Sunday, April 30, 2006

Sun, please come out!

We're going for a walk soon, up, along and over the Pentland hills.

I hope the sun comes out. It's a bit nippy here this morning.

I'd better get dressed.


I like a nice cup of tea in the morning
For the start of the day you see
And at half past eleven
For my idea of heaven
Is a nice cup of tea
I like a nice cup of tea with my dinner
I like a nice cup of tea with my tea
And when it's time for bed
There's something to be said
For a nice cup of tea

If only... Wouldn't it be nice if such a simple thing as a cup of tea could make your day!? Imagine, you go the cupboard and find no tea. You're broken hearted and start thinking about preferred methods of suicide. Then you have an idea! You go down to your local corner shop and buy more tea. Your broken heart is mended and you feel on top of the world.

If only... Your boyfriend of many years walks out on you. You couldn't care less.

I think if I had three wishes, one of them would be that all the important things in life become trivial and the trivia is all-important.

I think I'd like to live in a topsy-turvy world.

My best friend dies in a horrific car crash and I don't even care.

I lose a felt-tip pen. I'm broken hearted and inconsolable. I can't stop crying. Someone comes in with a new felt-tip pen. I wasn't inconsolable after all. I feel fine again.

Saturday, April 29, 2006

Want to see my ring?

Your Mood Ring is Light Purple


Haiku Saturday!

Yay! It's Haiku Saturday.

I can't wait for Brian to start things off.

Come on, join in. You know you want to.

Friendship Book

I've just sent an email to my old pal, Sylvie. Sylvie, girl, although you're my little sister...

I was reminiscing about Friendship Books, or FBs. Sylive and I used to swap them. They were hilarious, fabulous and often outrageous.

A few people wrote to me because of my entries in them - and it was good at that age to find out about other people, their lives, their horrors, their dreams... And to make a few friends on the way.

It wasn't all fabulous, though. I once received a Friendship Book with a letter. A very strange letter. It was photocopied and had a picture of the devil on it! I could see it was in Spanish, but my Spanish being as terrible as it was, I had to get my English/Spanish Spanish/English dictionary out. These were the days long before I had a computer or even heard the word internet! Online translation was not an option!

Turned out, I was an obvious homosexual! Fancy that. All the things I liked were admired by gays! Shock! Horror! Jimmy Somerville! I must be a gay too, and the Devil had taken me for his own! I was going to drown in a toilet!

Very odd. I can laugh now, but as a nine year old boy, I was quite shocked and upset. Ok, I wasn't nine... I must have been in my early twenties. Not sure... But I didn't think there were people in the world like that, people that would write with such venom, such hatred. I just couldn't understand it. Why waste your energy like that? I still don't get it.

I really enjoyed the whole Friendship Book/Freundschaft Buch/
Livre d'Amitié thing. Sadly, the internet and email were nails in the concept's coffin. I'd love to get into it again just now. I loved making and designing them. I don't think it'll happen, though. No-one exchanges them anymore. The internet is everything to everyone.

Or do they? Have you ever had/sent/exchanged/made a Friendship Book?

Christ, I have to go. Dannii Minogue has been on the phone (again). She's at Portobello beach threatening to drown herself because people are laughing at the tracklisting she's proposed for her Greatest Hits offering. I told her not to do it, but she never listens. If Love's On Every Corner is on there, she'll make a complete fool of herself!

Friday, April 28, 2006


I've been very naughty today. I downloaded Minimal by Pet Shop Boys. It's from their forthcoming album, Fundamental.

I'm not so n
aughty, really - I will be buying it after all. I'll actually be buying the two disc version. I've already ordered it from Play.

I must have played it twenty times already. It's totally fabulous. Although I love the new single, I'm With Stupid, Minimal is a million times better. It was supposed to be the first single, but that idea was scrapped for some reason. If the rumours are to be believed, it won't be a single at all.

Big mistake!

Minimal is absolutely fabulous. Musically, it's perfect PSB. A full orchestra and beautiful synth sounds. I feel like I've died and gone to heaven when I hear it. The chorus is beautiful. Neil sings/spells, "Minimal," and then sings the word itself. Then some computerised female voice says something, which sounds to me like, "Meanwhile," but it could be, "Minimal," too - which would make more sense.

I've been scanning the internet for the lyrics but have yet to find what I'm looking for.

The song is wonderful. It's like a cross between Getting Away With It, Disappointed and something by Visage... I'm actually wondering if they were listening to Kelly Osbourne's One Word when they recorded it? There's something reminiscent of New Order about it, too.

I downloaded Integral and a low quality version of Luna Park a couple of days ago. Today, I mana
ged to get hold of The Soddom and Gomorrah Show and Casanova In Hell as well as the fabulous Minimal.

Fundamental is going to be one fabulous album. I just can't wait to hold it in my hands.

Even if Pet Shop Boys aren't your thing, you have to give it a listen. Lyrically, it's their best. Of that, I'm sure. Take Casanova In Hell, for example:

Her sharp suggestion
He couldn't get an erection
Came as a shock
He finds himself
A laughing stock
His agi
ng fate
Casanova in hell

I'm so excited, I could vomit.

Don't dob me in for downloading. I am going to buy the album. Promise!

Is Summer Here?

Guten tag, oder Grüß Gott...

It's been a lovely day here. I went out on a massive two hour walk with the dogs. They loved it. I'd like to tell you where we went, but I have no idea! I just turned left where I usually turn right and so on... We came out near a field, by a wood, a wee stream, an old dilapidated house with a car in front - with a buddleia growing inside it. I wish I had my camera. Sadly, I didn't.

I was totally knackered when I came home, but in a very good mood, verging on ecstasy. There was clearing up to do in the kitchen, but I just though, "Fuck this," and went out again.

I took a wee walk into Morningside (avoiding J K Rowling - she gets on my tits), had a look in an ethnic goods shop (I was looking for a wee Buddha) and then went on into the supermarket to get some things for our meal tonight. I was feeling in a trashy mood, so I bought some shop-made tiramisu, some frozen chips (fries, for you yanks) and some southern fried something-or-other to just bung in the oven.

Then, en route home, I went into a few bookshops. I'm looking for The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. No-one had it. I was a tad depleted, but I won't give up.

I then popped into a newsagent for a tin of smokes, a packet of pickled onion crisps and a Galaxy Caramel. I told you I was feeling trashy.

If I was a woman, I would have worn a velour tracksuit today and copious amounts of make-up. I'd have put my hair up in a high pony-tail and sprayed myself with something by Lenthric. Sadly, I don't have that option, so I just put on my usual clothes; jeans, t-shirt et al... But no jumper!

Is Summer here?

Je m'appelle Minge

Je m'appelle Minge. J'ai 33 ans. J'ai les yeux brun, les cheveaux brun. J'habite a Edinburgh en Ecosse.

Une verre de limonade, s'il vous plaît.


Bon après-midi. Est-ce qu'il y a un homme près d'ici?

Shit, see what happens when you don't use a language for almost twenty years? You end up reciting stuff from your first ever French lesson.

And I expect the spelling is totally fucked.

Oops, I just swore. I'm such a rebel.

To cut to the chase. I am not Spock. I am Minge. I am not Roy. I am not Roysie. I am not Bender. I am not Royston. I am not Taps. I am Minge.

However, I don't want to be Minge.

I want to be something else.

I'd like to be a chrysalis, but I'm not even that. I don't know if I even feel like a caterpillar. I think I'm still an egg. But a thirty three year old egg.


Time's marching on. It looks like it's not only Phyllis who's having a mid-life crisis.

When do I get to be a butterfly?

Thursday, April 27, 2006

What it feels like for a girl

Girls can wear jeans
Cut their hair short
Wear shirts and boots
’cause it’s ok to be a boy
But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading
’cause you think that being a girl is degrading
But secretly you’d love to know what it’s like
Wouldn’t you
What it feels like for a girl

Our Glorious Leader

Madonna's Confessions On A Dance Floor tour has sold out around the world. Some details of what to expect:

Live To Tell will be performed on a crucifix.

Music is just an instrumental interlude during which her dancers will roller-skate before Madge skates on to sing Everybody.

Three themed sections - equestrian, Middle East and disco.

Set list is - Future Lovers, Get Together, Like a Virgin, Jump, Live to Tell, Forbidden Love, Isaac, Sorry, Like It Or Not, Sorry (remix), I Love New York, Let It Will Be, Ray of Light, Drowned World/Substitute for Love, Paradise (Not For Me), Music, Everybody, Deeper and Deeper, Lucky Star, Hung Up.

Do you think Sorry (remix) will be the PSB Maxi Mix?

Take a look at the photograph. You can see the aforementioned crucifix along with the costume designer, Jean Paul Gaultier and a couple of dancers.

It's going to be fabulous.

I gleaned all this information from Popbitch.


Until about thirty seconds ago, I don't actually think the word blisslessness existed. It does now, because I've written it down.

Words don't have to be in any dictionary to exist, you just have to commit them to paper, and as if by magic, there they are, brought into existence by YOU!

I was inspired by Brian and his post A Bliss Shared Is A Bliss Doubled to ride my bike on my usual dog walking route, taking the dogs with me, naturally. I went out into the garage and saw my bicycle, not caked in dust nor covered in cobwebs, but obviously ignored and told it that it was going to have a new lease of life.

I went back into the garden, had a fag, got my camera from the kitchen table and went back into the garage to take the above photograph. I didn't think it was a very tasteful shot, so I undid the garage door in order to take the bike out and photograph it in the sunshine. I flipped open the door, sat on my bike... Christ! The tyres are flat! They didn't look flat, and they still don't. I'm not that fat, surely!?!? I guess they're just very rigid or thick and don't collapse from the weight of the bike alone. The weight of a human being, and they're like pancakes.

So, the bike ride is off.

I was going to take the camera with me and include some photographs I took along the route (why do Americans say row't and I say root?). That's not now going to happen.

I'll go along to Halfords or something similar tomorrow and buy a new bicycle lock and a tyre pump! I actually wrote pimp there. Oops, there goes a Freudian slip. Army of lovers on a mission, forty years of desert trips.

Still on the subject of words, when I was a kid, and always worrying about spelling (I don't give a fuck these days) I made the difference between dessert and desert, thus: You can have two portions of dessert, hence the two Ss.

Isn't that ridiculous?

And some words which phased me, I'd either turn into pictures or say phonetically: License became Lick En Seh.

So, anyway, no bliss for me, only blisslessness. And a blisslessness shared is a blisslessness doubled.

I'll have to do something fabulous now to make up for it.

I intend to pour custard all over myself and eat it off with the aid of Jaffa Cakes. Damn, we're right out of jaffa cakes.

True fact

Here's one for you:

Everybody dies.

Washing (part V)

Once upon a time, there was a boy, there was a girl...

...They were neighbours in Edinburgh.

The boy hung his washing out on the line on dry and sunny days and took it in again when it was dry. If it wasn't dry, he popped it into the tuble dryer. It was never left out over night.

The girl was a clartie wee besom and left her washing out for days at a time, regardless of weather conditions.

Even today, I see her rules of laundry are being properly applied: The washing was out on the line since yesterday. She just hauled it in, all bar one wee item. Within two minutes, the line was full again. The one item from yesterday is still on the line.

There, the washing will stay until she's done another lot, whether that's in an hour, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year...


I just went out for my last fag of the night and saw a slug on the ground.

I put salt on it.

Now I feel incredibly guilty.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Mr Como

There's something about Perry Como which I don't actually understand. Apart from the Labour Party, everything my Father loved, I hate. Not based on anything other than the fact that my Father loved it.

I should hate Perry Como.

I don't.

I don't know why I don't hate him.

Also, I actually like For The Good Times. It sometimes makes me cry.
For The Good Times:

Don't look so sad, I know it's over,
But life goes on and this ol' world will keep on turning.
Let's just be glad we had some time to spend together,
There's no need to watch the bridges that we're burning.

Lay your head upon my pillow,
Hold your warm and tender body close to mine,
Hear the whisper of the raindrops blowing soft across the window,
And make believe you love me one more time,

For the good times

I'll get along, you'll find another,
And I'll be here if you should find you ever need me,
Don't say a word about tomorrow, or forever,
There'll be time enough for sadness when you leave me

Lay your head upon my pillow,
Hold your warm and tender body close to mine,
Hear the whisper of the raindrops blowing soft across the window,
And make believe you love me one more time,

For the good times...

For the good times...
He used to have some Perry Como material on one of those ancient 8-track cassettes and would play it over and over in the car.

I remember him being quite nice to me in the car. He'd ruffle my hair, look at me and smile, pinch my cheek, tell me jokes... He was only ever nice to me when we were alone. Sometimes it made me feel uncomfortable. Mum went out to bingo one evening and it was just Dad and I at home. He sat in his usual arm-chair and I sat on the settee. I love that word, settee. Anyway, he got up out of the chair and came and sat next to me. I remember very vividly that The Good, The Bad And The Ugly had just started on the television. He put his arm around me and there it stayed until the film was over. I think I froze the whole time, wondering when he'd suddenly change, when would he start to snarl, when would he swear and shout, when would he foam at the mouth, when would he hit me?

He didn't.

He even smiled a few times. He nibbled my ear. He told me I'd better go up to bed before Mum came in or he'd be in trouble for letting me stay up so late, after all, it was school the next day.

I was frightened of going upstairs alone, but more frightened of him, so I did it, but left all the lights on in my wake.

I quickly washed my face, but didn't dry it nor brush my teeth. I didn't want to stay in the bathroom any longer than I had to. It scared me to death.

I remember lying in bed, too frightened to go back out to the landing to switch the light off, too frightened to call, "Dad! Can you switch the landing light off?" I wanted it on in any case. Mum always left it on for me. I felt sure the light would go off any second, but it didn't.

Next, I heard feet coming up the stairs. Who was it? A ghost? A monster? Dad?

It was Dad. I saw his face and felt sure he was going to tell me off for leaving the landing light on. He didn't. He just asked, "Are you alright?"

I nodded.

I thought this would mean he'd now turn my bedside lamp off, then the landing light, go downstairs and leave me in the pitch black. I knew I was about to cry. Everything was stirring inside me.

He didn't turn a single light off, just walked away, downstairs, shut the living room door and that, as they say, was that.

Moments later, Mum came in. I heard her go directly into the toilet downstairs. No surprise there. She went into the living room. I heard mumbled voices. No shouting. Phew. Then she came up the stairs.

I pretended to be asleep, but she knew I was awake.

"Do you want a drink?" she asked.

I didn't, but I knew if I asked for one, it would mean she'd come back. So I said I did. I wanted orange squash.

I can't remember any more. I suppose I fell asleep before I got my drink. All tension was gone and I was so reassured to know Mum was home.

I love my Mum.

Ten facts

Ten facts about today. One of them isn't true. Do you know which one it is?

1) I woke up at 09:15
2) I forgot to feed the dogs and only remembered at 11:30
3) I spied on my neighbour and her washing line
4) I got two voicemails from Robin
5) No-one contacted me to say they'd seen me on Newsnight
6) I farted over fifty times
7) I had white pudding and chips for my tea
8) I had a shower just after 10:00 and then got dressed
9) Someone called me on the home telephone, shouting, "Hi! I'm in Twickenham!"
10) I booked a hotel in Newcastle

Advice from a former reformed wanker

No matter how great and destructive your problems may seem now, remember, you've probably only seen the tip of the iceberg. Call it intuition, call it snooping, you have an idea something or someone isn't all it or they seem. It's probably much worse than that.

And no-one wants to hear about your problems. Just make them laugh. Pretend you don't actually care. That way, you won't give your friends and family a guilt trip - another problem for you.

Most people smile at you, to your face, and sneer at you behind your back.


Most interesting new find of the night:

Funeral Goddess/Whore

It's fabulous.


This week, according to iTunes, I have mostly been listening to:

Can You Forgive Her? - Pet Shop Boys
The Ladies Who Lunch - Elaine Stritch
Just A Dream - Donna De Lory
The Only One - Donna Summer
Irritating Noises - Bent
I'm With Stupid - Pet Shop Boys
Time Heals Everything - Bernadette Peters
Mother And Father - Madonna
American Life - Madonna
Female Trouble - Edith Massey and Thunderpuss


What do we think of this?


I pinched this from Mike Powell. I hope he doesn't mind. I think it's fabulous.

Read the caption at the foot of the screen.

Never a more true bunch of words!


Why did the Americans elect a President at whom the whole world laughs?

Washing (part IV)

My neighbour's got more washing out on her line - and I think I see method in the besom's clartie madness.

The washing line was empty for all of five minutes, then, lo and behold, there was more washing on it.

I now see what she's up to:

She does a load of washing, then, come rain or shine, she puts it out on her line. She leaves it there until she's done another load of washing, whether that be an hour, a day or a week later. She brings the washing in off of the line and replaces it with the lot she's just done and then starts the cycle again.

The dirty midden.

I know her little game.

I should be a private detective!

Washing (parts II and III)

Look! Madame's got her washing in!

Do you think she's been reading my blog?

But, hey, now mine is out! I promise you it'll be in within the hour, though. It's been a great afterny sunny and quite breezy. Oh, I can be such an old fish-wife at times!


The Fuckwits

These are the fuckwits, and this is their story:

We met them through gaydar when we lived in our wee flat in Mortonhall, Edinburgh.

They seemed pretty nice at first. Thomas (the guy with dark hair) was a psychiatric nurse and Gordon (the fat one that looks like he's got the mental age of a four year old) was in logistics. Turned out, that meant he was an administrator for a bunch of lorry drivers.

We went for a few evenings out with them to pubs and clubs in Glasgow and for walks with our dogs (we didn't have Mary back then). Their dog was a Border Collie X called Domino. We spent a few evenings with them, too, at thier home. You know, the usual, meal, drinks... They came to us once or twice.

It would seem, like most people, they were on their best behaviour when we first got to know them. They were polite, funny, friendly... And before too long, we'd organised to go on holiday together, largely thanks to my brother belonging to some kind of holiday villa club. He couldn't go away that year, so rather than lose his time in one of the properties, he offered us the choice of many villas and apartments around Europe and North America. We chose a place not far from Faro in Portugal.

It was all left to me to book, which I did, six months in advance. I bought the aeroplane tickets and, with my brother, booked the villa.

I'm not a materialistic person, really I'm not, but I was slightly annoyed. It took the fuckwits about five months to pay for the flights. The accommodation was free, thank the lord. I don't know what would have happened if I'd paid for that, too. The trouble was, it was no big deal to them. They just came up with some lame excuse about the money or that they'd forgotten. I was very tempted to tell them that it wasn't a loan...

That was all very well, but as the six months went on, we learned more and more about the fuckwits, things we didn't like. Nothing earth-shattering, just horrid little habits and immature behaviour.

Gordon wasn't out to his (adoptive) parents. He simply said it was none of their business. Though, if the truth be known, reading between the lines, he suffered from an accute case of internalised homophobia. He didn't like the fact that he was gay himself and so could not accept the fact that his parents would like it. He was as camp as knickers, the whole time, apart from when someone from his work would call (he was on call 24 hours a day). He'd immediately drop his voice two octaves and strut around with his mobile telephone like some neanderthal.

Gordon, it seemed, also had a very short fuse and hated their dog, Domino. They would often have huge arguments about the dog in front of us. Thomas would wind Gordon up even more by remaining as calm as possible and laughing in his face. Not a pretty sight.

Thomas, as I said, was a psychitric nurse and had, in my humble opinion, been to one or two too many sociology lectures. It seemed he was a past master in the art of annoying people and getting what he wanted.

One time, after a night out in Glasgow (where I drank fourteen bottles of Stella Artois) we stayed over at their place. Meg and Domino were housed, outside, in their garden, in some strange enclosure with a wee dog kennel in in. On our return, Meg had bitten through the posts and was waiting at the back door, wagging her tail! Oops!

No-one was too bothered though...

I put Meg in the living room and went up to bed. Thomas came in. "Meg can sleep in here with you if you like!" he said. Ian told him she'd be alright downstairs. He said it was no bother for her to be upstairs. Ian repeated that she'd be ok down there. She never slept in our bedroom. "I'd prefer it if she were in here with you!" he snapped.


What a child.

And they really did act like spoilt brats the whole time. It was very annoying. They were always bickering, always bragging and forever making themselves look like complete idiots.

We were beginning to regret booking this holiday with them. But booked it, we had, and there was no turning back.

We were going to Portugal in August/September and this was July. We just moved to our house in Armadale. The fuckwits came across with their dog. It shat all over my garden. They thought it was funny, then said, "It must have been Meg." Meg's never done a yellow or a brown in any garden of mine. I trained her well! Some other friends of our's came across too, and we had some kind of dinner party. Our other friends hated the fuckwits and hardly spoke to them. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. It was dreadful.

Only a matter of weeks later, and we're off on holiday.

Oh holy shit.

They drove across to our house, we left our car at home and drove with them, to a secure car-park near Edinburgh airport. Gordon had booked it, saying he'd used it before, how cheap it was and how great it was... Ian told him to cancel it as there was one much nearer to the airport and considerably cheaper. He refused and got in another strop.

On arrival, something like four in the morning, a mini-bus was supposed to take us to thei airport. The guy on the desk told us the first mini-bus was at six. We told him our flight was at six...! The guy insisted there were no flights before eight in the morning from Edinburgh. He was a complete knob. Ian and I said we'd get a taxi, get checked in etc while Gordon sorted it out. We got our taxi to the airport, checked in and breathed a sigh of relief.

They soon joined us, telling us that some other bloke had come to the desk and said the other one didn't know his arse from his elbow and that we could now check in. We told them that out of fear of Ian and I not sitting together, we'd already checked in. Gordon got in a right strop. As it was, the two seats across the aisle from us were not taken, so they were booked in there.

Then we went to the bar for breakfast. Yes, that's right, the bar. Thomas had gin, Gordon had a pint and a whisky chaser. Ian and I had coffee. Now, I'm not opposed to booze - but at five in the fucking morning on an empty stomach???

We got to Faro about lunch time and I'd already had enough of them. They were moaning, fighting, sulking and generally acting like children the whole time. I was very close to telling them to have an early night.

We got to the villa... They put their bags down and headed to... Guess where...!? That's right, the pub. We went upstairs and put our things away in a wardrobe in one of the bedrooms. The fuckwits came back about an hour later and put their things away. They were furious because we'd taken the bigger room.

Christ alive!

It was about one square metre bigger... And who were they to complain? They were staying there free thanks to my brother's charity - and all they could do was complain?

That afternoon, we went to the beach. Then, in the eveninv, they wanted to go to... Yes, you already know... The pub.

And so it went on for another couple of days. Beach and pub. Pub and beach.

We'd aready hired a car and decided to split the cost of it. It wasn't being used (by them at least) as they only ever wanted to walk to the beach or walk to the pub. Both were less than ten minutes away on foot.

We decided we'd like to go to Lisbon and asked if they minded if we take the car. I think it was about a four hour journey. They told us that we could, but if we did, they weren't going to share the cost of it. Fair enough. They'd not used it anyway, the idiots.

They went off to the pub. The Jolly Jack Tar or something like that. I hate going abroad and finding little England, full English fry-ups and Sky Sports showing at Ye Olde Oak. But they were happy with that, so we went our separate ways for a few days.

We came back to find them having had a huge fall out and not speaking, though they wanted to go for a meal. By now, Gordon had an enormous cold sore on his lip and was continually licking it. He looked like a complete tit. We went to a restaurant and had a meal. They both complained, obviously, about, "all this foreign muck," but we all ordered anyway and got on with it.

Gordon had melon. Instead of eating it with a spoon or fork, he picked it up and ate it like a monkey, the juice spewing out of his mouth and all over the floor.

A bunch of Portuguese women were sat on the next table to us. Evidently, it was someone's birthday. We saw who it was and wished them many happy returns of the day. They then offered us a piece of birthday cake, which we gladly accepted. Then Gordon said we should buy them a drink, taking on his butch/masculine/ape-man persona again. I said I didn't think it was such a good idea. "See how it looks," I said. "Four blokes out with no wives or girlfriends offering to buy some single women a drink. It might make them nervous." He told me he thought it was disgraceful and went off into another strop. I think he was most upset because our not buying them a drink might add fuel to the fire of them thinking we might actually be homosexuals... But, hey, ho!

Much licking of the cold sore went on the whole time.

We did our level best to avoid them for the final week. They went to the pub and to the beach every day (where they pallied up with some English schemies/chavs/neds) and we went sight seeing. We had a great time.

Then it was time to go home. I couldn't wait.

We were soon back in bonnie Scotland. Yay! They drove us home, we were all very polite and courteous, even chatty. But that was the last time we ever saw or heard from them. They must have known how we were feeling as they didn't bother themselves...!



The woman next door to me is a proper clartie bitch.

And if she's reading this, "Trisha, you're a clartie bitch!"

She's had her washing on the line for three days now. It was sunny when I took the picture, but it's also been raining.

Three days!

She's just a lazy besom. She's been there, I've seen her come and go. Why leave washing out on the line all this time? It'll be dirtier now than when she hung it out.

And look at her "garden" - isn't it one fucking mess!?!?

She should be strung up and horse-whipped.

If you don't know what clartie and besom mean, click here.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006


Phyllis and I sat in on the Enterprise and Culture Committee today at the Scottish Parliament.

And we were on the news!

Go here (you have less than 24 hours) and click on the "Use the BBC Scotland Player..." Choose "news programmes" then "Reporting Scotland 1830 - 1900 Monday - Friday" - Eight minutes and thirty seconds into the programme, a report on Scottish Enterprise begins. Not long after that, you see a guy being interviewed by the committee. Ian and I are sat right behind him! You'll see us about three or four times!



Ian and I were on Newsnight Scotland tonight!

You can watch us on the internet, but you only have 24 hours to do so.

See if you can spot us. I'm chewing my finger.

Click here

and then:

Newsnight Scotland, presented by Gordon Brewer and Anne Mackenzie,
looks in depth at topical news and current affairs from the Scottish
perspective. The programme is broadcast from 2300 to 2320.

"Click here to watch Newsnight Scotland."


Monday, April 24, 2006


I just realised how very few photographs I have of Phyllis and I together.

I suppose that's the case for a lot of couples. One is always taking photographs of the other. I expect friends and family have more photos of us together than we do.

I could find all of four images of the two of us together on our wee computer, so uploaded them to Image Shack, made a slide show and bunged it on my blog.

The one with a caption, something about being somewhere on the west coast of Scotland... Well, two people to whom we only refer now as the fuckwits took that photograph of us. Where exactly it's taken, I couldn't tell you.

We went on holiday to Portugal with the fuckwits after having known them for about six months. It made us want to know them no longer.

One of the fuckwits continually acted like a spoilt child while the other tried continually to butter him up. It was vile to watch.

We stayed in a time-share-villa-kind-of-thingy that my brother has. Now, I didn't want them to get down on their knees, but a wee, "Thank you," or, "Please thank your brother for us," wouldn't have gone a miss. They just wanted to spend all day and night in the pub licking each other's cold sores. They were scheme-queens and, to be frank, they repulsed me. I could give many more examples of their horrid behaviour, but it's boring now, to be honest. However, I will say this: one of them liked Elton John.

For the love of Jesus.

Elton John!

Yes, I know. Elton John.

We returned from that holiday and never saw them again.

The fuckwits will have had quite a few photographs of the two of us together. However, I hope they've destroyed them. The very idea of them looking at me makes me feel physically sick.

The photographs included here were taken in December 2004 on our ill-fated trip to the USA. I'll keep that story for another time.

Minge and Phyllis

Talking In Your Sleep

Phyllis was talking in his sleep last night, well, the early hours of this morning. Just past five o'clock.

I was aghast.

I'm not sure what woke me up, but I turned to look at him as he said, "I'm moving in with that man."

Naturally, I asked what he was talking about, thinking he might have been awake (I was quite dazed and confused - anyone would be at such an ungodly hour).

"I'm moving in with him and Barnaby," he replied.

"Barnaby?" I asked

"I don't know if he's the kiddie or the pet."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"I have to go. The wheel's in motion. I can't stay here any longer. I'm sorry."

Phyllis can't remember what he was dreaming about. I'd love to know. He seemed to be replying to me - or was it just coincidence?

Why do we talk in our sleep? I do it sporadically, but have no recollection of it or any idea why I'm doing it. I used to walk in my sleep, quite a bit. I haven't done that in about twenty years, though there was a blip not so long ago. I woke up to find myself sat on the toilet. No idea how I got there.

Do YOU walk or talk in your sleep?


K9 gets a makeover and his own show...

Read about it here on the BBC News site or on Outpost Gallifrey.

Genesis Of The Daleks

Win one of fifty signed copies (by Elizabeth Sladen, no less) of Genesis Of The Daleks by clicking here.

It's fabulous.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Tooth And Claw

I've just watched the latest Doctor Who episode, Tooth And Claw, for the second time! It's repeated on BBC3. It was frikkin' fabulous. I take back everything I ever said about Russell T Davies.

The plot was amazing, and I loved it when The Doctor suddenly realised what was going on after putting all the clues together. I love Doctor Who stories with a mystery. I never work them out, though, so the surprise is always mine. I'm so stupid.

What I don't understand, though, is why the monks were looking after the werewolf. Why did they turn from God? Where did the beast come from and why fall to earth? The monks and the creature were slightly two dimensional, that would be my only criticism.

All in all, very fabulous indeed.

Oh, and I love the fact that The Doctor called himself James Robert McCrimmon! I've a feeling that was Jamie's name (a companion to The Doctor when played by the magnificent Patrick Troughton).

I can't wait for next week. Sarah Jane's back! You can already watch the Tardisode for School Reunion here.

It's fabulous.


Contrary to popular belief, I can be quite butch at times. Today was one of those times.

I've been painting the decking. Well, the wee bit of decking we have in front of the garage. It's about 8' x 4'6". Being butch and painting decking is one thing, but my attire was decidedly another. I put on my short shorts, my tight little grey t-shirt and did it bare foot. How many straight men do that? Well, quite a few I suppose.

Sadly, the wee kiddy next door was continually grizzling so many fag breaks were in order to calm my nerves.

Phyllis had already painted the wee planters in front of the step, and what a fabulous job he made... I was inspired by his manly actions to get in touch with my masculine side and indulge in a spot of DIY myself (and no, that doesn't mean I tossed myself off).

So, the day is over and I can put butch Minge back in his box. One day a year is enough for any self-respecting homosexual. I wonder what butch thing I'll do next year? Change a car tyre? Go to a football match? Dress up in women's clothing and get drunk?


The Dutch Prime Minister, Jan Peter Balkenende, thinks he is boring.

Click here to read all about it.

Stay boring, Jan. If interesting makes you anything like George W Bush, the more boring you are, the better it is for the rest of us.

Oh, by the way, please look at this.

Our Prime Minister, Tony Blair, is, I think, quite interesting, but he's not one for letting the interesting bits out. I'd love to have a good chat with him about many different topics, though avoiding politics. I bet we'd be yacking for hours. I wonder if he'd show me his chest?

If you find any pictures of Tony Blair bare chested, please let me know. I've trawled the internet for almost twenty minutes and found nothing. I know they exist as I saw a couple in a magazine a few months back. He's actually very fit and got quite a tasty chest. Warning: be caeful if you do see these pictures, you may end up licking the screen. Static on the tongue is far from fabulous. I should know.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

John Travolta news

John Travolta is JR Ewing!

Click here to read all about it!


This is the first photograph I ever took with my digital camera, Christmas, 2002.

It's Ian with his parents.

I Just wanted to share.

We lived in Armadale, then. We had a lovely house. I miss it sometimes. Living in Edinburgh is fabulous, though our house isn't as fabulous. It's a trade-off, I guess. If only I could have dug that house up and brought it with me.

I'm such a materialistic pig at times.

I'd give up a million of those houses if I could get Ian's Mother back. She died last year.

I've no idea what it's like to lose one's Mother.

My mother, whenever she's on the telephone to me, forever informs me of my Father's state of health. She hears the news from my eldest brother. My parents divorced in 1981 and have never spoken since. He was a very nasty man.

If I had a pound for every time I've been told that my Father's at death's door, I'd be a very rich person indeed. However, this time, it seems he's not only knocking on the door and ringing the bell, he's actually kicking it in. Mum told me he's swollen like a balloon and can hardly move. It's a matter of days, so the doctors say.

I couldn't care less. It's like hearing a conversation about someone on the bus. So, he's going to die. What does that mean to me? Absolutely nothing. I don't know why anyone bothers to tell me.

I just can't help but to think how cruel, even how weird life is. There's my Father on his death bed and I couldn't care one way or the other. Ian's Mother died last year and he broke his heart.

Just because someone happens to be your parent does not mean you love them and they love you. That, I suppose, is obvious. Love, ambivalence and hate... Ok, feel ambivalence or hatred for someone, they die, you can't care less. Love someone and you break your heart.

I still think it's a price worth paying. I'm sure of it.


That slideshow thingy was not difficult to create.

Thank you A Novelist.

The hard part was uploading it to my blog. There were errors, someonething about HTML, then it came up twice, I couldn't add any text. Is there an easy way? Can anyone teach me a lesson? Um, I mean, give me a lesson?


Friday, April 21, 2006

Theme song

Your Theme Song is Back in Black by AC/DC

"Back in black, I hit the sack,
I've been too long, I'm glad to be back"

Things sometimes get really crazy for you, and sometimes you have to get away from all the chaos.
But each time you stage your comeback, it's even better than the last!


Global Personality Test Results
Stability (13%) very low which suggests you are extremely worrying, insecure, emotional, and anxious.
Orderliness (23%) low which suggests you are overly flexible, improvised, and fun seeking at the expense too often of reliability, work ethic, and long term accomplishment.
Extraversion (56%) moderately high which suggests you are, at times, overly talkative, outgoing, sociable and interacting at the expense of developing your own individual interests and internally based identity.
Take Free Global Personality Test
personality tests by

Star Trek news

I've abandoned my one word title style. It's very Pet Shop Boys, but it's not very Minge, is it!?

Look what I just found on BBC News Online:

Star Trek film turns back time!

Yay! Double Yay!! Triple Yay!!!

Star Trek fans will be over the moon. But who will they get to play Captain Kirk? I'd go for John Travolta, but he's not very young, is he!? He always reminded me of William Shatner for some reason.

Who else...?

Colin Farrell?


I should be tidying up in the kitchen and clearing the rubbish from the living room floor. The decorator finally finished the living room - and then we went out and bought a unit to put the TV on and some storage. IKEA is our second home.

But no, instead of tidying up (I will do it, promise) I'm sat here in front of my trusty iMac, blogging, updating my own and reading others'. Jane Wiedlin is pumping out of the speakers. It's strange, iTunes says I've only ever played Rush Hour four times. I can't quite believe it. Oh, I see why now. It jumps at 2:40. I have two versions of the track. I must delete the bad one. I hate imperfection.

But, hell, what or who is perfect? No-one and nothing. That's a nettle we all must grasp sooner or later. Life's not perfect, and that's why I hate it.

If only life were like a lump of clay that one could manipulate into something beautiful, something perfect. The clay/potter's wheel analogy is fine, only in life, there are far more than one pair of hands poking at it. Each pair of hands has different ideas, different hopes, different dreams, different fears... Too many cooks spoil the broth and too many hands at the potters wheel make for something ugly. There really is no escape from that. Once in a while though, a brief glimpse at something beautiful is possible, though take your eye off of it and you'll probably never see it again.

Oh shit, now Jason Donovan is on. I have to skip to thee next track. Joan Baez, Help Me Make It Through The Night. That's better.

Why do I keep Jason on iTunes if I dislike him so? Well, he had a few hits at the end of the 80s and beginning of the 90s. They were my teenage years and every now and then, it's nice to have a reminder of happy times. Some of the happiest times of my life where when I was a teen boy.

Does everyone say that?

Oh, anyone care to count how many clichés I've used in this entry? Certainly not as many as J K Rowling could have mustered.


Please answer me this question:

Which celebrity chef is an unlikely but keen user of one of London's hottest rent boys?



Mr Pitt may be a gorgeous hunk, but it all goes downhill from there.

He's only a mediocre actor. And he's a terrible singer. Especially in Japanese. Click here for the full horror.

Still, I woulnd't say no. Would you?


Jordan once refused to go on a chat show at the last minute until they gave her £400 in cash. This was supposedly for hair and makeup artists, but she did her own.

You go, girl!

I'd be a money-grabbing, hard-nosed bitch if I had jugs like her and all that hair (or is it a wig?).


Saw this and thought of Alan.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006


There's a mystery to be solved somewhere within my blog.

Can you work it out?


Phyllis has a blog.

Check it out: Ucallmemadam

Tuesday, April 18, 2006


Last Saturday saw the return to the small screen or idiot's lantern of Doctor Who. We last saw the Doctor and his sidekick, Rose, in The Christmas Invasion, which was a fabulous story, heartwarming, something of a tear-jerker and full on sci-fi. It was also David Tennant's first proper outing as the new face of The Doctor. He filled the rôle rather well.

Little known fact: David Tennant was born in Bathgate, West Lothian, the next town to Armadale, where I used to live. My dentist was in Bathgate. I could have actually trod where David planted his own footsteps!

The first episode of this new season had a lot to live up to. I'm not sure that it succeeded.

One could easily tell the story, New Earth, was written by Russell T Davies. He's very full of himself, so, naturally, a story written by him would be the one to start the new series. It was full of smut, silly moments of comedy and some aspects of the story were quite ridiculous. For example, people were cured by being doused in a few bags of IV fluids. Perhaps you needed to see it...!? The Doctor had previously commented that these human lab rats were infected with every known disease (I'm paraphrasing), all one thousand of them. He called for the IV drip bad "cures" in order to douse the poor afflicted people. Did he have one thousand bags? No, of course he didn't. Perhaps I'm being too pedantic.

The show was trailered with an evil race of cat women. The cat women were in fact not very evil at all, and the story really didn't have much to do with them. However, Cassandra "Moisturise me, moisturise me," was there, as camp and as fabulous as ever, as played by Zoë Wanamaker.

The special effects were fabulous, though, and the plot did move at a cracking pace. Perhaps too fast, though. Someone died at the end (I'm not saying, in case you haven't seen it) and they seemed to suddenly accept death for no reason at all.

Still, it was nice to see that all the bad people aren't all bad, all of the time.

I never thought I'd be saying this, but Billie Piper really makes the show. She's fabulous.

For reviews by other people (and they're a lot better than I can manage), please look at Gallifrey One and Gaywhovians.

There's a lot to look forward to this year, including the return of the Cybermen and an episode written by The League Of Gentlemen's Mark Gatiss. It's just going to get better and better.

Don't think I hated New Earth. I didn't. And my view is probably tainted by my dislike for Russell T Davies. Watch Doctor Who. Go on, you know you want to. It's fabulous.


If you're thinking of buying a new car, please make sure it's not a Peugeot.

Click here to see why.

In fact, don't buy any French car or anything French at all.

They detonate massive nuclear weapons in the Pacific ocean and, trapped in lorries, they burn alive wee lambs imported from the UK. Also, don't forget what happened with Rainbow Warrior.

Not very nice at all.

And don't tell me you have to buy French champagne because all else is not champagne... New Zealand make some very good sparkling "champagne style" wines. Some international reviewers have even said they're better at it than the French.

My only problem with buying things from New Zealand would be the problem of pollution miles. You should really buy as locally as possible. But hey, if you're reading this from the comfort of your chair in a country close to New Zealand, you have all the more reason to buy New Zealand wines!

I'm not anti-French for the sake of it and I don't read The Sun. If the French people elected a decent government and President and started behaving in a civilised fashion, I might buy French products or even visit, but until then, in the words of Mrs Thatcher (whom I actually despise - and believe you me, she's no Lady), "No, no, no."


Alan asked me why I try not to buy Nestlé products.

Read this.

Also, try typing Nestlé into the search field of any search engine and you'll soon come up with some very interesting results.


According to iTunes, this week, I have mostly been playing:

Electribe 101 - Diamond Dove
Pet Shop Boys - Rent
Pet Shop Boys - I'm With Stupid
Pet Shop Boys - Luna Park (demo)
Pet Shop Boys - The Sodom And Gomorrah Show (demo)
Pet Shop Boys - God Willing (demo)
Dianne Warren - Numb (demo)
Pet Shop Boys - Minimal (demo)
Pet Shop Boys - Psychological (demo)
Sonia - You'll Never Stop Me Loving You


It is with great pleasure that I announce my insanity.

I think I'm Jack Twist and my life is oh so Brokeback Mountain.

I also think Billie Ray Martin should sing the soundtrack to my life, entitled, Brokeback Mountain II: Saddle Sore.

I thank you.


Phyllis went to Bathgate today. Another expensive visit to a private dentist as an NHS one is so hard to find these days... Gggrrr...!

While he was getting drilled, I walked along and found myself in an old haunt, the pet shop. I bought some claw clippers (Mary's "nails" get very long). The shop assistant was very nice, but a complete Schemie. I nearly told her to get her roots done, but I think she wanted to look that way.

On leaving the pet shop, I heard a car alarm go off, right outside. No-one was acting suspiciously or running off, but no-one looked, ahem, alarmed, either. Why, when a car alarm goes off, does no-one call the police? Why do we just walk on by, muttering complaints about the hideous noise? And it's the same with burglar alarms on houses and flats, innit...!?

It IS ridiculous, however you look at it.

After the dentist, we went to Tesco to get some pieces. We drove to Edinburgh airport to watch aeroplanes taking off and to eat them (the pieces, not the aeroplanes). We only saw one take off (but two landed).

Phyllis then went on to his Father's house. I stayed in Edinburgh. I went window shopping. I saw a nice one, but didn't buy it. We have enough windows already.

I came home at half past three. The decorator had been here today, repapering the fucking lounge. He was gone on my arrival. I'll post some photographs when it's all done (again).

I've been staring at the computer screen for a couple of hours, reading blogs, looking at mine and typing this. I think it's time I got the washing in and had a fag. I do intend to stop. I read something terrible about lung cancer in the free paper on the bus today. I don't want to talk about it.

However, I do want to talk about this (and I promise you I'm not shouting):


Yes, I think I'm insane. Are YOU?

Monday, April 17, 2006


I went for a facial this morning at the Clarins Spa in Edinburgh. It was fabulous. I got the works, plus a head, neck and shoulder massage, a foot massage and a "hand dunk" - don't ask.

There was a feeling of desperation in the air when I went in as two women almost fought over me. I felt like the prize in a competition. A very fabulous competition, of course.

I was asked if I'd had a treatment there before. I said I'd had a facial only a couple of months back. The beautician told me they don't do facials. I was having a men's personal blend. For Christ's sake!

After my facial, I went into Jenners for some coffee and bought a Lindt Wafer. It's like a Kit Kat but posh. I try not to buy Nestlé products if I can help it. Does anyone know any reason why I shouldn't buy Lindt?

Out from Jenners, Phyllis picked me up and we headed off to North Berwick. We had a poke of chips on the sand, followed by an ice cream (I had an oyster, Phyllis had a slider) and then took the dogs for a wee stroll. They love playing on the beach. Mary can get ever so slightly over-excited.

What do you think of this word?

I had a sleep in the car on the way home. I'm still knackered. It's because I was woken at 0655. Jesus fucking Christ. It was like the middle of the night.

I wish I was deep, but I feel particularly shallow. Today, especially.

I might be deep tomorrow. Or I might be shallower still. Who knows.

And bloody Blogger won't let me look at any comments or make any! Bastards! Also, it took five attempts before I could upload a photograph. Cunts.

Oh, before I go, take a look at Alan's blog. He's being treated like a queen in The Ukraine.

Also, look at this: Gays in Iraq fear for their lives.