Hello people of blog land. How are we all? Long time no blog, eh? I suppose you want reasons? Have I been in jail? Have I been busy releasing terrorists into the wild? Have I become one of those annoying people that ask too many questions?
Well, you will just have to wait until my next blog to find out what I’ve been up to. Not because I’m being an international man of mystery. No, it’s because I have pictures to share. Shiny pictures of exotic holidays, and I’m writing this in work. Yes, in work. I love a bit of social notworking.
So, I’ve managed to try and sporadically take a shufty at all your blogs. But, I’ve sometimes not had time to comment. For that, I will flog myself.
Now there’s a pastime that never really took off. They should have made it more appealing. You know what I mean? For every shot at another mans wife, take four smacks to the feet, and two whips to the back. Then, all is forgiven. Sweet, sweet, sin.
I remember when I started this blog. I had it in my head that I’d update frequently, and share my wee life with the world. But, the life that I was going to discuss, kind of got in the way of me discussing it. Does that even make sense? Well, it did in my head. I guess the road to somewhere is paved with good intentions. If you ever find out where that road leads, let me know.
When I’ve not been getting up to mysterious mischief, I’ve mostly been on the road. Selling, buying, and hotels have been my life for the last month or so. And it sucks, big time. So much so, I’ve actually made a real effort to apply for other jobs. Here are some of the jobs I’ve wanted to do, but they wouldn’t have me.
No1. Games tester – Very low paid, but extremely rewarding. I applied to Rock star in Edinburgh. They never answered me back. Top tip if you’re applying to them. Don’t mention you thought Grand theft auto helped you with your killing skills.
No2. Community warden – I got it into my head that I could get paid for being a vigilante. You’re not welcome in the job if you want to carry out systematic beatings of young hooligans, or so they claim.
No3. Wedding singer – Apparently cradle of filth does not make for a happy wedding day. Go figure.
No4. Porn star – Lost out on this cushy number because I turned up for the interview too early….If you know what I mean.
No5. Prime minister of the United Kingdom – I was knocked back for the job because I’m catholic. The Act of Settlement won’t allow it apparently. And there was me thinking I lived in a religious tolerant society. Ha!
So, after all my efforts, I’m still stuck in the same cruddy job. I have to take it on the chin when my boss pays everybody a bonus, apart from me. I have to use my own car/petrol when I’m going to a meeting. And, I’m paid less than everybody else.
To combat this serious injustice, I’ve joined a union, and I’m selling my car, and buying a Vespa. I shall not be allowed on the motorway with a moped, so that kind of sticks it to the man, eh? No more being sent to England for me. Although, looking like a prized tool is a side effect of my rebellion. But, I can take it. I’ve looked the fool on many occasions, so why should work be any different.
Well, that’s all for now folks. It’s great to be back, and hopefully I’ll be a regular blogger again if I can dodge work successfully.
So, I’ll leave you with the same question that I asked in the title:
“Who was that sheep I saw you with last night?”
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Boss Time
Today I have a hangover, sore legs, neck and back. I have a headache that won’t go away, and I’m downright drained. I feel like I’ve went five seconds with Mike Tyson’s pinkie toe.
I woke up this morning looking like a contender for bum fights. I was wrapped in the Scottish flag, pakora sauce in my beard, and my hair was stuck to my face. The only sound emanating from my lips was a low guttural moan usually found on the lips of the lamest zombie.
Although I am hanging like a wet washing, I am also very, very happy. I’m the cat that got the cream, I am the morning after the awe inspiring, world shaking, Viagra taking, E-Street Band finally came to Scotland.
Mr Springsteen’s last appearance in Scotland was back in the 80’s, when he played Edinburgh on The Ghost of Tom Joad tour. This obviously bothered me, and my wallet. Any time he would tour, he’d miss out Scotland in favour of Cardiff, Manchester and London.
I’ve always known that he would get a great reception here, and I was not wrong.
I made it to Hampden Park for 11am yesterday. The doors opened at 5.30pm, so I had a few hours of waiting, drinking, singing, waiting and being rained on. I seemed to have had acquired a flag, a cowboy hat and some new friends in those fun hours. By the time the turnstiles opened, I was soaking, and in very good humour.
When we got through the turnstiles, we had to climb a set of stairs, and run down more stairs to get to the standing area on the pitch.
People were running down the stairs, and across the pitch to get to the cordoned off area in front of the stage. Luckily, Shona and I were one of the first there, so we managed to get a spot right down the front. If you’ve ever been down the front at a gig, you’ll know it’s the best and worse seat in the house. It’s amazing from the music point of view. You can’t get closer to the action unless you were on stage yourself, and the chances of interacting with the Boss are very high. All good things, but try and get a beer, or go for a pee! Then try to get back down the front again!
I’ve always been a believer in polite, truthful, and charming methods to get you back down the front at a gig. However, there’s always some tosser that likes to elbow you, because he thinks you’re just trying to push your way to the front. Some people don’t handle crowds well. To them I cast a look that is reminiscent of howling mad Murdoch mixed with grizzly Adams.
Anywhoo, to the gig.
Tens of thousands of Scots cheered as Nils Lofgren, walked out on stage and started playing Flower of Scotland on his harpsichord. The same tens of thousands rose in one voice and sung our national anthem. An uplifting start to a rock gig, that was all down to one man and a harpsichord! Honestly, it was like the first time I saw the E –Street Band in Dublin. Thousands of people all waiting on a big kick off to the show, and Bruce comes out with his 12 string and does an acoustic version of Born in the USA. I was knee deep in joy that day, and it was the same last night.
After Nils milked the crowd of the anthem one more time, Bruce and the band came on and jumped straight into Badlands, and the night’s greatness was set in stone.
Classic followed classic, and Outlaw Pete, among others, was given an outing from his new album. Half way through the gig, Bruce began grabbing signs people made with songs on them. He piled them on stage and chose some at random. First up was Incident on 57th street, then Pink Cadillac. He insisted on playing the first 30 seconds of it himself, which on his first go he messed up. He laughed at himself and said, “What the fuck is that cord again?” He went on to smoke the song, while prancing about the stage with Steve Van Zandt like a couple of teenagers.
His encore was tremendous. Born to run, Thunder road and This land, all were played, and all were adored. However, the biggest surprise of the night had to be his son joining him on stage. He looked proud as punch, and his kid loved every second of it. I predict huge things for Springsteen Jnr. He’s a handsome young guy, and he plays a mean guitar. Add that to the fact that his dad is the best live act in the world, and he can’t fail to be a success.
So today I don’t care that I’m lying around on the sofa writing this blog entry because I’m to weak to play Final fantasy. I don’t care if my brain still feels like mush, and my ears are still buzzing. I’m even happy that it took me two hours to get home last night, when I live ten minutes away by train. It was all worth it for that few hours I got to share the same stadium with the Boss. A true legend of a man.
I woke up this morning looking like a contender for bum fights. I was wrapped in the Scottish flag, pakora sauce in my beard, and my hair was stuck to my face. The only sound emanating from my lips was a low guttural moan usually found on the lips of the lamest zombie.
Although I am hanging like a wet washing, I am also very, very happy. I’m the cat that got the cream, I am the morning after the awe inspiring, world shaking, Viagra taking, E-Street Band finally came to Scotland.
Mr Springsteen’s last appearance in Scotland was back in the 80’s, when he played Edinburgh on The Ghost of Tom Joad tour. This obviously bothered me, and my wallet. Any time he would tour, he’d miss out Scotland in favour of Cardiff, Manchester and London.
I’ve always known that he would get a great reception here, and I was not wrong.
I made it to Hampden Park for 11am yesterday. The doors opened at 5.30pm, so I had a few hours of waiting, drinking, singing, waiting and being rained on. I seemed to have had acquired a flag, a cowboy hat and some new friends in those fun hours. By the time the turnstiles opened, I was soaking, and in very good humour.
When we got through the turnstiles, we had to climb a set of stairs, and run down more stairs to get to the standing area on the pitch.
People were running down the stairs, and across the pitch to get to the cordoned off area in front of the stage. Luckily, Shona and I were one of the first there, so we managed to get a spot right down the front. If you’ve ever been down the front at a gig, you’ll know it’s the best and worse seat in the house. It’s amazing from the music point of view. You can’t get closer to the action unless you were on stage yourself, and the chances of interacting with the Boss are very high. All good things, but try and get a beer, or go for a pee! Then try to get back down the front again!
I’ve always been a believer in polite, truthful, and charming methods to get you back down the front at a gig. However, there’s always some tosser that likes to elbow you, because he thinks you’re just trying to push your way to the front. Some people don’t handle crowds well. To them I cast a look that is reminiscent of howling mad Murdoch mixed with grizzly Adams.
Anywhoo, to the gig.
Tens of thousands of Scots cheered as Nils Lofgren, walked out on stage and started playing Flower of Scotland on his harpsichord. The same tens of thousands rose in one voice and sung our national anthem. An uplifting start to a rock gig, that was all down to one man and a harpsichord! Honestly, it was like the first time I saw the E –Street Band in Dublin. Thousands of people all waiting on a big kick off to the show, and Bruce comes out with his 12 string and does an acoustic version of Born in the USA. I was knee deep in joy that day, and it was the same last night.
After Nils milked the crowd of the anthem one more time, Bruce and the band came on and jumped straight into Badlands, and the night’s greatness was set in stone.
Classic followed classic, and Outlaw Pete, among others, was given an outing from his new album. Half way through the gig, Bruce began grabbing signs people made with songs on them. He piled them on stage and chose some at random. First up was Incident on 57th street, then Pink Cadillac. He insisted on playing the first 30 seconds of it himself, which on his first go he messed up. He laughed at himself and said, “What the fuck is that cord again?” He went on to smoke the song, while prancing about the stage with Steve Van Zandt like a couple of teenagers.
His encore was tremendous. Born to run, Thunder road and This land, all were played, and all were adored. However, the biggest surprise of the night had to be his son joining him on stage. He looked proud as punch, and his kid loved every second of it. I predict huge things for Springsteen Jnr. He’s a handsome young guy, and he plays a mean guitar. Add that to the fact that his dad is the best live act in the world, and he can’t fail to be a success.
So today I don’t care that I’m lying around on the sofa writing this blog entry because I’m to weak to play Final fantasy. I don’t care if my brain still feels like mush, and my ears are still buzzing. I’m even happy that it took me two hours to get home last night, when I live ten minutes away by train. It was all worth it for that few hours I got to share the same stadium with the Boss. A true legend of a man.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Best Served Cold
Today folks, I shall be reviewing Best Served Cold, By Joe Abercrombie. As the title suggests, it is a story of cold hard vengeance. Or as the French would put it: La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid.
I can honestly say that this is Mr Abercrombie’s best work to date, and a book I thoroughly enjoyed from start to finish. In fact, I’m saying, without a doubt in my shrivelled, evil little mind, that this is my book of the year so far.
I will not be offering up spoilers in this review, I don’t like them, and let’s face it, if you live in that backwater of literature the world likes to call America, you’ll no doubt be upset if I did resort to such heinous atrocities before you got a chance to lay your hands on it. In fact, you might even deem it a scudable offence! Please, don’t scud me!
If you’ve read Joe Abercrombie’s First Law series, then you’ll know what to expect in terms of writing style and language used. And yet again, Joe doesn’t pull any punches in terms of colourful language, and I’m very glad he hasn’t. His dialog has to be some of the best I’ve read, and one would suppose that it wouldn’t change much if made into a film script. It’s witty, harsh, and colourful in a way that keeps you gripped page after page.
BSC is a brave book. It would have been so easy to do a, what happened next, or a look into the life of one of the main characters, style of book. But instead Joe opted for a completely new character, with all new issues. And it works a treat. Don’t get me wrong, there are still a lot of characters in the book you’ll remember from the First Law series, and it will have you going off in tangents remembering them. Two of the side characters in The First Law books have much larger parts in BSC, and I for one was delighted to see one of my favourites have a much more prominent part to play.
I honestly thought this would just be a book to quell the fans thirst for more Nine Fingers and company, but as it turns out, it’s a fantastic book that leaves you wanting more of the new characters you’ve became acquainted with. I give Best Served Cold, a Marky score of 10 out of 10, and look forward to discussing it with you all when you read it.
And today’s music comes from Mando Diao, a band from Sweden. This one’s called Ochrasy, and I think it’s the cat’s pyjamas! Enjoy.
ED: Scudding is a Scottish saying for the extreme ouch-ness felt on the face when a hand is delivered to said area at high speed, and in no way is it representative of a SCUD missile. I would really hate a scud to the face, but I think a SCUD missile would be slightly worse for my complexion. Furthermore, the remark was a sarcastic dig at you lucky Americans who breed a great deal of my favourite authors, who make me wait for their works far longer than your good self’s.
I can honestly say that this is Mr Abercrombie’s best work to date, and a book I thoroughly enjoyed from start to finish. In fact, I’m saying, without a doubt in my shrivelled, evil little mind, that this is my book of the year so far.
I will not be offering up spoilers in this review, I don’t like them, and let’s face it, if you live in that backwater of literature the world likes to call America, you’ll no doubt be upset if I did resort to such heinous atrocities before you got a chance to lay your hands on it. In fact, you might even deem it a scudable offence! Please, don’t scud me!
If you’ve read Joe Abercrombie’s First Law series, then you’ll know what to expect in terms of writing style and language used. And yet again, Joe doesn’t pull any punches in terms of colourful language, and I’m very glad he hasn’t. His dialog has to be some of the best I’ve read, and one would suppose that it wouldn’t change much if made into a film script. It’s witty, harsh, and colourful in a way that keeps you gripped page after page.
BSC is a brave book. It would have been so easy to do a, what happened next, or a look into the life of one of the main characters, style of book. But instead Joe opted for a completely new character, with all new issues. And it works a treat. Don’t get me wrong, there are still a lot of characters in the book you’ll remember from the First Law series, and it will have you going off in tangents remembering them. Two of the side characters in The First Law books have much larger parts in BSC, and I for one was delighted to see one of my favourites have a much more prominent part to play.
I honestly thought this would just be a book to quell the fans thirst for more Nine Fingers and company, but as it turns out, it’s a fantastic book that leaves you wanting more of the new characters you’ve became acquainted with. I give Best Served Cold, a Marky score of 10 out of 10, and look forward to discussing it with you all when you read it.
And today’s music comes from Mando Diao, a band from Sweden. This one’s called Ochrasy, and I think it’s the cat’s pyjamas! Enjoy.
ED: Scudding is a Scottish saying for the extreme ouch-ness felt on the face when a hand is delivered to said area at high speed, and in no way is it representative of a SCUD missile. I would really hate a scud to the face, but I think a SCUD missile would be slightly worse for my complexion. Furthermore, the remark was a sarcastic dig at you lucky Americans who breed a great deal of my favourite authors, who make me wait for their works far longer than your good self’s.
Friday, 5 June 2009
New post, new post, get your new post here!!
Hawd it Yoda! Hands aff!
I mean it! I'll cut those pointy ears off!
Would you credit it? You lose an advanced, signed copy of Joe Abercrombie’s Best Served Cold, you purchase your own, and a bloody Jedi master thinks he can read it before you! Honestly, the cheek!
I’ll tell you this for free, the good side of the force isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
So blogamites, it’s been exactly one month to the day since my last post. I really milked that birthday post, eh? Would it not be groovy if we could have a birthmonth instead of a birthday?
I think some people might be nodding their heads at that one, and some might be grabbing their hearts and wallets.
What have I been up to this past month? Well, I’ve been doing a stock take in work, and that involves counting millions of different kinds of cladding screws. Mind numbing work you might think, but the thing is, shove your ipod on and there is something to be said for monotonous work. You see, my job usually involves constant selling. I chat to customers all day, and sometimes that can be hard on the brain. Not because there’s any energy used by being a natural chat monster, but because most people I talk to have the same line of conversation. Lately it’s been the credit crunch, or swine flu. There’s only so much a man can take of that kind of chat, before he starts staring at ceiling tiles whilst picking his nose.
But enough about work, I came here to play, and play I will damn you!
After the footy season is over, I often like to take off round Scotland for the weekend. So last Saturday, I headed off to Culzean castle. It’s about fifty miles from Glasgow in a straight line, so I drove with my eyes closed. It has an American connection because the Earl that owned it, Earl Kennedy, got a bit strapped for cash and his American cousin helped him pay his builders.
Eisenhower even had his oval office in the castle, which you can look at through a glass window. There’s a picture of his Mrs, two big black phones, a paper from WW2 on his desk, and his uniform jacket, hanging on his not so comfy looking chair. I really wanted to lick that jacket. What?
Anyway, I didn’t get any pictures of inside the castle, but here’s some I did get!
WARNING: Pictures may keep going, and are in no way a good representative of my true hairy manliness.
When I parked the Marky wagon, I came across these white stags. Do you think they go white in the sun? Just like dog crap?
Being the big kid that I am, I climbed down to the beach only to discover somebody had stolen all the sand!(Must have been the English)
Of course, climbing back up that bloody great big cliff, wasn't as easy as going down it.
After sicking up my meatball subway, I took to walking the wrong way in tunnels. Fresh air does strange things to a man.
I did however, find a tree to hide in until my senses came back!
And then I remembered there was a castle about somewhere, so I took some dodgy pictures of it because I was jealous.
And lastly, I'd like to vent my disgust at the fact that it doesn't matter if you stand in front of a lake for three hours, you're still not going to see a hand come out of it with a sword that will make you the rightful King of Britain. How sucky is that!?!
That's all for now folks. Just remember, if you have to pee the bed, do it on her side.
Marky
I mean it! I'll cut those pointy ears off!
Would you credit it? You lose an advanced, signed copy of Joe Abercrombie’s Best Served Cold, you purchase your own, and a bloody Jedi master thinks he can read it before you! Honestly, the cheek!
I’ll tell you this for free, the good side of the force isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
So blogamites, it’s been exactly one month to the day since my last post. I really milked that birthday post, eh? Would it not be groovy if we could have a birthmonth instead of a birthday?
I think some people might be nodding their heads at that one, and some might be grabbing their hearts and wallets.
What have I been up to this past month? Well, I’ve been doing a stock take in work, and that involves counting millions of different kinds of cladding screws. Mind numbing work you might think, but the thing is, shove your ipod on and there is something to be said for monotonous work. You see, my job usually involves constant selling. I chat to customers all day, and sometimes that can be hard on the brain. Not because there’s any energy used by being a natural chat monster, but because most people I talk to have the same line of conversation. Lately it’s been the credit crunch, or swine flu. There’s only so much a man can take of that kind of chat, before he starts staring at ceiling tiles whilst picking his nose.
But enough about work, I came here to play, and play I will damn you!
After the footy season is over, I often like to take off round Scotland for the weekend. So last Saturday, I headed off to Culzean castle. It’s about fifty miles from Glasgow in a straight line, so I drove with my eyes closed. It has an American connection because the Earl that owned it, Earl Kennedy, got a bit strapped for cash and his American cousin helped him pay his builders.
Eisenhower even had his oval office in the castle, which you can look at through a glass window. There’s a picture of his Mrs, two big black phones, a paper from WW2 on his desk, and his uniform jacket, hanging on his not so comfy looking chair. I really wanted to lick that jacket. What?
Anyway, I didn’t get any pictures of inside the castle, but here’s some I did get!
WARNING: Pictures may keep going, and are in no way a good representative of my true hairy manliness.
When I parked the Marky wagon, I came across these white stags. Do you think they go white in the sun? Just like dog crap?
Being the big kid that I am, I climbed down to the beach only to discover somebody had stolen all the sand!(Must have been the English)
Of course, climbing back up that bloody great big cliff, wasn't as easy as going down it.
After sicking up my meatball subway, I took to walking the wrong way in tunnels. Fresh air does strange things to a man.
I did however, find a tree to hide in until my senses came back!
And then I remembered there was a castle about somewhere, so I took some dodgy pictures of it because I was jealous.
And lastly, I'd like to vent my disgust at the fact that it doesn't matter if you stand in front of a lake for three hours, you're still not going to see a hand come out of it with a sword that will make you the rightful King of Britain. How sucky is that!?!
That's all for now folks. Just remember, if you have to pee the bed, do it on her side.
Marky
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
Birthday Boy
Go, go, go, go
Go, go, go shawty
It's my birthday
We gon' party like it's my birthday
We gon' sip Bacardi like it's my birthday!
And the rest of it, is too sweary to post. It’s not like I mind a good swear, but swearing just for the sake of it, wastes a good swear word. You need the exact proper moment to introduce your swear word into the proceedings to get the right effect. Do you hear that 50 cent? Let that be a warning to yo!
Anyway, it’s ma birthday. I’m facing the bad end of thirty, and I don’t care. I know a lot of folk get pretty depressed when it’s their birthday, it’s understandable. Nobody really wants to get to the age were you have to wear nappies again.
Actually, if you think about it, that’s got to be one of life’s irony’s. You start off as a kid, pooping in your nappy, and end up as an old person, pooping in your nappy. It’s a smelly vicious circle.
I don’t get depressed about old age, I look forward to it. A time when I don’t have to go to work, and I get to go on all the buses for a penny. I’d even get a heating allowance, and when I’m 75, I get a free TV licence. Woo-hoo! (Let’s hope the glaucoma doesn’t kick in before then)
Growing old is part of life, there’s no dodging it. You might plaster on the beauty creams to keep your skin looking good, but at some point, you’re going to look your age. Our obsession for keeping our youthful looks is silly. My girlfriend is a great believer in moisturising. When she’s finished moisturising, she starts again. It’s a bit like painting the golden gate bridge.
She’s tried getting me into the moisturising thing, with promises of better, tighter skin. She’s tried buying me men’s hair dye, to hide the grey; even my clothes have been subjected to youth assimilation. And to all this, I say no. No, I will not be wearing bright white trainers and jeans that hang below my bum, I will not dye my hair the same unusual colour that Gene Simmons has. And most importantly, I will not be moisturising any part of my body. I’m moist enough, thank you.
I’m actually looking forward to being an old white haired bloke. I so want to look like Sean Connery in Highlander. A beard, and a white ponytail, with a pearl drop earring. What a look!
So, that’s me for today. It’s time to go home and get ready for the influx of presents I might get. So far, I’ve got a Celtic birthday cake, and three cards! Hopefully, there are loads more to come!
Until the next post, take care of each other.
Here’s a local boy called Paolo Nutini, enjoy!
Go, go, go shawty
It's my birthday
We gon' party like it's my birthday
We gon' sip Bacardi like it's my birthday!
And the rest of it, is too sweary to post. It’s not like I mind a good swear, but swearing just for the sake of it, wastes a good swear word. You need the exact proper moment to introduce your swear word into the proceedings to get the right effect. Do you hear that 50 cent? Let that be a warning to yo!
Anyway, it’s ma birthday. I’m facing the bad end of thirty, and I don’t care. I know a lot of folk get pretty depressed when it’s their birthday, it’s understandable. Nobody really wants to get to the age were you have to wear nappies again.
Actually, if you think about it, that’s got to be one of life’s irony’s. You start off as a kid, pooping in your nappy, and end up as an old person, pooping in your nappy. It’s a smelly vicious circle.
I don’t get depressed about old age, I look forward to it. A time when I don’t have to go to work, and I get to go on all the buses for a penny. I’d even get a heating allowance, and when I’m 75, I get a free TV licence. Woo-hoo! (Let’s hope the glaucoma doesn’t kick in before then)
Growing old is part of life, there’s no dodging it. You might plaster on the beauty creams to keep your skin looking good, but at some point, you’re going to look your age. Our obsession for keeping our youthful looks is silly. My girlfriend is a great believer in moisturising. When she’s finished moisturising, she starts again. It’s a bit like painting the golden gate bridge.
She’s tried getting me into the moisturising thing, with promises of better, tighter skin. She’s tried buying me men’s hair dye, to hide the grey; even my clothes have been subjected to youth assimilation. And to all this, I say no. No, I will not be wearing bright white trainers and jeans that hang below my bum, I will not dye my hair the same unusual colour that Gene Simmons has. And most importantly, I will not be moisturising any part of my body. I’m moist enough, thank you.
I’m actually looking forward to being an old white haired bloke. I so want to look like Sean Connery in Highlander. A beard, and a white ponytail, with a pearl drop earring. What a look!
So, that’s me for today. It’s time to go home and get ready for the influx of presents I might get. So far, I’ve got a Celtic birthday cake, and three cards! Hopefully, there are loads more to come!
Until the next post, take care of each other.
Here’s a local boy called Paolo Nutini, enjoy!
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
An Ode To Almost
I’d like to dedicate a post to almost. A post to the word, that haunts us all from time to time. It’s all the things we meant to do, it’s all the things we’re glad we didn’t do. Let’s put almost into Google and see what we come up with:
Almost is a term in mathematics (especially in set theory) used to mean all the elements except for finitely many.
Eh? Erm thanks, Wikipedia.
Let’s try again
Etymology: Middle English, from Old English ealmoest, from eall + moest
Date: before 12th century
That’s better! Ye old Middle English. You can’t beat it. In fact, can you imagine how the word came about back then? Two guys having a duel, maybe? One says to the other ‘Ye gads man, ye ealmoest had my eye out with that!’ or maybe it was a pig farmers wife, chastising him? ‘When it rainith last night, ye ealmoest got a wash, smellyith!’
However the word came about, it has been used many times to express the near misses that we lament, or the lucky escapes from which we’re thankful for. So, today as a mark of respect to ‘ealmoest’, I’m doing a list. That’s right, a list. Who doesn’t like lists? I think they’re a bit like ice-cream. There’s always room for a good list, and there’s always room for ice-cream……especially Ben & Jerry’s.
So here’s my list of ealmoests:
1. I almost got married a couple of times.
2. I almost died a couple of times.
3. I can almost play the guitar.
4. I can almost play the harmonica.
5. I almost met Springsteen.
6. I almost know everything there is to know about metal cladding screws.
7. I almost hung myself when I found out I know too much about metal cladding screws.
8. I almost became a professional boxer.
9. I almost never went out on the night I met my Shoney.
10. I almost kept hanging out with rich shallow people, because I liked the lifestyle.
11. I almost burned down my flat.
12. I almost never started a blog.
13. I almost…..Ah, sod it. Let’s stop with the list making. Lists truly suck. I mean, I could go on like this all day, and it’s starting to smell like regret. And regret is for those that deserve it. Yeah, I retract my previous statement about lists. Lists are the devils work, and not at all like ice-cream. Meh!
Anyway, to almost, my word of the day. Six letters that carry a lifetime of missed opportunity and lucky escapes.
And please, feel free to grab your hairbrush, jump in front of a mirror and mime to the tune that inspired this post. As you-tube have cancelled all the proper music videos, I give to you the music styling’s of a stick man who 'almost had you'.
Almost is a term in mathematics (especially in set theory) used to mean all the elements except for finitely many.
Eh? Erm thanks, Wikipedia.
Let’s try again
Etymology: Middle English, from Old English ealmoest, from eall + moest
Date: before 12th century
That’s better! Ye old Middle English. You can’t beat it. In fact, can you imagine how the word came about back then? Two guys having a duel, maybe? One says to the other ‘Ye gads man, ye ealmoest had my eye out with that!’ or maybe it was a pig farmers wife, chastising him? ‘When it rainith last night, ye ealmoest got a wash, smellyith!’
However the word came about, it has been used many times to express the near misses that we lament, or the lucky escapes from which we’re thankful for. So, today as a mark of respect to ‘ealmoest’, I’m doing a list. That’s right, a list. Who doesn’t like lists? I think they’re a bit like ice-cream. There’s always room for a good list, and there’s always room for ice-cream……especially Ben & Jerry’s.
So here’s my list of ealmoests:
1. I almost got married a couple of times.
2. I almost died a couple of times.
3. I can almost play the guitar.
4. I can almost play the harmonica.
5. I almost met Springsteen.
6. I almost know everything there is to know about metal cladding screws.
7. I almost hung myself when I found out I know too much about metal cladding screws.
8. I almost became a professional boxer.
9. I almost never went out on the night I met my Shoney.
10. I almost kept hanging out with rich shallow people, because I liked the lifestyle.
11. I almost burned down my flat.
12. I almost never started a blog.
13. I almost…..Ah, sod it. Let’s stop with the list making. Lists truly suck. I mean, I could go on like this all day, and it’s starting to smell like regret. And regret is for those that deserve it. Yeah, I retract my previous statement about lists. Lists are the devils work, and not at all like ice-cream. Meh!
Anyway, to almost, my word of the day. Six letters that carry a lifetime of missed opportunity and lucky escapes.
And please, feel free to grab your hairbrush, jump in front of a mirror and mime to the tune that inspired this post. As you-tube have cancelled all the proper music videos, I give to you the music styling’s of a stick man who 'almost had you'.
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
Earth Day
Well, it would appear that Earth day is upon us once more, and I’d like to take this opportunity to give a big shout out to the daddy of all fish, the original bloodsucker and the oldest living fish, the lamprey. (I watched a TV programme about them last night!)
The lamprey was a gastronomic treat for the upper classes in the middle ages, and some countries still eat them. Countries like Sweden and South Korea. I’ve never tried them myself, but I have used them for bait, when I go fishing. Mostly I use them for fishing pike. And it’s not just any old pike I fish for; I fish for the monsters only found in the deepest lochs in Scotland. Places like Loch Awe, and Loch Ness. The biggest pike in Scotland was caught in Loch Lomond, and it weighed in at a hefty 47lbs 11oz. I’ve fished Loch Lomond a lot, but I’ve only ever caught eels and jack pike. But one day…..
Let’s not get sidetracked by tales of monster pike, I want to wax lyrical about the oldest living fish. And when I say this fish is old, I’m not talking dinosaur old, oh no. I’m talking even older! In fact, it’s estimated that the lamprey, first reared its not so attractive head, about half a billion years ago. That’s freaking old! Being the Methuselah of fish might make us their descendant, who knows. What I do know is the lamprey has survived four global extinctions, and that makes it one hard fish.
Also on the programme, was a Vampire fish! They found it in March this year. It’s called, Danionella Dracula. Here it is.
Freaky, eh? We’re actually, still finding new species in 2009. Amazing!
I mention all this on Earth day because above all else, I would love to see our oceans protected. In Scotland, our government are paying for the decommissioning of fishing boats. A good step, but we need to stop pollution in all its forms. We need to address what we take from the oceans and earth, and how much we really need it. Even gardeners are at fault when it comes to pollution. You would think the greenest of all humans respect the earth above all else, but a huge amount are still using peat-based compost. We need our peat bogs! Stop it, you tweed-wearing nutters!
Do you know those little plants in a pot you can buy in places like IKEA? Well they use suppliers that go through a hell of a lot of peat. See, you thought buying these plants was a nice green thing to do. It’s not! If you want plants in your house, use a small business that grows their plants using a peat free alternative.
When I go fishing, I usually camp out. I enjoy getting back to nature, and feel more at home in a tent than my bed at home. There is something strengthening about a good week out in the open. It’s soulful, meditative and character building….and smelly….very, very smelly.
Recently, when I’ve gone fishing, I’ve turned up at one of my spots to find that the previous campers had left the place in a mess. I have to spend an hour tidying up cans, empty bags, dead fish, food wrappers, and other people-crap. I find it crazy that some people can enjoy nature and treat it with such contempt at the same time. It’s like giving someone a cuddle, and then kicking them in the balls! Truly insane behaviour. Is it going to get to the point that we’ll have to pay an entry fee to go to the countryside or seaside? I really hope not. I really hope we spend more on finding new sources of fuel, and educate people on how to take care of this beautiful blue jewel we share.
Anywaaa, I think that is I for today folks. Have a good earth day. Don’t leave the telly on standby, try to understand I love my self-righteous rants, give a hearty arrr for the lamprey, and most importantly, hug a hippy.
Peace.
Marky
Thursday, 16 April 2009
The Bhoys
Ok Bhoys, with feeling this time! When the music stops, sing damn you, sing!
A monk called brother Walfrid, established Celtic football club November 6th, 1887. The only reason we exist as a club, was down to this mans compassion towards the influx of Irish immigrants to Glasgow. It’s said that half of all Glaswegians are of Irish decent. If you count them along with the original settlers that came over from Ireland to Scotland in our earliest history, then it would probably be more like half of Scotland.
Brother Walfrid’s idea was to set up a football club to raise money for local people in the east end. A noble cause that brought about one of the finest football teams in the world, and helped many people of Scottish and Irish decent get through a difficult period of our history.
I call us one of the finest teams in the world, but nowadays because of other leagues being more attractive and able to pay more money for quality players, I fear I’ll never see another Celtic team the likes of the Lisbon Lions in my lifetime. The Lisbon Lions won everything there was to win in 1967. They were the first British and northern European team to win the European cup, and remain the only Scottish team ever to do so. All the players in the squad were local guys born within 30 miles of Celtic park.
It’s fair to point out that if you are a Roman catholic, and stay in Glasgow; nine out of ten times, you’re going to support Celtic. And, if you’re a protestant in Glasgow, you would support Rangers. There have been many deaths accredited to religious intolerance, and fan rivalry, and there is always fights to enjoy outside my window after an old firm game. I stay near pubs called the Loudon Tavern, and the Bristol. Both of these bars are pure blue, Rangers supporting pubs. If you walked in with a Celtic top on, you’d better be a good runner. On several occasions (luckily, before I’d moved in to the area), there have been full-blown riots on Duke Street.
Both clubs have distanced themselves from sectarianism. Both clubs have run campaigns to try to end such backward thinking. Both clubs sign players from every religious background. Unfortunately, there are still a section of both support, that hold tight to the bigotry.
This bigotry is in full flow during every old firm game. Some of the songs sung at these matches have been deemed racist. More so the songs sung by Rangers recently. Songs like Hello, Hello, which has lines in it about being ‘up to their neck in Fenian blood’, and even more recently, the Famine song. This was a song about all the Irish immigrants ‘going home’ now that the potato famine, which killed over a million people, was over. When the Irish government caught wind of the Famine song, they complained to the Scottish government, and it was made illegal to sing. There have been arrests and convictions since this law was past.
Celtic anthems are filled with songs about the struggle for independence using terrorism. These Rebel songs are very offensive to Rangers fans. Some see it as a slap in the face because they are British, and it was British people killed in the bombings. Some support the UDA as vehemently as some Celtic fans support the IRA.
While other supporters consider some of the songs sung by the Celtic support offensive, they aren’t illegal because they are folk songs. These songs are widely heard in pubs and clubs throughout the Republic of Ireland, and to deem them offensive to British people and ban them, would be like trying to stop America from celebrating Independence Day.
It’s a controversial topic, one that in my opinion has nothing to do with football. I support Celtic for the game of athletic beauty, the last minute goals, and the camaraderie during the low points. While I’m proud of our Irish roots, I am Scottish. I would love for Scotland to be independent, just like the ROI, but that’s a different topic. For now, just know that when Scotland play the Republic of Ireland, I’m there with my kilt on, and you would never, never catch me looking like some daft leprechaun!
Oh, shit!
A monk called brother Walfrid, established Celtic football club November 6th, 1887. The only reason we exist as a club, was down to this mans compassion towards the influx of Irish immigrants to Glasgow. It’s said that half of all Glaswegians are of Irish decent. If you count them along with the original settlers that came over from Ireland to Scotland in our earliest history, then it would probably be more like half of Scotland.
Brother Walfrid’s idea was to set up a football club to raise money for local people in the east end. A noble cause that brought about one of the finest football teams in the world, and helped many people of Scottish and Irish decent get through a difficult period of our history.
I call us one of the finest teams in the world, but nowadays because of other leagues being more attractive and able to pay more money for quality players, I fear I’ll never see another Celtic team the likes of the Lisbon Lions in my lifetime. The Lisbon Lions won everything there was to win in 1967. They were the first British and northern European team to win the European cup, and remain the only Scottish team ever to do so. All the players in the squad were local guys born within 30 miles of Celtic park.
It’s fair to point out that if you are a Roman catholic, and stay in Glasgow; nine out of ten times, you’re going to support Celtic. And, if you’re a protestant in Glasgow, you would support Rangers. There have been many deaths accredited to religious intolerance, and fan rivalry, and there is always fights to enjoy outside my window after an old firm game. I stay near pubs called the Loudon Tavern, and the Bristol. Both of these bars are pure blue, Rangers supporting pubs. If you walked in with a Celtic top on, you’d better be a good runner. On several occasions (luckily, before I’d moved in to the area), there have been full-blown riots on Duke Street.
Both clubs have distanced themselves from sectarianism. Both clubs have run campaigns to try to end such backward thinking. Both clubs sign players from every religious background. Unfortunately, there are still a section of both support, that hold tight to the bigotry.
This bigotry is in full flow during every old firm game. Some of the songs sung at these matches have been deemed racist. More so the songs sung by Rangers recently. Songs like Hello, Hello, which has lines in it about being ‘up to their neck in Fenian blood’, and even more recently, the Famine song. This was a song about all the Irish immigrants ‘going home’ now that the potato famine, which killed over a million people, was over. When the Irish government caught wind of the Famine song, they complained to the Scottish government, and it was made illegal to sing. There have been arrests and convictions since this law was past.
Celtic anthems are filled with songs about the struggle for independence using terrorism. These Rebel songs are very offensive to Rangers fans. Some see it as a slap in the face because they are British, and it was British people killed in the bombings. Some support the UDA as vehemently as some Celtic fans support the IRA.
While other supporters consider some of the songs sung by the Celtic support offensive, they aren’t illegal because they are folk songs. These songs are widely heard in pubs and clubs throughout the Republic of Ireland, and to deem them offensive to British people and ban them, would be like trying to stop America from celebrating Independence Day.
It’s a controversial topic, one that in my opinion has nothing to do with football. I support Celtic for the game of athletic beauty, the last minute goals, and the camaraderie during the low points. While I’m proud of our Irish roots, I am Scottish. I would love for Scotland to be independent, just like the ROI, but that’s a different topic. For now, just know that when Scotland play the Republic of Ireland, I’m there with my kilt on, and you would never, never catch me looking like some daft leprechaun!
Oh, shit!
Monday, 30 March 2009
The Dam Buster
Mucho greetings, fellow bloggers. It’s back to the grindstone after a quality weekend. Let’s all sigh together, *sigh*
I was over in Amsterdam for the Scotland game with a couple of mates, for the weekend. I never expected Scotland to actually win the game, I never do, what I expected was a good laugh, and to enjoy another glorious defeat. I wasn’t disappointed. Scotland, yet again, lost against the Dutch. At least it wasn’t as bad as our last 6-0 defeat, yeah, we halved that goal difference. 3-0. Take that Holland! Give us a few years, and it might go down to 2-0. You just wait!
Anyway, let’s steer away from the football chat; I wouldn’t want you to start drooling on your keyboards. At some point, I want to do a post about my first true love, Celtic football Club. Oooo, I shudder at the pages of guff I could write about Celtic. I’m a bit of a football geek. Ok, ok, maybe that’s like calling the Pope, a bit of a Catholic, but it’s not like a twenty-four hour obsession, I usually sleep as well.
Where was I, yes, the Dam. If you’ve ever been to Amsterdam before, you’ll know that the best way to get about everywhere is by bike. On this occasion, I never hired a bike. I was wearing my kilt, and biking isn’t very comfortable when you have a kilt on. If you’re doing any great speed, you end up with the genitalia of a two year old. Not the best look to have when a lady person whips your kilt round your head.
And while I’m touching o that subject, what’s that about? What’s with woman, who’ve had a bit of a drink, thinking it’s ok to run by you and flick up your kilt? If I did that, I’d be looking at ten years in jail, and my name to be on some sort of list!
I don’t wear my kilt all the time, only Scotland games and weddings. This is the reason why. Constant drive by sex attacks could be the death of the kilt.
So, Amsterdam. When I go, I always like to stay in the same hotel. I’m weird like that. Everywhere I go, if I’ve been there before, I’ll stay in either the same hotel, or the same area. My favourite hotel in Amsterdam, is the Amsterdam Art. It’s about five minutes to the city centre by car or bike, and about half an hour if you walk down by the canals. If you’re ever in Amsterdam, and you go by a hotel with a painted cow out front, that’s the very hotel. Very clean, nice art inside, and very good rates, 45 euros a night. And, with mostly all the tourists going to the city centre hotels, there are usually rooms available. Their clientele are in the bigger part, business types.
We landed at half twelve, booked into the hotel, dumped our bags and headed for the pub. As we didn’t actually have a ticket for the game, we needed to scout out a pub with some quality TV coverage, and a friendly crowd of like-minded supporters. I suggested a pub that I’d been in before, I cannot remember the name of it for the life of me, but it’s opposite the Banana Bar, in the red light district.
Ok, by now you’re starting to wonder if I got myself a hooker sandwich at the weekend. What was I doing in the red light district? Was it fun? How much was it? Did I? How many?
Well I’ll tell ya, it’s the best place to go in Amsterdam. It’s also the safest place. You see, there is next to no trouble at night in the RLD. If there is, it’s dealt with at great speed by the police, or the many bouncers employed by the local businesses.
The bar I was talking about is full of suits of armour and rock memorabilia. Every time I’ve been in it, the same guy has served me behind the bar. He’s the owner/barman/DJ, and I’ve had some cracking chats about Jim Morrison with him. Seriously, have a pint in this place if you’re ever in Amsterdam.
The red light district itself, is a fascinating place. I’d go as far as to say it’s one of the most bizarre places in the world. Firstly, you think it’s funny. You’ll see a huge amount of guys and couples walking up and down, window-shopping. Some are there for obvious reasons; some are there to glare at the woman. Then, you might be approached by one of the multitude of Nigerian blokes who want to sell you a bunch of drugs. My best advice if one of these guys approaches you, is to tell him you’ve got something already and move on, quickly.
The windows are obviously the biggest attraction. If you go up to the top of the main street, you’ll find the Nigerian ladies, and at the bottom, you’ll find all manner of strange shaped women, from small ladies to extremely large ladies. If you have a fetish, Amsterdam is your place.
You can’t help but wonder what happened to these girls to get them into this line of work, and if the laws are only relaxed due to police simply not being able to deal with the problems at hand. It does seem they’ve taken a ‘If you can’t beat em, join em’ view on things. I don’t know about you, but knowing that these girls have potentially been introduced into the sex trade as children, or the fact they’re maybe doing it to feed a habit, kind of ruins the moment for me.
When you get by the initial titillation and fascination of the red light district, you see it’s darker side. Eventually, you’ll notice the fake smiles on the prostitutes faces in the windows, the micro gesture of lust and disgust on the faces of the potential clients, and the paranoia pouring off people who got, just a little too high. I would highly recommend exploring this part of Amsterdam, if you’re ever in the city. As I’ve said, the pubs are quality and you have to experience the rest to believe it. Really. Just remember to leave your camera at home. You could end up in concrete boots for taking a harmless photo.
Maybe later on I’ll get all gushy about the Van Gogh and Ann Frank museums, and the markets, but for now, I want to see what the rest of you have been doing. I already know about Joe, and his magical clock. A truly quality bit of work, and highly deserved for such a brilliant book. But, I hope the rest of you have been misbehaving! I even noticed Matt has posted! That makes me the poor blogging cousin, eh? Damn.
Anyway, while I was in the pub in Amsterdam, I heard this song and it has stuck in my head all weekend. Probably very poignant, I’ll let you be the judge.
I was over in Amsterdam for the Scotland game with a couple of mates, for the weekend. I never expected Scotland to actually win the game, I never do, what I expected was a good laugh, and to enjoy another glorious defeat. I wasn’t disappointed. Scotland, yet again, lost against the Dutch. At least it wasn’t as bad as our last 6-0 defeat, yeah, we halved that goal difference. 3-0. Take that Holland! Give us a few years, and it might go down to 2-0. You just wait!
Anyway, let’s steer away from the football chat; I wouldn’t want you to start drooling on your keyboards. At some point, I want to do a post about my first true love, Celtic football Club. Oooo, I shudder at the pages of guff I could write about Celtic. I’m a bit of a football geek. Ok, ok, maybe that’s like calling the Pope, a bit of a Catholic, but it’s not like a twenty-four hour obsession, I usually sleep as well.
Where was I, yes, the Dam. If you’ve ever been to Amsterdam before, you’ll know that the best way to get about everywhere is by bike. On this occasion, I never hired a bike. I was wearing my kilt, and biking isn’t very comfortable when you have a kilt on. If you’re doing any great speed, you end up with the genitalia of a two year old. Not the best look to have when a lady person whips your kilt round your head.
And while I’m touching o that subject, what’s that about? What’s with woman, who’ve had a bit of a drink, thinking it’s ok to run by you and flick up your kilt? If I did that, I’d be looking at ten years in jail, and my name to be on some sort of list!
I don’t wear my kilt all the time, only Scotland games and weddings. This is the reason why. Constant drive by sex attacks could be the death of the kilt.
So, Amsterdam. When I go, I always like to stay in the same hotel. I’m weird like that. Everywhere I go, if I’ve been there before, I’ll stay in either the same hotel, or the same area. My favourite hotel in Amsterdam, is the Amsterdam Art. It’s about five minutes to the city centre by car or bike, and about half an hour if you walk down by the canals. If you’re ever in Amsterdam, and you go by a hotel with a painted cow out front, that’s the very hotel. Very clean, nice art inside, and very good rates, 45 euros a night. And, with mostly all the tourists going to the city centre hotels, there are usually rooms available. Their clientele are in the bigger part, business types.
We landed at half twelve, booked into the hotel, dumped our bags and headed for the pub. As we didn’t actually have a ticket for the game, we needed to scout out a pub with some quality TV coverage, and a friendly crowd of like-minded supporters. I suggested a pub that I’d been in before, I cannot remember the name of it for the life of me, but it’s opposite the Banana Bar, in the red light district.
Ok, by now you’re starting to wonder if I got myself a hooker sandwich at the weekend. What was I doing in the red light district? Was it fun? How much was it? Did I? How many?
Well I’ll tell ya, it’s the best place to go in Amsterdam. It’s also the safest place. You see, there is next to no trouble at night in the RLD. If there is, it’s dealt with at great speed by the police, or the many bouncers employed by the local businesses.
The bar I was talking about is full of suits of armour and rock memorabilia. Every time I’ve been in it, the same guy has served me behind the bar. He’s the owner/barman/DJ, and I’ve had some cracking chats about Jim Morrison with him. Seriously, have a pint in this place if you’re ever in Amsterdam.
The red light district itself, is a fascinating place. I’d go as far as to say it’s one of the most bizarre places in the world. Firstly, you think it’s funny. You’ll see a huge amount of guys and couples walking up and down, window-shopping. Some are there for obvious reasons; some are there to glare at the woman. Then, you might be approached by one of the multitude of Nigerian blokes who want to sell you a bunch of drugs. My best advice if one of these guys approaches you, is to tell him you’ve got something already and move on, quickly.
The windows are obviously the biggest attraction. If you go up to the top of the main street, you’ll find the Nigerian ladies, and at the bottom, you’ll find all manner of strange shaped women, from small ladies to extremely large ladies. If you have a fetish, Amsterdam is your place.
You can’t help but wonder what happened to these girls to get them into this line of work, and if the laws are only relaxed due to police simply not being able to deal with the problems at hand. It does seem they’ve taken a ‘If you can’t beat em, join em’ view on things. I don’t know about you, but knowing that these girls have potentially been introduced into the sex trade as children, or the fact they’re maybe doing it to feed a habit, kind of ruins the moment for me.
When you get by the initial titillation and fascination of the red light district, you see it’s darker side. Eventually, you’ll notice the fake smiles on the prostitutes faces in the windows, the micro gesture of lust and disgust on the faces of the potential clients, and the paranoia pouring off people who got, just a little too high. I would highly recommend exploring this part of Amsterdam, if you’re ever in the city. As I’ve said, the pubs are quality and you have to experience the rest to believe it. Really. Just remember to leave your camera at home. You could end up in concrete boots for taking a harmless photo.
Maybe later on I’ll get all gushy about the Van Gogh and Ann Frank museums, and the markets, but for now, I want to see what the rest of you have been doing. I already know about Joe, and his magical clock. A truly quality bit of work, and highly deserved for such a brilliant book. But, I hope the rest of you have been misbehaving! I even noticed Matt has posted! That makes me the poor blogging cousin, eh? Damn.
Anyway, while I was in the pub in Amsterdam, I heard this song and it has stuck in my head all weekend. Probably very poignant, I’ll let you be the judge.
Thursday, 19 March 2009
Shiny
I’ve not entered the blogosphere for a while, so I thought it’s about time I updated my blog-world. It’s late, and I’m trying to tire my brain out. What to talk about? I think I’ll tell you about today.
Today was freaky. It started well enough, I was quiet in the morning, so I managed to catch up on my e-mails, weird-web browsing, and yes, eventually I did some work too. Just before lunchtime, I was talking to one of the guys in the factory. His name is Scott, and he’s a twenty-five year old who stays round the corner from my work, in a place called Rutherglen. It isn’t the most dangerous place in Glasgow; I have the privilege of staying in one of the most dangerous places in Glasgow, but it’s not an all together harmless little area. Anyway, Scott was telling me about how one of his friends, had stabbed one of his other friends to death. It happened at two o’clock yesterday afternoon. They both had been taking blue valium, and drinking, when they started arguing. One thing led to another, and murder ensued.
The murderer, was twenty years old, and still a virgin. He had never been in trouble a day of those twenty years. Never spent five minutes in jail, or truly loved a woman.
The victim was twenty-two, and your typical angry Glasgow youth. No job, no hope. His only urge was to turn his shite life into one big party using smoke, drink and pills.
As if that wasn’t enough, I was also talking to another Scott in my work. I’ve known ScottII for years. He comes from my hometown, East Kilbride. (EK is famous for housing John Hannah, and Aztec Camera. Please, don’t tell anybody.) He’s a couple of years older than I am, but we have friends in common. In fact, I was the one who broke the news to him, years later, that his ex girlfriend was his ex, because she was a lesbian. I won’t tell you how I know that.
Anyway, ScottII was telling me that his fifteen-year old sister was at a party on Saturday with her friend. After a few hours, her friend’s mother appeared and took her home. ScottII’s sister stayed at the party. An hour later, her friend had come back to the party in tears. Her big sister had, yes, you guessed it, stabbed her mother to death. Drink/Drugs, again.
Scotland has the worst murder record in Western Europe. Why? Is it the drink and drugs? Is it the politicians squeezing my country dry of its resources, while failing to deal with social and financial ills brought on by greedy bankers, and lack of opportunities? Is it the idiot that sticks a pill in his/her mouth, and then picks up a knife? Is it the parents? Is it me?
What it really comes down to is we’re all screwed. How many of you have had an older relative that used to wax on about how they used to be able to leave their door open? And how neighbours, would look out for one another? I wager a few of you have. Now look at what’s happening all around you today. Society is going to Hell, while we concentrate on getting our slice of the pie. You’ve probably met quite a few people who dine on commercial pie. They’re easy to spot, they’re the gits who never hold the door or lift for you.
People need to provide for their families, and put food in their bellies, it’s always been that way, but we’re turning into a society of merchandise loving drones. Good people are dying out there from hunger, violence and many more messed up ways, and most of us are wondering how to get our newest phone working, or what time Lost is on. We see death and destruction all around us and it’s making us numb. If we dwelled on it too long, it could turn us into that angry kid who wants to get high.
I’ll tell you what though, I’m not going to stick a spike into my vain, and wish it all away. Instead of getting all Jim Morrison about it and ‘Getting my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames’, I’m re-affirming my commitment to the millions of people like myself. I’m talking about the people who shine. From the person who puts their last couple of pounds into the charity tin, with a smile, to the saint that dedicates their life to helping other people for nothing in return.
As long as there is fire in this Scotsman’s heart, I will shine. I will give up that last fiver for a mosquito net, to save a kid from malaria. I’ll reach out to people through kind word and gesture, and try to reason with hate. I’ll recycle, and buy fair trade goods. I’ll conserve energy, and talk my girlfriend into a moon cup. Whatever this life throws at me, it will only serve to strengthen my resolve. I will never give up on love.
I hope that in the end, us few millions, us beautiful few, will shine so bright, we will become the guiding light for billions to follow.
RIP Glaswegian statistics.
Shiny
Today was freaky. It started well enough, I was quiet in the morning, so I managed to catch up on my e-mails, weird-web browsing, and yes, eventually I did some work too. Just before lunchtime, I was talking to one of the guys in the factory. His name is Scott, and he’s a twenty-five year old who stays round the corner from my work, in a place called Rutherglen. It isn’t the most dangerous place in Glasgow; I have the privilege of staying in one of the most dangerous places in Glasgow, but it’s not an all together harmless little area. Anyway, Scott was telling me about how one of his friends, had stabbed one of his other friends to death. It happened at two o’clock yesterday afternoon. They both had been taking blue valium, and drinking, when they started arguing. One thing led to another, and murder ensued.
The murderer, was twenty years old, and still a virgin. He had never been in trouble a day of those twenty years. Never spent five minutes in jail, or truly loved a woman.
The victim was twenty-two, and your typical angry Glasgow youth. No job, no hope. His only urge was to turn his shite life into one big party using smoke, drink and pills.
As if that wasn’t enough, I was also talking to another Scott in my work. I’ve known ScottII for years. He comes from my hometown, East Kilbride. (EK is famous for housing John Hannah, and Aztec Camera. Please, don’t tell anybody.) He’s a couple of years older than I am, but we have friends in common. In fact, I was the one who broke the news to him, years later, that his ex girlfriend was his ex, because she was a lesbian. I won’t tell you how I know that.
Anyway, ScottII was telling me that his fifteen-year old sister was at a party on Saturday with her friend. After a few hours, her friend’s mother appeared and took her home. ScottII’s sister stayed at the party. An hour later, her friend had come back to the party in tears. Her big sister had, yes, you guessed it, stabbed her mother to death. Drink/Drugs, again.
Scotland has the worst murder record in Western Europe. Why? Is it the drink and drugs? Is it the politicians squeezing my country dry of its resources, while failing to deal with social and financial ills brought on by greedy bankers, and lack of opportunities? Is it the idiot that sticks a pill in his/her mouth, and then picks up a knife? Is it the parents? Is it me?
What it really comes down to is we’re all screwed. How many of you have had an older relative that used to wax on about how they used to be able to leave their door open? And how neighbours, would look out for one another? I wager a few of you have. Now look at what’s happening all around you today. Society is going to Hell, while we concentrate on getting our slice of the pie. You’ve probably met quite a few people who dine on commercial pie. They’re easy to spot, they’re the gits who never hold the door or lift for you.
People need to provide for their families, and put food in their bellies, it’s always been that way, but we’re turning into a society of merchandise loving drones. Good people are dying out there from hunger, violence and many more messed up ways, and most of us are wondering how to get our newest phone working, or what time Lost is on. We see death and destruction all around us and it’s making us numb. If we dwelled on it too long, it could turn us into that angry kid who wants to get high.
I’ll tell you what though, I’m not going to stick a spike into my vain, and wish it all away. Instead of getting all Jim Morrison about it and ‘Getting my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames’, I’m re-affirming my commitment to the millions of people like myself. I’m talking about the people who shine. From the person who puts their last couple of pounds into the charity tin, with a smile, to the saint that dedicates their life to helping other people for nothing in return.
As long as there is fire in this Scotsman’s heart, I will shine. I will give up that last fiver for a mosquito net, to save a kid from malaria. I’ll reach out to people through kind word and gesture, and try to reason with hate. I’ll recycle, and buy fair trade goods. I’ll conserve energy, and talk my girlfriend into a moon cup. Whatever this life throws at me, it will only serve to strengthen my resolve. I will never give up on love.
I hope that in the end, us few millions, us beautiful few, will shine so bright, we will become the guiding light for billions to follow.
RIP Glaswegian statistics.
Shiny
Friday, 27 February 2009
Patrick Rothfuss, and The Wise Mans Fear.
I did have something else to write about today, but events have taken a turn for the, well, superamazingsplendiferous, and it seems only right I give them the full attention they deserve. As you’re all probably aware of, the legend that is Pat Rothfuss has announced that he will be giving us a chance to win the most amazing prize in the world. Yeah, that’s right. More amazing than winning the real lottery, more stunning than winning a night out with your favourite musician, more appealing than a five course meal at Ronald MacDonald’s house. What I’m referring to of course, is the unbelievable chance to actually have a character in The Wise Mans Fear, with a name you have created! I think I might have just sharted.
Now the reason for the majestic bearded one, doing such a fandabulicious thing, is to apologise for the delay of his book. A delay that a lot of people were disappointed with. If I’m honest, you can’t read The Name Of The Wind and not be gagging to know what happens next in Kvothe’s life. It’s only natural. But, I understand that writing a book as good as TNOTW, takes ages. So, trying to write a book that lives up to the first book, must be harder than trying to scratch your arse with your teeth. My own personal feelings about the book not coming out in April, as Amazon promised, (Who would have thought Amazon would lie to people to get their money off them? Go figure. They’ll be selling pepper spray next….oh, wait…they already do…the Bastards!) is one of Beautiful calm, and reasonable understanding.
I, like many of you, want the best possible book we can read. And if it takes another ten years in the writing, well hell, I’m willing to wait those ten years. There are plenty more books to keep me busy. That’s not to say I won’t be checking out any and every rumour about the release date, I’m only human after all. Well, part human part hamburger, part peanut M&M’s, but still human none the less. So, be like Marky people. Hawd on to your exasperations, batten down your excitable nature, and look forward to the possibility of having someone you named, in what could be, one of the best books of our generation. Damn, I sharted again!
Now the reason for the majestic bearded one, doing such a fandabulicious thing, is to apologise for the delay of his book. A delay that a lot of people were disappointed with. If I’m honest, you can’t read The Name Of The Wind and not be gagging to know what happens next in Kvothe’s life. It’s only natural. But, I understand that writing a book as good as TNOTW, takes ages. So, trying to write a book that lives up to the first book, must be harder than trying to scratch your arse with your teeth. My own personal feelings about the book not coming out in April, as Amazon promised, (Who would have thought Amazon would lie to people to get their money off them? Go figure. They’ll be selling pepper spray next….oh, wait…they already do…the Bastards!) is one of Beautiful calm, and reasonable understanding.
I, like many of you, want the best possible book we can read. And if it takes another ten years in the writing, well hell, I’m willing to wait those ten years. There are plenty more books to keep me busy. That’s not to say I won’t be checking out any and every rumour about the release date, I’m only human after all. Well, part human part hamburger, part peanut M&M’s, but still human none the less. So, be like Marky people. Hawd on to your exasperations, batten down your excitable nature, and look forward to the possibility of having someone you named, in what could be, one of the best books of our generation. Damn, I sharted again!
Friday, 13 February 2009
Twilight, New Moon and Eclipse (Spoilers included)
I've been a fan of Vampire novels all my life. Growing up, all I would read was horror novels, James Herbert, Edgar Alan Poe, you know the sort of thing. My favourite books have been Brian Lumley’s Necro series, nobody does Vampires like Lumley, nobody. So, it was with much excitement I started reading Stephenie Meyer's. Not knowing much about the books before hand, I was looking forward to getting my teeth into them (no pun intended). How shockingly disappointed I was. Don't get me wrong, they are really well written books. I didn't mind her writing style at all, she keeps the story moving along nicely, and I don't have a problem with the fact her Vampires are mostly toothless. It's like a house full of Louis de Pointe du Lac's. What I do have a problem with, is the monumental amount of swooning over Edward Cullen. Pages upon pages of looking longingly into his eyes, heads getting pressed against his chests, his sweet smelling breath, his strong arms, his perfect face........Damn, he's even giving me wood!
BUT IT'S A ROMANCE!! I hear you screaming. Yes, I understand that, and even if I you forget about the slush, and constant bringing up of great love stories like Romeo and Juliet, it doesn't really bring anything else to the table. Let's do a quick synopsis of Twilight, New moon and Eclipse shall we.
Twilight: Bella, moves to a new town. Bella meets and falls in love with a young guy called Edward. Bella is told that her new boyfriend is a Vampire, and has killed many folk. Bella, is in danger, Edward saves her. She doesn't get changed into a Vampire.
New moon: Bella is in danger AGAIN. Edward leaves her for her own sake. Bella, starts hanging with Jacob (an Indian Werewolf), and does dangerous stuff. Bella, nearly drowns, Edward, is so cut up he decides to top himself by noising up other Vampires (he thinks she's dead). Bella goes to him to tell him she's not dead. Nobody changes her into a Vampire.
Eclipse: Bella, now looks like she will FINALLY become a Vampire. Bella becomes entangled in a love triangle. Bella is yet again in danger. Edward saves her again. Nobody turns her into a Vampire.
And as I said before, all through the books you get classic romance characters shoved down your throat. A sneaky author trick to put these two love birds into the star crossed lovers top ten, me thinks.
I love to be surprised when I'm reading a book. These books have no surprises in them at all. Hell, they even start with telling you about the ending. So, you know the danger is coming; you just have to get the through four hundred plus pages of romantic nonsense first. And, when you finally get through it all, the action is short and very disappointing. Well, disappointing from a blood thirsty, horror loving, hairy, East End of Glasgow blokes point of view. If you're a teenage girl, it might scare the thong off you, but I can think of soooo many different; more enjoyable ways to get the thong off you. And, unlike Eddie Cullen, I can go all the way! It would be the best twenty seconds of your life.
Well, that's all from Marky the book basher, I'm off to find a shop that sells nothing but Mills and Boon books, at set it alight.
Oh, and check out the trailer for the movie. If only there was this much action in the book!
BUT IT'S A ROMANCE!! I hear you screaming. Yes, I understand that, and even if I you forget about the slush, and constant bringing up of great love stories like Romeo and Juliet, it doesn't really bring anything else to the table. Let's do a quick synopsis of Twilight, New moon and Eclipse shall we.
Twilight: Bella, moves to a new town. Bella meets and falls in love with a young guy called Edward. Bella is told that her new boyfriend is a Vampire, and has killed many folk. Bella, is in danger, Edward saves her. She doesn't get changed into a Vampire.
New moon: Bella is in danger AGAIN. Edward leaves her for her own sake. Bella, starts hanging with Jacob (an Indian Werewolf), and does dangerous stuff. Bella, nearly drowns, Edward, is so cut up he decides to top himself by noising up other Vampires (he thinks she's dead). Bella goes to him to tell him she's not dead. Nobody changes her into a Vampire.
Eclipse: Bella, now looks like she will FINALLY become a Vampire. Bella becomes entangled in a love triangle. Bella is yet again in danger. Edward saves her again. Nobody turns her into a Vampire.
And as I said before, all through the books you get classic romance characters shoved down your throat. A sneaky author trick to put these two love birds into the star crossed lovers top ten, me thinks.
I love to be surprised when I'm reading a book. These books have no surprises in them at all. Hell, they even start with telling you about the ending. So, you know the danger is coming; you just have to get the through four hundred plus pages of romantic nonsense first. And, when you finally get through it all, the action is short and very disappointing. Well, disappointing from a blood thirsty, horror loving, hairy, East End of Glasgow blokes point of view. If you're a teenage girl, it might scare the thong off you, but I can think of soooo many different; more enjoyable ways to get the thong off you. And, unlike Eddie Cullen, I can go all the way! It would be the best twenty seconds of your life.
Well, that's all from Marky the book basher, I'm off to find a shop that sells nothing but Mills and Boon books, at set it alight.
Oh, and check out the trailer for the movie. If only there was this much action in the book!
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Being A Wean
When I was born, I was given up for adoption. The most I know about my birth parents, is their age. My mother was 14 and my father was 19. I never knew I was adopted until my sixth birthday, my adopted parents thought it would be best to tell me as soon as I could understand, a smart move I think. I can only imagine how I would have handled the news as a teenager. Probably, with lots of anger. Being adopted is one of those conversation nightmares for me. People either say to you “At least you were chosen. It makes you special.” Or, “Have you ever thought about finding your birth parents?” These, are the annoying opening gambits that I would like to touch on. Well, not altogether annoying, more monotonous. And not really touch on, more warn you about. .
Let’s start shall we. First up, “At least you were chosen. It makes you special.” Not really, you condescending swine. Yes, somebody chose to take me in, and I’ll be eternally grateful for that, but for every parent that gets a child, there is a deserving couple still waiting. My adopted parents were looking for a healthy baby, and they got me. They had their name down on the register for a while, and I was the first healthy, baby boy that came along. Then in a matter of days, I went from baby William, (John Doe, for orphan babies in Scotland) to baby Mark. I was special in the sense that I got to be adopted into a family that could feed and cloth me, special in the way I wasn’t born in a third world country, but that’s where the special runs out. I’ll delve more into my colourful childhood in later posts, so for the moment, lets just say I can’t watch Annie without wanting to slap the freckles of that smug little cow.
So, that brings me to “Have you ever thought about finding your birth parents?” Well, yes and no. Yes, because it would be nice to see if they looked like me, or had any of my eccentricities, or felt guilty enough to buy me a house. And no, because of the fear of rejection, or finding out they’re worse than the parents I already had. After all, they didn’t get off to the best of starts dumping my gorgeous bum. It is something that I need to deal with eventually, but there are so many mines to dodge whenever I get to thinking about them, that I tend not to dwell on it. Deep down I know I will try to trace them some day. As Logen Ninefingers would say, ‘Once you’ve got a task to do, it’s better to do it than live with the fear of it.’ Good advice.
Well, in a round about way, that’s the warning. Whenever you talk to an adopted kid, try to keep away from the ‘special’ quote, and don’t ask them about their birth parents. You might be opening a wound that will make you both feel difficult. Instead, try something a wee bit more original when somebody tells you they’re adopted. Something like
‘Why did you tell me that? Are you after my parents now?’
Or
‘So! Giraffes, in Norway, brought me up!’
Go on try it. It’s fun. The best one gets five stars.
Let’s start shall we. First up, “At least you were chosen. It makes you special.” Not really, you condescending swine. Yes, somebody chose to take me in, and I’ll be eternally grateful for that, but for every parent that gets a child, there is a deserving couple still waiting. My adopted parents were looking for a healthy baby, and they got me. They had their name down on the register for a while, and I was the first healthy, baby boy that came along. Then in a matter of days, I went from baby William, (John Doe, for orphan babies in Scotland) to baby Mark. I was special in the sense that I got to be adopted into a family that could feed and cloth me, special in the way I wasn’t born in a third world country, but that’s where the special runs out. I’ll delve more into my colourful childhood in later posts, so for the moment, lets just say I can’t watch Annie without wanting to slap the freckles of that smug little cow.
So, that brings me to “Have you ever thought about finding your birth parents?” Well, yes and no. Yes, because it would be nice to see if they looked like me, or had any of my eccentricities, or felt guilty enough to buy me a house. And no, because of the fear of rejection, or finding out they’re worse than the parents I already had. After all, they didn’t get off to the best of starts dumping my gorgeous bum. It is something that I need to deal with eventually, but there are so many mines to dodge whenever I get to thinking about them, that I tend not to dwell on it. Deep down I know I will try to trace them some day. As Logen Ninefingers would say, ‘Once you’ve got a task to do, it’s better to do it than live with the fear of it.’ Good advice.
Well, in a round about way, that’s the warning. Whenever you talk to an adopted kid, try to keep away from the ‘special’ quote, and don’t ask them about their birth parents. You might be opening a wound that will make you both feel difficult. Instead, try something a wee bit more original when somebody tells you they’re adopted. Something like
‘Why did you tell me that? Are you after my parents now?’
Or
‘So! Giraffes, in Norway, brought me up!’
Go on try it. It’s fun. The best one gets five stars.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
I'm not the Pheasant Plucker, I'm the Pheasant Pluckers Son.
So, here I am again writing about my little life. I was going to kick off with the birth of Marky, right up until my teenage years, but that will take some time in the writing. There are lots of things I want to touch on about my childhood. I really need to sit down and sort it out into some kind of sensible, coherent format. Until then I’m going to tell ye all what I’ve been doing this week.
It was Shona’s birthday last week, so I decided to take to the kitchen and cook a pheasant. Not my brightest idea to date. Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite a good cook, it’s actually something I enjoy doing. Usually I will wing it, but this time, as I’ve not cooked a pheasant before, I referred to the instructions. Firstly I washed the pheasant; a process that took half an hour. 5 minutes washing the darn thing, 25 minutes heaving at having to look inside the thing, as well as scoop out some disconcerting brown stuff. Then I patted it dry, added salt and pepper to season, placed four rashers of bacon to the top of it, tied it together, and put it in the oven for sixty minutes. Always remember to check it whilst it cooks. Pour some of its juices back over it periodically while cooking, to insure tenderness. And lastly, but most importantly, leave the pheasant to sit for the same time as you’ve spent cooking it. It’s just the same as any other meat. It tastes better when left to cool naturally. Add some roast veg, cooked in goose fat and you have a meal fit for a king. Shona enjoyed it, but I couldn’t eat a lot. The memory of the cooking of it, kind of put me off the eating of it. I picked at it until Shoney was ready for pudding.
So my top tip for cooking a pheasant, get someone else to cook the bloody thing.
After dinner, I gave Shona her birthday present, which leads me to my next top tip. Find a girlfriend who doesn’t like expensive jewellery and have a birthday at the start of January. Yeah that’s right; you’re looking for an alien woman born in July. Happy hunting. There was more that happened last week, but I’m running out of lunch hour, so here’s a quick rundown of some of the things I was up to.
1.Watched Glasgow Celtic beat Dundee 2-1
2.Received Last Argument of Kings through the post and started reading it.
3.Played and won at Poker. (£20)
4.Watched Rose Red. (pretty good, Steven King even turned up in it)
5.Read Sly Mongoose ( Really good in a Zombies and Rasta Kind of way)
6.Played Fable2 until my fingers bled. (great game were you can get sexual diseases)
7.Played five aside with a bunch of aging 30 something’s.(Me included)
8.Spent too long online looking at art, which lead me to an extraordinary idea about how to make serious money.(more on that when I’ve ironed out the details)
9.Had dinner with Shona's Ma in a fancy Restaurant.
10. Spilled soup down my favorite shirt in a fancy restaurant.
It was Shona’s birthday last week, so I decided to take to the kitchen and cook a pheasant. Not my brightest idea to date. Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite a good cook, it’s actually something I enjoy doing. Usually I will wing it, but this time, as I’ve not cooked a pheasant before, I referred to the instructions. Firstly I washed the pheasant; a process that took half an hour. 5 minutes washing the darn thing, 25 minutes heaving at having to look inside the thing, as well as scoop out some disconcerting brown stuff. Then I patted it dry, added salt and pepper to season, placed four rashers of bacon to the top of it, tied it together, and put it in the oven for sixty minutes. Always remember to check it whilst it cooks. Pour some of its juices back over it periodically while cooking, to insure tenderness. And lastly, but most importantly, leave the pheasant to sit for the same time as you’ve spent cooking it. It’s just the same as any other meat. It tastes better when left to cool naturally. Add some roast veg, cooked in goose fat and you have a meal fit for a king. Shona enjoyed it, but I couldn’t eat a lot. The memory of the cooking of it, kind of put me off the eating of it. I picked at it until Shoney was ready for pudding.
So my top tip for cooking a pheasant, get someone else to cook the bloody thing.
After dinner, I gave Shona her birthday present, which leads me to my next top tip. Find a girlfriend who doesn’t like expensive jewellery and have a birthday at the start of January. Yeah that’s right; you’re looking for an alien woman born in July. Happy hunting. There was more that happened last week, but I’m running out of lunch hour, so here’s a quick rundown of some of the things I was up to.
1.Watched Glasgow Celtic beat Dundee 2-1
2.Received Last Argument of Kings through the post and started reading it.
3.Played and won at Poker. (£20)
4.Watched Rose Red. (pretty good, Steven King even turned up in it)
5.Read Sly Mongoose ( Really good in a Zombies and Rasta Kind of way)
6.Played Fable2 until my fingers bled. (great game were you can get sexual diseases)
7.Played five aside with a bunch of aging 30 something’s.(Me included)
8.Spent too long online looking at art, which lead me to an extraordinary idea about how to make serious money.(more on that when I’ve ironed out the details)
9.Had dinner with Shona's Ma in a fancy Restaurant.
10. Spilled soup down my favorite shirt in a fancy restaurant.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
The all new life and times of me.
Happy New Year folks. It’s time for those pesky New Years resolutions. A time to reflect on the stuff we need to do to improve our lives. What will it be this year? Shed some weight? Exercise more? Be a better person? Get a new job? I’ve thought about all these options as perfect ways to improve my life. If I lose some weight, I’ll miss not being able to have my gut hold open a book when I reach for my peanut M&M’s. Exercising more would be good, but I’m pretty fit. I do a 40-minute walk to work every day and try to be as physical as possible whilst doing my job. Throw a bit of wii fit and the occasional five-aside football game into the mix, and you have a Marky that’s still hard as nails at 35.
So, to one of the most poignant ones, find a new job. How I would love a new career, a new adventure in my life that didn’t involve selling metal cladding for the Devil. I’ve been looking for a new job for the last two years, and as you can imagine, it has suddenly got harder to find work because of the credit crunch. This time last year, I was offered a job in the bank, but I didn’t take it because again, it’s not what I wanted to do. A bit of an asshole thing to say as there are loads of people who would love to have work, but can’t get it. Nevertheless, I have to be true to myself. I never wanted to end up selling metal cladding to half the gangsters in Glasgow for a guy that enjoys sectarianism, nepotism, tax fraud and lying about mostly everything. I wanted to be an artist. Not just an artist, the biggest artist to come out of Glasgow. I had some small success during Glasgow’s year of architecture (looking up to Glasgow). I got myself an exhibition and some recognition for one of my pieces, an ink sketch of George Square unbelievably. I’d spent a day with a fountain pen drawing it, using a cross-hatching technique. It was really a filler piece because my work was a bit light, but a couple of upper class types loved it, and it was then transferred to a display for looking up to Glasgow, in The Modern Art Gallery. I then sold it for £500 later that year. Cha-Ching!
It all went down hill from there, artistically speaking. My art wasn’t selling; I put it on hold so that I could concentrate on feeding myself and putting a roof over my head. My new art was finding a job and quick. Eight years later, I find myself completely without inspiration when it comes to picking up a brush. I still sketch things, the cat, Shona, anything that stays still for longer than five minutes, but it’s getting less and less every year. I’m thinking now, after the death of my old neighbour, that it would be nice to keep the painting until I’m retired. Something to throw myself into and keep me active, you know the kind of thing, bit of travel, bit of painting, nice. So, where does that leave me you ask? Right back where I started I guess, looking for a new job that’s worthwhile and enjoyable. I will get there. I know that. I’ve always been strong whatever life throws at me, and I will continue to be so. Celtic blood flows through these veins.
That leaves me with being a better person this year, which I suppose what this post is really about. From now on the life and times of me will be about my life, and less about Blessed and the Daily Mash ect, ect. I intend to be honest about every aspect of my life from birth. Not to the point you can empty my bank account, but true to myself and to you the reader. However, don’t fret you-tube lovers, I’ll still be throwing up the odd visual/audio tit-bit to emphasise some point or another. This neatly brings me to this little gem. I dedicate it to my art, I know yer there pal, I’ll come out to play soon, I promise.
So, to one of the most poignant ones, find a new job. How I would love a new career, a new adventure in my life that didn’t involve selling metal cladding for the Devil. I’ve been looking for a new job for the last two years, and as you can imagine, it has suddenly got harder to find work because of the credit crunch. This time last year, I was offered a job in the bank, but I didn’t take it because again, it’s not what I wanted to do. A bit of an asshole thing to say as there are loads of people who would love to have work, but can’t get it. Nevertheless, I have to be true to myself. I never wanted to end up selling metal cladding to half the gangsters in Glasgow for a guy that enjoys sectarianism, nepotism, tax fraud and lying about mostly everything. I wanted to be an artist. Not just an artist, the biggest artist to come out of Glasgow. I had some small success during Glasgow’s year of architecture (looking up to Glasgow). I got myself an exhibition and some recognition for one of my pieces, an ink sketch of George Square unbelievably. I’d spent a day with a fountain pen drawing it, using a cross-hatching technique. It was really a filler piece because my work was a bit light, but a couple of upper class types loved it, and it was then transferred to a display for looking up to Glasgow, in The Modern Art Gallery. I then sold it for £500 later that year. Cha-Ching!
It all went down hill from there, artistically speaking. My art wasn’t selling; I put it on hold so that I could concentrate on feeding myself and putting a roof over my head. My new art was finding a job and quick. Eight years later, I find myself completely without inspiration when it comes to picking up a brush. I still sketch things, the cat, Shona, anything that stays still for longer than five minutes, but it’s getting less and less every year. I’m thinking now, after the death of my old neighbour, that it would be nice to keep the painting until I’m retired. Something to throw myself into and keep me active, you know the kind of thing, bit of travel, bit of painting, nice. So, where does that leave me you ask? Right back where I started I guess, looking for a new job that’s worthwhile and enjoyable. I will get there. I know that. I’ve always been strong whatever life throws at me, and I will continue to be so. Celtic blood flows through these veins.
That leaves me with being a better person this year, which I suppose what this post is really about. From now on the life and times of me will be about my life, and less about Blessed and the Daily Mash ect, ect. I intend to be honest about every aspect of my life from birth. Not to the point you can empty my bank account, but true to myself and to you the reader. However, don’t fret you-tube lovers, I’ll still be throwing up the odd visual/audio tit-bit to emphasise some point or another. This neatly brings me to this little gem. I dedicate it to my art, I know yer there pal, I’ll come out to play soon, I promise.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
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.
Tunes
