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!
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
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!
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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.