Okay, so now I've posted a few links about the place leading back to here, the pressure is on, metaphorically of course, to actually write something. Something useful, informative, entertaining, maybe even educating.
(Drums fingers on the table.)
(Looks out window for inspiration.)
(Scratches backside.)
(Tries whistling.)
Well, looks like no inspiration has fallen my way this morning. Maybe I'm still creatively and emotionally drained after watching the Old Firm game yesterday. Or perhaps it's more to do with the heated debates over the weekend about freedom of speech, what constitutes good writing and whether or not a specific website's editors are biased towards a particular religion. Usually I try to keep out of such forum topics for fear of upsetting anyone. Sometimes I even sit and type a lengthy reply only to either delete it or save it for deletion later. However, when I awoke on Sunday morning and the arguments were still raging I couldn't resist the urge. My fingers started typing by themselves and, well, before I knew it, my reply had been posted.
This, of course, led to the need to express myself further, only in fiction this time. I hurriedly composed a short story that summed up my feelings. Will it upset some people? Yes, I'm afraid it probably will. Should I be bothered about upsetting a section of society? Does it depend on who that section are?
Obviously I wouldn't like or want to upset the local Women's Guild, or a mothers and toddlers group, or the war veterans, or any fine upstanding citizens. No, honest, I wouldn't. Not even in fiction. I know, self-censorship could kill my art, but I'll take that chance for now.
Anyway, the question remains, to which particular group might this piece have caused offence. The answer: religious bigots, the dregs of society, the knuckle draggers who keep Scotland in the dark age by pretending we're in Northern Ireland.
Yes, you're saying. Get into those louts. Remind them the pen is indeed mightier than the sword. I hear you. The problem some may have with this particular piece is that is biased against one side and not the other.
Should I have written a more balanced piece? One that highlights the thugs on both sides of the religious divide? Well, I'm not the BBC. I don't have any obligation to be impartial. No licence fee money comes my way. If it did, I may be persuaded to add a few sentences about those Celtic supporting Catholics who...
I've written a couple of other stories touching on Glasgow's religious and football divide. They were balanced and pointed the finger at both. But I don't have to do it all the time. No-one does, unless you work for the BBC, of course.
Just like every muslim isn't a terrorist, every protestant isn't a bigot and every catholic isn't a tattie-muncher, although we do like a lot of chips, but not on our shoulders.
Here is a link to that story. http://www.abctales.com/story/oldpesky/plastic-jesus
Time will tell what sort, if any, of response this latest story will receive. In the meantime let's look ahead to Winter. Yes, the snow will be here soon, and my Winter obsession of checking mountain webcams will soon be up and running.
Glencoe
Honestly, the sun always shines on the Glencoe Car Park Run.
Monday, 19 September 2011
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
London Day 2
Woke up on Sunday with one thing on my mind: Football. Just because I'm on holiday visiting relatives doesn't mean I give up my addiction. Compromises were made. I'd sacrifice watching Celtic at lunchtime in return for everyone watching Manchester United v Arsenal at 4.00pm. Deal struck we headed to Hoxton to meet up with an uncle for a couple of beers.
We sat in the pub, exchanging stories, old, new and recycled, getting louder as the hours passed. Uncle's not much of a football man, but as we were buying the drink he had no option other than finding a pub with a TV showing the game.
He grudgingly took us to The White Horse, a pub he used to run when times were better. It was the sort of place I wouldn't even have looked in the window never mind waltz in like a regular. Everyone knew my uncle. We were introduced as his nephews. I cracked a couple of jokes about being typical stingey Scots, so feel free to buy us a round. The few people already there shared a smile and raised a friendly glass. We'd arrived early enough to get seats at one of only three tables.
The state of the place mirrored my uncle's own decline. He vociferously declared the pub's decline to everyone there. I couldn't have cared less. I only had eyes for the TV, and as the teams took to the field, you could've sat me in a cage full of hungry lions and I'd still have stayed for the full ninety minutes. In didn't take long before I forgot all about the bloodstains on the floorboards.
The pub's location in North London meant it could be nothing other than an Arsenal pub. So it was surprising to see someone standing in the middle of the floor wearing a Man Utd shirt, spouting confident predictions and ridiculing Arsenal's spending policy.
For those of you from other planets who are not yet familiar with the outcome let me give you the order of play. Man Utd took the lead. Arsenal missed a penalty and their chance to equalise . Utd went in at half time leading 3-1.
Mr Man Utd shirt had grown a few inches and his smile barely fitted his face. Then someone, who I could only describe as Hoxton's Avon Barksdale, glided through the door with three bodyguards. A real life Babycham moment if ever I saw one.
Some locals headed out for a smoke. Some headed to the toilet. Others put their heads down and fingered the condensation running down the outside of their pints. Frank Sinatra sang Come Fly With Me in my head as I sat hypnotised by the pin stripes. I couldn't take my eyes off Avon and his buddies.
Mr Man Utd only looked up when he sensed Avon standing inches from his face. I couldn't make out the actual words, but there was need. It was like watching a foreign language film where the body language said it all.
It wasn't the best moment for my uncle to give us his opinions on the number of macaroons, so I whispered to him to shut the fuck up. When I turned back around Avon was staring at me. I nodded acknowledgement and took a drink of my pint. He turned his attention back to Man Utd.
The girl from behind the bar eased the tension by producing a silver platter of sandwiches. This gave others a chance to break the silence, as did the teams running out for the start of the second half.
I hoped for a second half comeback from Arsenal. Not that I support Arsenal. If Man utd were down 3-1 I'd have wanted them to comeback. When my own team's not playing I always want to see a close game. And at 3-1 down, if Arsenal did come back then I was in for treat. It would be a classic.
But it wasn't to be. The game would still be remembered as a classic, but for completely different reasons. The goals just kept coming. Unfortunately, for Arsenal, they were all coming at the wrong end.
The atmosphere in the pub sank deeper and deeper. The TV was switched off at one point, but returned a minute later. I felt their pain. I've seen my own team being trounced by Rangers and it hurts more than a break-up.
The game finished 8-2. I feel this is one of those occasions when I'll have to spell out the numbers just to confirm I've not mis-typed. The game finished Man Utd Eight Arsenal Two. It's not even a once in a lifetime score. It's a once ever score.
We left right after the whistle in search of food, stumbled around a few corners and into a Vietnamese Restaurant. My uncle, although he lived about half a mile away, had never been inside the restaurant, and mumbled something about cats. But the place had a few diners, mostly orientals, which we took to be a good sign.
While we looked at the menus and quenched our thirst from the long 10 minute walk, the seats around us filled up. The place was buzzing and the waiting staff took our orders with urgency. No sooner had we ordered and it arrived. I've had slower service at McDonald's Drive-Thrus. So impressed was I at the speed of service I never noticed the queue of people standing at the front door waiting to be seated.
Then I tasted the food: Stir fry chicken with lemon grass, chilli and onions. After one mouthful I sat back, looked at the others wolfing their own orders, and then looked at the ever growing queue. Even my uncle, who'd screwed his face up at the menu, stopped talking and wolfed his noodles.
Unfortunately, that speedy service had it's downsides. I sensed them hanging over me and had to tell them twice that I hadn't actually finished yet. When I asked to see the Dessert Menu the waitress's shoulders noticably dropped, so I changed my mind asked for the bill, which she produced from behind her back.
When we left we squeezed past the hordes waiting in the doorway and outside. I looked back at the sign, as we didn't have a clue what the place was called. Song Que Authentic Vietnamese Food.
Turns out it has a reputation as the finest Vietnamese Restaurant in London. After spending most of the day in local dives, sampling North London underclass culture, we ended the day by introducing our uncle to a taste of the world beyond his prejudice, but I have a feeling he won't be back in a hurry.
We sat in the pub, exchanging stories, old, new and recycled, getting louder as the hours passed. Uncle's not much of a football man, but as we were buying the drink he had no option other than finding a pub with a TV showing the game.
He grudgingly took us to The White Horse, a pub he used to run when times were better. It was the sort of place I wouldn't even have looked in the window never mind waltz in like a regular. Everyone knew my uncle. We were introduced as his nephews. I cracked a couple of jokes about being typical stingey Scots, so feel free to buy us a round. The few people already there shared a smile and raised a friendly glass. We'd arrived early enough to get seats at one of only three tables.
The state of the place mirrored my uncle's own decline. He vociferously declared the pub's decline to everyone there. I couldn't have cared less. I only had eyes for the TV, and as the teams took to the field, you could've sat me in a cage full of hungry lions and I'd still have stayed for the full ninety minutes. In didn't take long before I forgot all about the bloodstains on the floorboards.
The pub's location in North London meant it could be nothing other than an Arsenal pub. So it was surprising to see someone standing in the middle of the floor wearing a Man Utd shirt, spouting confident predictions and ridiculing Arsenal's spending policy.
For those of you from other planets who are not yet familiar with the outcome let me give you the order of play. Man Utd took the lead. Arsenal missed a penalty and their chance to equalise . Utd went in at half time leading 3-1.
Mr Man Utd shirt had grown a few inches and his smile barely fitted his face. Then someone, who I could only describe as Hoxton's Avon Barksdale, glided through the door with three bodyguards. A real life Babycham moment if ever I saw one.
Some locals headed out for a smoke. Some headed to the toilet. Others put their heads down and fingered the condensation running down the outside of their pints. Frank Sinatra sang Come Fly With Me in my head as I sat hypnotised by the pin stripes. I couldn't take my eyes off Avon and his buddies.
Mr Man Utd only looked up when he sensed Avon standing inches from his face. I couldn't make out the actual words, but there was need. It was like watching a foreign language film where the body language said it all.
It wasn't the best moment for my uncle to give us his opinions on the number of macaroons, so I whispered to him to shut the fuck up. When I turned back around Avon was staring at me. I nodded acknowledgement and took a drink of my pint. He turned his attention back to Man Utd.
The girl from behind the bar eased the tension by producing a silver platter of sandwiches. This gave others a chance to break the silence, as did the teams running out for the start of the second half.
I hoped for a second half comeback from Arsenal. Not that I support Arsenal. If Man utd were down 3-1 I'd have wanted them to comeback. When my own team's not playing I always want to see a close game. And at 3-1 down, if Arsenal did come back then I was in for treat. It would be a classic.
But it wasn't to be. The game would still be remembered as a classic, but for completely different reasons. The goals just kept coming. Unfortunately, for Arsenal, they were all coming at the wrong end.
The atmosphere in the pub sank deeper and deeper. The TV was switched off at one point, but returned a minute later. I felt their pain. I've seen my own team being trounced by Rangers and it hurts more than a break-up.
The game finished 8-2. I feel this is one of those occasions when I'll have to spell out the numbers just to confirm I've not mis-typed. The game finished Man Utd Eight Arsenal Two. It's not even a once in a lifetime score. It's a once ever score.
We left right after the whistle in search of food, stumbled around a few corners and into a Vietnamese Restaurant. My uncle, although he lived about half a mile away, had never been inside the restaurant, and mumbled something about cats. But the place had a few diners, mostly orientals, which we took to be a good sign.
While we looked at the menus and quenched our thirst from the long 10 minute walk, the seats around us filled up. The place was buzzing and the waiting staff took our orders with urgency. No sooner had we ordered and it arrived. I've had slower service at McDonald's Drive-Thrus. So impressed was I at the speed of service I never noticed the queue of people standing at the front door waiting to be seated.
Then I tasted the food: Stir fry chicken with lemon grass, chilli and onions. After one mouthful I sat back, looked at the others wolfing their own orders, and then looked at the ever growing queue. Even my uncle, who'd screwed his face up at the menu, stopped talking and wolfed his noodles.
Unfortunately, that speedy service had it's downsides. I sensed them hanging over me and had to tell them twice that I hadn't actually finished yet. When I asked to see the Dessert Menu the waitress's shoulders noticably dropped, so I changed my mind asked for the bill, which she produced from behind her back.
When we left we squeezed past the hordes waiting in the doorway and outside. I looked back at the sign, as we didn't have a clue what the place was called. Song Que Authentic Vietnamese Food.
Turns out it has a reputation as the finest Vietnamese Restaurant in London. After spending most of the day in local dives, sampling North London underclass culture, we ended the day by introducing our uncle to a taste of the world beyond his prejudice, but I have a feeling he won't be back in a hurry.
Sunday, 28 August 2011
London
Well, so much for my ambition to write something at least once a month. Knew it wouldn't last. Anyway, now that I've found my little personal space once again, thought I'd attempt to actually write something. Doesn't even have to be anything profound or remotely humourous, just a few lines of the literary variety.
I arrived in London after a very lengthy drive, broken up with many stops for pees and lattes. Of course, it goes without saying that I got lost once I left the motorway and had to navigate the mean streets. Yes, I have a satnav, of sorts, but she lost the GPS signal when I needed her most leaving me to drive around aimlessly hoping to stumble across my final destination, which, of course, well, need I say.
On Saturday I took in a few sights. First up, Borough Market where I half-expected to see contestants from The Apprentice flogging a selection of hastily created culinary delights. Not that I missed them. The Market massaged my senses with the most wonderful assortment of visual displays, tantalising aromas and delightful tastes.
Whilst posing for a photo in front of a sun-drenched St Paul's Cathedral I received a text from Scotland bemoaning the current, and usual, state of affairs regarding the amount of rain falling on my homeland. I laughed, but before I could reply the clouds gathered around me, and St Paul's, and emptied their contents with a ferocity that reminded me of home sweet home.
Refuge, and an excuse to feed my latte habit, was sought in Apostrophe until the rain stopped. Taking advantage of the break in the clouds I squeaked my way across the Millenium Bridge toward the Tate Modern in search of some cultcha.
Hopes of being dazzled were quickly dashed as I entered the Material Gestures wing. I was back to my cynical self as I wandered around looking at the blobs of paint flung on various surfaces as if they were a local primary school project. But it was the little blurbs next to each piece that raised my spirits and gave me a more on-depth and academic way of looking deeper into each piece. Of course, that is a lie. The information provided just reassured me all these people had their head up their arse, and that is about the size of it. Mind you, it was probably good work if you could get it. The whole experience reminded me of lots of modern poetry. A bunch of pretentious farts trying to prove how clever they are, and if proles like me don't get it, that's because I'm thick as mince. I quite like mince really.
Okay, so maybe I'm being a tad harsh on those poor misunderstood artists, and you're thinking surely there must've been something that caught my eye in a positive manner. Well, if I had to pick out one exhibition that both excited and entertained me, it would be John Heartfield's photomontages in the Poetry and Dream wing. John used satire to expose the deceptions of politics, especially Hitler's Nazi Germany. If you visit the Tate, don't miss this exhibition.
Next on the agenda, Harrods. Did I buy anything? Well, I tried to look the part, especially in the Home Department, or whatever it was called. I paused for a while and discussed, with great emotion and enthusiasm, whether I preferred the silver cutlery set at £13,000 or the gold one at £30,000. I lingered for many minutes, hoping to catch the eye of the smartly dressed sales advisor, but to no avail. He obviously had my number and could tell at a glance I was no more than a chancer pretending to live the dream. I thought it rather funny when I walked away that he pounced on a rich-looking American couple who took my place in front of the cutlery display. I thought of heading back, introducing myself and asking them if they wanted to 'chip in' for the set, but my partner dragged me away towards the ice cream parlour where a mere £30 secured a couple of ice creams.
And then it was back to the real world of London, which is getting around on public transport. For a country lad like myself it was a bit of a culture shock. All that standing in crammed carriages, up elevators, down elevators, back on another train, link with a bus, and repeat process until nackered. I missed my car, not to mention the mountain views.
And that was my day in London. As for the night, well, that's another story which I don't have time for just now as I'm being dragged back out to do it all again.
I arrived in London after a very lengthy drive, broken up with many stops for pees and lattes. Of course, it goes without saying that I got lost once I left the motorway and had to navigate the mean streets. Yes, I have a satnav, of sorts, but she lost the GPS signal when I needed her most leaving me to drive around aimlessly hoping to stumble across my final destination, which, of course, well, need I say.
On Saturday I took in a few sights. First up, Borough Market where I half-expected to see contestants from The Apprentice flogging a selection of hastily created culinary delights. Not that I missed them. The Market massaged my senses with the most wonderful assortment of visual displays, tantalising aromas and delightful tastes.
Whilst posing for a photo in front of a sun-drenched St Paul's Cathedral I received a text from Scotland bemoaning the current, and usual, state of affairs regarding the amount of rain falling on my homeland. I laughed, but before I could reply the clouds gathered around me, and St Paul's, and emptied their contents with a ferocity that reminded me of home sweet home.
Refuge, and an excuse to feed my latte habit, was sought in Apostrophe until the rain stopped. Taking advantage of the break in the clouds I squeaked my way across the Millenium Bridge toward the Tate Modern in search of some cultcha.
Hopes of being dazzled were quickly dashed as I entered the Material Gestures wing. I was back to my cynical self as I wandered around looking at the blobs of paint flung on various surfaces as if they were a local primary school project. But it was the little blurbs next to each piece that raised my spirits and gave me a more on-depth and academic way of looking deeper into each piece. Of course, that is a lie. The information provided just reassured me all these people had their head up their arse, and that is about the size of it. Mind you, it was probably good work if you could get it. The whole experience reminded me of lots of modern poetry. A bunch of pretentious farts trying to prove how clever they are, and if proles like me don't get it, that's because I'm thick as mince. I quite like mince really.
Okay, so maybe I'm being a tad harsh on those poor misunderstood artists, and you're thinking surely there must've been something that caught my eye in a positive manner. Well, if I had to pick out one exhibition that both excited and entertained me, it would be John Heartfield's photomontages in the Poetry and Dream wing. John used satire to expose the deceptions of politics, especially Hitler's Nazi Germany. If you visit the Tate, don't miss this exhibition.
Next on the agenda, Harrods. Did I buy anything? Well, I tried to look the part, especially in the Home Department, or whatever it was called. I paused for a while and discussed, with great emotion and enthusiasm, whether I preferred the silver cutlery set at £13,000 or the gold one at £30,000. I lingered for many minutes, hoping to catch the eye of the smartly dressed sales advisor, but to no avail. He obviously had my number and could tell at a glance I was no more than a chancer pretending to live the dream. I thought it rather funny when I walked away that he pounced on a rich-looking American couple who took my place in front of the cutlery display. I thought of heading back, introducing myself and asking them if they wanted to 'chip in' for the set, but my partner dragged me away towards the ice cream parlour where a mere £30 secured a couple of ice creams.
And then it was back to the real world of London, which is getting around on public transport. For a country lad like myself it was a bit of a culture shock. All that standing in crammed carriages, up elevators, down elevators, back on another train, link with a bus, and repeat process until nackered. I missed my car, not to mention the mountain views.
And that was my day in London. As for the night, well, that's another story which I don't have time for just now as I'm being dragged back out to do it all again.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
It must be election time soon
Having decided to put something here at least once a month the time has come to ramble some more. And oh what news we have this week. Allegedly, Osama Bin Laden was tracked to a high-walled compound right in the heart of Pakistan not far from Islamabad. The Americans, in their mighty wisdom, decided it would be best to go in and shoot him in the head even though he was unarmed. That, of course, is if it really was him there in the first place. I'm not usually one for conspiracy theories, and even now, although the Americans' story changes by the day, I prefer to lean on the side of the fact the Americans are just a bit shite at diplomacy and practising christian values. Who knows, maybe Osama will release a new video in time for my next ramble.
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Introductions
Perhaps it is because I have reached a certain age I now feel I have something to say. Or maybe it has nothing to do with my age and more to do with circumstance and ambition. Ambition? Yes, why not? Ambition to be heard, seen, remembered. A little bit of space in which I can ramble, post poems, short stories, novel extracts or paintings. Who knows, maybe in a gazillion years someone may stumble across this little piece of me by pressing the wrong button or taking a wrong turn. Maybe someone on their equivalent of Time Team will be discussing and guessing what life must've been like way back in the 21st century. Good luck to them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)