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.
Monday, 30 March 2009
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.
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About Me
- marky
- I live in a Pigeon loft in Glasgow. I fight dogs for food and mug cows for drink. Monkeys live in my beard. I have lived for centuries under my bed and only came out when they invented peanut m&m's. I understand everything.