The directions said that a 1-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a 2-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a 3-second burst would reportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than 3 seconds would be wasting the batteries. And all the while I'm looking at this little device loaded with two tiny AAA batteries and thinking to myself: 'No possible way'.
What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best. I'm sitting there with my cat looking on with her head cocked to one side as if to say, 'Don't do it dumbass,' reasoning that a 1-second burst from such a tiny little thing couldn't hurt all that bad. I decided to try just for the heck of it. I gingerly touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button and....
I'm pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up in my chair, then body-slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. It hurt like hell.
A minute or so later (I can't be sure, because time was relative at that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they get up there? My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed a ton. I'm still looking for my testicles. Do not try this at home....
Damn Garlic!
So I am reading Do Polar Bears get lonely? It's full of interesting science questions and answers. I thought I'd share one of them.
Q. Why does Garlic make your breath smell in a way that, say, lettuce and potatoes do not?
A. Garlic produces a potent antifungal and antibacterial compound called allicin when the clove is cut or crushed. This is created by the enzyme alliinase acting on a compound called aliin. Allicin is responsible for the burning sensation you experience if you eat garlic raw.
However, allicin is not stable and generates numerous smelly sulphur-containing compounds, hence its pungent smell. After ingestion, allicin and its breakdown products enter the bloodstream through the digestive system and are free to leave again in exhaled air or through perspiration. This is the first effect of garlic.
In addition, the chemicals in garlic change the metabolism of the body and trigger degradation of fatty acids and cholesteral in the blood: this generates allyl methyl sulphide, dimethyl sulphide and acetone. These are all volatile and can be exhaled from the lungs, giving you garlic breath the morning after a meal. It is not necessary to eat garlic to have garlic breath because allicin can be absorbed through the skin. Just rubbing garlic on the surface of the body can be enough to generate smelly breath because it exits the body via the lungs.
Q. Why does Garlic make your breath smell in a way that, say, lettuce and potatoes do not?
A. Garlic produces a potent antifungal and antibacterial compound called allicin when the clove is cut or crushed. This is created by the enzyme alliinase acting on a compound called aliin. Allicin is responsible for the burning sensation you experience if you eat garlic raw.
However, allicin is not stable and generates numerous smelly sulphur-containing compounds, hence its pungent smell. After ingestion, allicin and its breakdown products enter the bloodstream through the digestive system and are free to leave again in exhaled air or through perspiration. This is the first effect of garlic.
In addition, the chemicals in garlic change the metabolism of the body and trigger degradation of fatty acids and cholesteral in the blood: this generates allyl methyl sulphide, dimethyl sulphide and acetone. These are all volatile and can be exhaled from the lungs, giving you garlic breath the morning after a meal. It is not necessary to eat garlic to have garlic breath because allicin can be absorbed through the skin. Just rubbing garlic on the surface of the body can be enough to generate smelly breath because it exits the body via the lungs.
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Richard Wright 28 July 1943 - 15 September 2008
Today, there is much sadness in me. I have completely lost my interest in listening to any kind of music. For music has lost a legend and all the sad songs in the world won’t heal the pain.
Richard Wright, the keyboard player from Pink Floyd, Died yesterday of cancer. He was the founding member of the group and wrote music on every album apart from Final Cut.
My first experience of Floyd was back in the 80’s. It was the delicate sounds of thunder tour when I first got to see Floyd live on stage. It was love at first sight. The long intro for Shine on you crazy diamond, the female harmonies in The great Gig in the Sky, Gilmour’s guitar sounding album perfect, Nick Mason keeping every beat and Richard Wright’s keyboard skills blowing everybody away. What a night. I’ll never forget it.
Thanks Richard for the music. Thanks for the great memories. Thanks for influencing scores of musicians, but mostly, thanks for Pink Floyd. Your music will live long in the hearts of the fans.
I would like to write something beautiful that encompasses what was a wonderful career, but alas I have no words. So I’ll say what every other fan will say. Richard and Sid, Shine on you crazy diamonds.
Marky
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
Mitchell & Webb
The creators of the hilarious Peep Show series, and without a doubt, my favourite comedy duo at the moment. If your looking for sarcastic, cringworthy, adult humour, I give you Mitchell & Webb.
Monday, 8 September 2008
It's been nice.
Will the world end on Wednesday? Black Holes, Quarks, leptons and the Higgs Boson
Posted on September 8th, 2008
by Peter Davies in All News, Country News, Environmental News, France News, Odd News, Research News, Science News, Technology News
While the rest of us go about our daily business, maybe worrying about our mortgages, the elections or perhaps even global warming, the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) will conduct a multi-billion experiment that critics say could create a black hole right here on earth that will destroy the world. Unless an urgent appeal to the European Court of Human Rights by these worried scientists succeeds, the world’s biggest scientific experiment will fire up on Wednesday, September 10, 2008.
This bizarre experiment will use a massive (17 mile) donut shaped tunnel, deep underground and straddling the French and Swiss borders called the Large Hadron Collider to smash atoms together at around the speed of light. The purpose is to recreate the conditions that existed a fraction of a second after Big Bang – the birth of the universe – “to provide vital clues to the building blocks of life”, (Jonathan Petre, Mail on Sunday). They expect to generate sub-atomic particles never detected before, including the Higgs Boson, predicted by British Scientist Peter Higgs way back in the 1960s. The Higgs Boson is crucial to the theory of particle physics and current understanding of the structure of the universe.
The Large Hadron Collider even has its own rap (Rapping the LHC), written by Kate McAlpine, a physics graduate from Michigan State University who works in the press office at the CERN offices in Switzerland. “…Two beams of protons/ swing ’round/ Through the ring they ride/’til in the hearts of the detectors/ they’re made to collide!/ And all that energy packed/ in that tiny room/ becomes mass,/ particles created from the vacuum…” It’s pretty good.
But some scientists who are opposed to the experiment claim it may cause a black hole that could swallow the world. “The concern is that the moment we press the return key, the particle accelerator could create a black hole that might eat up the whole planet”. If a big enough black hole develops, the world will disappear taking us with it in an instant. Another worry is that a number of small black holes will develop and that these may join together over the coming months, wreaking increasing havoc with Planet Earth; causing earthquakes and breaking up the earth’s crust over time until the whole world is eventually destroyed. These threats have been discounted by the scientists at CERN, and by most physicists around the world.
Let’s hope the doomsayers are wrong and CERN are right! But if it all goes wrong, at least Zimbabwe won’t have to worry about Mugabe any longer…
END
Posted on September 8th, 2008
by Peter Davies in All News, Country News, Environmental News, France News, Odd News, Research News, Science News, Technology News
While the rest of us go about our daily business, maybe worrying about our mortgages, the elections or perhaps even global warming, the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) will conduct a multi-billion experiment that critics say could create a black hole right here on earth that will destroy the world. Unless an urgent appeal to the European Court of Human Rights by these worried scientists succeeds, the world’s biggest scientific experiment will fire up on Wednesday, September 10, 2008.
This bizarre experiment will use a massive (17 mile) donut shaped tunnel, deep underground and straddling the French and Swiss borders called the Large Hadron Collider to smash atoms together at around the speed of light. The purpose is to recreate the conditions that existed a fraction of a second after Big Bang – the birth of the universe – “to provide vital clues to the building blocks of life”, (Jonathan Petre, Mail on Sunday). They expect to generate sub-atomic particles never detected before, including the Higgs Boson, predicted by British Scientist Peter Higgs way back in the 1960s. The Higgs Boson is crucial to the theory of particle physics and current understanding of the structure of the universe.
The Large Hadron Collider even has its own rap (Rapping the LHC), written by Kate McAlpine, a physics graduate from Michigan State University who works in the press office at the CERN offices in Switzerland. “…Two beams of protons/ swing ’round/ Through the ring they ride/’til in the hearts of the detectors/ they’re made to collide!/ And all that energy packed/ in that tiny room/ becomes mass,/ particles created from the vacuum…” It’s pretty good.
But some scientists who are opposed to the experiment claim it may cause a black hole that could swallow the world. “The concern is that the moment we press the return key, the particle accelerator could create a black hole that might eat up the whole planet”. If a big enough black hole develops, the world will disappear taking us with it in an instant. Another worry is that a number of small black holes will develop and that these may join together over the coming months, wreaking increasing havoc with Planet Earth; causing earthquakes and breaking up the earth’s crust over time until the whole world is eventually destroyed. These threats have been discounted by the scientists at CERN, and by most physicists around the world.
Let’s hope the doomsayers are wrong and CERN are right! But if it all goes wrong, at least Zimbabwe won’t have to worry about Mugabe any longer…
END
Thursday, 21 August 2008
Something to read.
I've posted this so that I can read it at lunch time while listening to my tunes. Shakespeare and Rod Stewart. Brilliant.
Shakespeare homepage
Troiles and Cressida
Entire play in one page
Act 1, Scene 1: Troy. Before Priam's palace.
Act 1, Scene 2: The Same. A street.
Act 1, Scene 3: The Grecian camp. Before Agamemnon's tent.
Act 2, Scene 1: A part of the Grecian camp.
Act 2, Scene 2: Troy. A room in Priam's palace.
Act 2, Scene 3: The Grecian camp. Before Achilles' tent.
Act 3, Scene 1: Troy. Priam's palace.
Act 3, Scene 2: The same. Pandarus' orchard.
Act 3, Scene 3: The Grecian camp. Before Achilles' tent.
Act 4, Scene 1: Troy. A street.
Act 4, Scene 2: The same. Court of Pandarus' house.
Act 4, Scene 3: The same. Street before Pandarus' house.
Act 4, Scene 4: The same. Pandarus' house.
Act 4, Scene 5: The Grecian camp. Lists set out.
Act 5, Scene 1: The Grecian camp. Before Achilles' tent.
Act 5, Scene 2: The same. Before Calchas' tent.
Act 5, Scene 3: Troy. Before Priam's palace.
Act 5, Scene 4: Plains between Troy and the Grecian camp.
Act 5, Scene 5: Another part of the plains.
Act 5, Scene 6: Another part of the plains.
Act 5, Scene 7: Another part of the plains.
Act 5, Scene 8: Another part of the plains.
Act 5, Scene 9: Another part of the plains.
Act 5, Scene 10: Another part of the plains.
Shakespeare homepage
Troiles and Cressida
Entire play in one page
Act 1, Scene 1: Troy. Before Priam's palace.
Act 1, Scene 2: The Same. A street.
Act 1, Scene 3: The Grecian camp. Before Agamemnon's tent.
Act 2, Scene 1: A part of the Grecian camp.
Act 2, Scene 2: Troy. A room in Priam's palace.
Act 2, Scene 3: The Grecian camp. Before Achilles' tent.
Act 3, Scene 1: Troy. Priam's palace.
Act 3, Scene 2: The same. Pandarus' orchard.
Act 3, Scene 3: The Grecian camp. Before Achilles' tent.
Act 4, Scene 1: Troy. A street.
Act 4, Scene 2: The same. Court of Pandarus' house.
Act 4, Scene 3: The same. Street before Pandarus' house.
Act 4, Scene 4: The same. Pandarus' house.
Act 4, Scene 5: The Grecian camp. Lists set out.
Act 5, Scene 1: The Grecian camp. Before Achilles' tent.
Act 5, Scene 2: The same. Before Calchas' tent.
Act 5, Scene 3: Troy. Before Priam's palace.
Act 5, Scene 4: Plains between Troy and the Grecian camp.
Act 5, Scene 5: Another part of the plains.
Act 5, Scene 6: Another part of the plains.
Act 5, Scene 7: Another part of the plains.
Act 5, Scene 8: Another part of the plains.
Act 5, Scene 9: Another part of the plains.
Act 5, Scene 10: Another part of the plains.
Thursday, 14 August 2008
Henri
Henri Julien Félix Rousseau was born May the 21st 1844.
He haled from Laval in the Loire Valley.
The Loire Valley is renowned as the garden of France and the cradle of the French language. If you no your wine you’ll know the Valley.( “Hic”)
Henri was a day student of Laval High school, but due to his family leaving town because of mounting debts, he rented a room at Laval High. He was average at most subjects but excelled in art and music.
After leaving high school, he worked in a law office whilst studying law.
During his first year, he committed a small perjury and quickly joined the army in 1863.
When Henri’s father died in 1868, Henri moved to Paris and got a job as a customs officer to support his mother. This is how he earned the nickname Le Douanier (the customs officer). A year later in 1869 he met his first wife Clémence Boitard, a cabinetmaker's daughter. They proceeded to have nine children together but tragically tuberculosis was plaguing France at the time and he sadly lost seven of his youngest.
In 1871, he gained promotion to the toll collector's office in Paris as a tax collector.
It was not until his early forties that he started to paint seriously and the annoyance of work soon saw Henri leaving his employment to concentrate on his art.
His childish style left him open to heavy criticism in the art world as he was thought untutored. Most were shocked and openly ridiculed his paintings.
Henri was largely oblivious to this and strived to gain mainstream acceptance.
From 1886, he exhibited regularly in the Salon des Independants, and, although his work was not shown prominently, it drew an increasing following over the years. In 1893, Rousseau moved to a studio in Montparnasse where he lived and worked until his death in 1910. When Pablo Picasso happened upon a painting by Rousseau being sold on the street as a canvas to be painted over, the younger artist instantly recognized Rousseau's genius and went to meet him. In 1908, Picasso held a half serious, half-burlesque banquet in his studio in Le Bateau-Lavoir in Rousseau's honor.
His true recognition was not forthcoming until after his death.
I have loved Rousseau’s work since I discovered a book of his paintings in college. His life story is an inspiration to every artist to keep going. Even if nobody likes or understands your work. Do not be disheartened, keep exploring and defining. Life is full of ridicule for the truly gifted. Be it expectation for the already recognized or damnation for the misunderstood. It is the strength of our spirit to go on that holds the key to our greatest works.
He haled from Laval in the Loire Valley.
The Loire Valley is renowned as the garden of France and the cradle of the French language. If you no your wine you’ll know the Valley.( “Hic”)
Henri was a day student of Laval High school, but due to his family leaving town because of mounting debts, he rented a room at Laval High. He was average at most subjects but excelled in art and music.
After leaving high school, he worked in a law office whilst studying law.
During his first year, he committed a small perjury and quickly joined the army in 1863.
When Henri’s father died in 1868, Henri moved to Paris and got a job as a customs officer to support his mother. This is how he earned the nickname Le Douanier (the customs officer). A year later in 1869 he met his first wife Clémence Boitard, a cabinetmaker's daughter. They proceeded to have nine children together but tragically tuberculosis was plaguing France at the time and he sadly lost seven of his youngest.
In 1871, he gained promotion to the toll collector's office in Paris as a tax collector.
It was not until his early forties that he started to paint seriously and the annoyance of work soon saw Henri leaving his employment to concentrate on his art.
His childish style left him open to heavy criticism in the art world as he was thought untutored. Most were shocked and openly ridiculed his paintings.
Henri was largely oblivious to this and strived to gain mainstream acceptance.
From 1886, he exhibited regularly in the Salon des Independants, and, although his work was not shown prominently, it drew an increasing following over the years. In 1893, Rousseau moved to a studio in Montparnasse where he lived and worked until his death in 1910. When Pablo Picasso happened upon a painting by Rousseau being sold on the street as a canvas to be painted over, the younger artist instantly recognized Rousseau's genius and went to meet him. In 1908, Picasso held a half serious, half-burlesque banquet in his studio in Le Bateau-Lavoir in Rousseau's honor.
His true recognition was not forthcoming until after his death.
I have loved Rousseau’s work since I discovered a book of his paintings in college. His life story is an inspiration to every artist to keep going. Even if nobody likes or understands your work. Do not be disheartened, keep exploring and defining. Life is full of ridicule for the truly gifted. Be it expectation for the already recognized or damnation for the misunderstood. It is the strength of our spirit to go on that holds the key to our greatest works.
Saturday, 2 August 2008
Henri Rousseau in case you don't know. A true genius
We salute you
Gentle Rousseau. You can hear us.
Delaunay, his wife, Monsieur Queval and myself.
Let our luggage pass duty free through the gates of heaven.
We will bring you brushes paints and canvas.
That you may spend your sacred leisure in the
light of truth Painting,
as you once did my portrait
Facing the stars.
Monday, 28 July 2008
no more the outcast.
One week, three hours, twenty two minutes ago I gave up smoking. I refuse to touch another ciggy. Never again will the sweet smooth smoke, slide down my throat and fill my lungs. It's been fun, but now it's time for us both to move on. I'll be spending the next week getting rid of that horrible smell of stale smoke from my favourite recliner (who would have thought none smokers were right about the smell. Go figure.), and my ex best friend. Sweet Mayfair lights will be moving out. Fair thee well lads.
Why is it the fun things in life kill you. Cigs, cake, pie, chocolate, beer are all killers in there own right, so why are they all so good? The bitch of it is, that Because my taste buds are kicking back in, three of this dirty five are being much enjoyed. A little too much. So now it's time to get on the wii fit board and burn some pie. Run fat boy run!
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
NEDS!!!
Let me introduce you to the famous Glasgow Ned. A scourge on society. Kind of like a wasp.
Staying in the east end of Glasgow, I get to encounter them quite a bit. Notice the bottles they have. This is called buckfast. It is a fuel for the disadvantaged. A secret elixir for the weak of mind. Fighting juice for the living dead. I have partaken in buckfast abuse many times myself. I spilled some on my shirt once. Three hours later there was a hole I could fit two fingers through. Imagine what it does to the lining of your stomach.
I had the privilege of fighting with three Ned's a couple of weeks ago. I was heading for the town centre when I came across a young boy of 12/13 being stood on by a couple of Ned's. I , being very civil minded and heroic, said to the Ned's "let the wee guy go". If I was thinking correctly it should have sounded like this "Hey guys. please stop jumping on the kids head and start jumping on mine". They let the kid go and started in on me. I'm 35 years of age. Had I been 25, maybe I could have kicked there shell suited arse's but alas, the best I could manage was to drag one of them with me as I was hitting the ground. So. There I was lying on the ground trying to lever myself up using the smelly Ned (He might have shat himself. It certainly smelled like it.), when to my amazement the young kid who was being stood on, started kicking at my head! The little bastard! I managed to grab him, and using him and smelly Ned, levered myself up while being kicked at by Hopper Ned. (I called him Hopper because he kept his distance for most of the fight, hopping forward on occasions to levy a boot in my direction.) Having got back on my feet I started swinging wildly. If you've ever been in a fight then you will no that speed is half the battle. My hands were flailing about trying to connect with the Ned's when suddenly they broke off there attack and RAN!
The little shite bags ran away from me. I was on cloud nine. That night at the pub I regaled the tale to my friends, making it sound like an episode of Lee Van Clieff's The Master.
Staying in the east end of Glasgow, I get to encounter them quite a bit. Notice the bottles they have. This is called buckfast. It is a fuel for the disadvantaged. A secret elixir for the weak of mind. Fighting juice for the living dead. I have partaken in buckfast abuse many times myself. I spilled some on my shirt once. Three hours later there was a hole I could fit two fingers through. Imagine what it does to the lining of your stomach.
I had the privilege of fighting with three Ned's a couple of weeks ago. I was heading for the town centre when I came across a young boy of 12/13 being stood on by a couple of Ned's. I , being very civil minded and heroic, said to the Ned's "let the wee guy go". If I was thinking correctly it should have sounded like this "Hey guys. please stop jumping on the kids head and start jumping on mine". They let the kid go and started in on me. I'm 35 years of age. Had I been 25, maybe I could have kicked there shell suited arse's but alas, the best I could manage was to drag one of them with me as I was hitting the ground. So. There I was lying on the ground trying to lever myself up using the smelly Ned (He might have shat himself. It certainly smelled like it.), when to my amazement the young kid who was being stood on, started kicking at my head! The little bastard! I managed to grab him, and using him and smelly Ned, levered myself up while being kicked at by Hopper Ned. (I called him Hopper because he kept his distance for most of the fight, hopping forward on occasions to levy a boot in my direction.) Having got back on my feet I started swinging wildly. If you've ever been in a fight then you will no that speed is half the battle. My hands were flailing about trying to connect with the Ned's when suddenly they broke off there attack and RAN!
The little shite bags ran away from me. I was on cloud nine. That night at the pub I regaled the tale to my friends, making it sound like an episode of Lee Van Clieff's The Master.
The lesson I took from this was to avoid helping kids from being beat up. A shitty lesson I grant you, but that seems to be the way of the world nowadays. Help someone. Get shat upon from a great height.
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
I'm all for freedom of religion but....
A postcard featuring a cute puppy sitting in a policeman's hat advertising a Scottish police force's new telephone number has sparked outrage from Muslims.
Tayside Police's new non-emergency phone number has prompted complaints from members of the Islamic community.
The choice of image on the Tayside Police cards - a black dog sitting in a police officer's hat - has now been raised with Chief Constable John Vine.
Tayside Police caused uproar in the Muslim community after they released this advertisement featuring police puppy Rebel sitting in a hat
The advert has upset Muslims because dogs are considered ritually unclean and has sparked such anger that some shopkeepers in Dundee have refused to display the advert.
Dundee councillor Mohammed Asif said: 'My concern was that it's not welcomed by all communities, with the dog on the cards.
'It was probably a waste of resources going to these communities.
'They (the police) should have understood. Since then, the police have explained that it was an oversight on their part, and that if they'd seen it was going to cause upset they wouldn't have done it.'
Councillor Asif, who is a member of the Tayside Joint Police Board, said that the force had a diversity adviser and was generally very aware of such issues.
He raised the matter with Mr Vine at a meeting of the board.
Tayside Police Chief Constable John Vine said the advert was not intended to cause any offence
The chief constable said he was unaware of the concerns and that the force had not sought to cause any upset but added he would look into the matter.
Councillor Asif said: 'People who have shops just won't put up the postcard. But the police have said to me that it was simply an oversight and they did not seek to offend or upset.'
Cards featuring police dog-in-training Rebel have been distributed to communities throughout the area to advertise the single number point of contact for non-emergency calls to the police.
Rebel has proved a popular recruit for Tayside Police after coming through the very first Lothian and Borders Police dog-breeding programme in February.
One of seven German Shepherd pups born in early December, he has now completed his course of inoculations, and is free to venture out onto the streets of Tayside.
A spokesman for Tayside Police said: 'Trainee police dog Rebel has proved extremely popular with children and adults since being introduced to the public, aged six weeks old, as Tayside Police's newest canine recruit.
'His incredible world-wide popularity - he has attracted record visitor numbers to our website - led us to believe Rebel could play a starring role in the promotion of our non-emergency number.
'We did not seek advice from the force's diversity adviser prior to publishing and distributing the postcards. That was an oversight and we apologise for any offence caused.'
There was also an incident in England. An elderly woman who's fetish for collecting pig ornaments, was ordered by the local council to remove them from her window sill or she would be served with an anti-social behaviour order. United Kingdom indeed.
Friday, 4 July 2008
Oh my god. It's a picture of me before the long hair and beardo period. I look like am 16 again! am the guy with the white tie in his pocket. man, I really hate ties. Hence it ended up in the pocket after 3 pints.
Shona(my girl) looks like she's got five chins! wait till I show her. she will be raging! Tee of the Hee!!
Monday, 23 June 2008
Monty Python!
Was just listening to Monty python at lunch. thought I'd share. Cracked me up!
Immanuel Kant was a real pissant
Who was very rarely stable
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar Who could think you under the table
David Hume could out-consume Wilhelm Freidrich Hegel
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel
There's nothing Nietzche couldn't teach ya'Bout the raising of the wrist
Socrates, himself, was permanently pissed
John Stuart Mill, of his own free will On half a pint of shandy was particularly ill
Plato, they say, could stick it away
Half a crate of whiskey every day
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle
Hobbes was fond of his dram
And René Descartes was a drunken fart
I drink, therefore I am Yes, Socrates, himself, is particularly missed
A lovely little thinker
But a bugger when he's pissed
Immanuel Kant was a real pissant
Who was very rarely stable
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar Who could think you under the table
David Hume could out-consume Wilhelm Freidrich Hegel
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel
There's nothing Nietzche couldn't teach ya'Bout the raising of the wrist
Socrates, himself, was permanently pissed
John Stuart Mill, of his own free will On half a pint of shandy was particularly ill
Plato, they say, could stick it away
Half a crate of whiskey every day
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle
Hobbes was fond of his dram
And René Descartes was a drunken fart
I drink, therefore I am Yes, Socrates, himself, is particularly missed
A lovely little thinker
But a bugger when he's pissed
Saturday, 21 June 2008
Journey
For those who may be interested. Last night my girl and I went to see Journey at the Clyde auditorium. They were very good, and while declining in years, they still rocked.
I could write a huge speech about how good they were, and go over there set list like the music geek I am, but It's the warm up act I wanted to talk about.
Here goes. When we got to the gig we checked our tickets to find out what seat we were in. I noticed that on the ticket it said "no warm up". Fair enough. Anticipation is the only warming a band like Journey needs. So off to our seats we went. Approximately five minutes later a tall, blond, ageing rocker walked out on stage with his acoustic guitar. He introduced himself as John Parr. and started playing. I was blown away.
For anyone who doesn't Know who he is, (me included, until last night) he is the guy who wrote the St Elmo's fire song. I'd heard it before and dismissed it as a wee bit to cheesy for my taste. (says me going to a Journey gig!)
Before he started playing St Elmo's fire he took time to explain how he went about writing it.
He was asked to come up with a theme tune for the Movie St Elmo's fire. He mulled over it for days, hoping something would come to him, but everything he wrote seemed flat. He confided in a friend who suggested he watch a programme he'd recorded the previous night, for some inspiration. He gave it a shot. It was a documentary about a teenage boy ( we'll call him Sam, until I can find his real name on Google) who, while out driving with his friend got into a car crash. Both had there seat belts on, so the driver was fine. Unfortunately for Sam, there was a toolbox on the seat behind him that was flung forward on impact. It smashed into him, breaking his back. He was paralysed for life.
Sam was Angry that in this day in age, you could break an arm or leg and have it mended, but there was still no cure for back injures. He was determined to do something about it. He set his sights on wheeling himself around the world. His friend, who was in the car, drove the relief van behind him.
The first day into his trip he was stopped on the motorway by the police. they told him that he was slowing down traffic and he would have to take the farm roads instead.
So he set about traveling the mostly deserted farm roads with his bucket to collect money for Spina bifida. His friend in the relief van and a small camera crew followed.
The documentary ended when they were passing a small farm. they were all feeling quite low about how the first day was panning out when a kid ran out from the farm whooping. they ended the documentary with a freeze frame shot of the kid jumping into the air with arms aloft and a huge cheer on his face.
John Parr then wrote St Elmo's fire and Sam finished his wheel around the world raising 28 million for Spina bifida.
I've now changed my mind about the song and every time I hear it, I will be reminded that it's about bravery, hope and determination.
Thank you John Parr.
I could write a huge speech about how good they were, and go over there set list like the music geek I am, but It's the warm up act I wanted to talk about.
Here goes. When we got to the gig we checked our tickets to find out what seat we were in. I noticed that on the ticket it said "no warm up". Fair enough. Anticipation is the only warming a band like Journey needs. So off to our seats we went. Approximately five minutes later a tall, blond, ageing rocker walked out on stage with his acoustic guitar. He introduced himself as John Parr. and started playing. I was blown away.
For anyone who doesn't Know who he is, (me included, until last night) he is the guy who wrote the St Elmo's fire song. I'd heard it before and dismissed it as a wee bit to cheesy for my taste. (says me going to a Journey gig!)
Before he started playing St Elmo's fire he took time to explain how he went about writing it.
He was asked to come up with a theme tune for the Movie St Elmo's fire. He mulled over it for days, hoping something would come to him, but everything he wrote seemed flat. He confided in a friend who suggested he watch a programme he'd recorded the previous night, for some inspiration. He gave it a shot. It was a documentary about a teenage boy ( we'll call him Sam, until I can find his real name on Google) who, while out driving with his friend got into a car crash. Both had there seat belts on, so the driver was fine. Unfortunately for Sam, there was a toolbox on the seat behind him that was flung forward on impact. It smashed into him, breaking his back. He was paralysed for life.
Sam was Angry that in this day in age, you could break an arm or leg and have it mended, but there was still no cure for back injures. He was determined to do something about it. He set his sights on wheeling himself around the world. His friend, who was in the car, drove the relief van behind him.
The first day into his trip he was stopped on the motorway by the police. they told him that he was slowing down traffic and he would have to take the farm roads instead.
So he set about traveling the mostly deserted farm roads with his bucket to collect money for Spina bifida. His friend in the relief van and a small camera crew followed.
The documentary ended when they were passing a small farm. they were all feeling quite low about how the first day was panning out when a kid ran out from the farm whooping. they ended the documentary with a freeze frame shot of the kid jumping into the air with arms aloft and a huge cheer on his face.
John Parr then wrote St Elmo's fire and Sam finished his wheel around the world raising 28 million for Spina bifida.
I've now changed my mind about the song and every time I hear it, I will be reminded that it's about bravery, hope and determination.
Thank you John Parr.
Monday, 16 June 2008
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About Me
- marky
- I live in a Pigeon loft in Glasgow. I fight dogs for food and mug cows for drink. Monkeys live in my beard. I have lived for centuries under my bed and only came out when they invented peanut m&m's. I understand everything.
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