Andrew

Happy Saint Andrew's day, dear reader.

Christmas came to Edinburgh

Bear

Check this out, dear reader.

The vile little man claims to have gone through a humbling experience and is sorry for improperly tagging a bear he owned. Which he shot and killed with a bow and arrow.

Yeah. He's sorry. Sorry he was found out.

Is he not sorry he killed the poor bear? What a bastard! What's wrong with target practice? Archery? What is it with these people, people who get their kicks by killing? It's sick.

Separation

Please, dear reader, will you do Minge a small number of favours?

Look at this news story.

Now consider this: How long, do you suppose, it will be, after dissolution of the union, before the Picts tire of being ruled from Edinburgh?

I don't want a dissolution of the union, I don't want to be a foreigner in my own country. Would you want that for your poor little Minge, would you?

Of course, I'm looking at the question from an entirely selfish point of view.

Looking at it another way: Are there any sound social or economic arguments for the dissolution of the union? I can't see that there are. Or, perhaps, in my blind lust for brotherly love, friendship and social cohesion, I'm simply not looking for answers to questions I'd find difficult to accept.

Oh, yes, I did say there were favours, plural.

Please look at this story and then this one. Tell me what you think. Go on, I dare you.

Scotland's Roman Catholic leader said the real truth behind the figures was "blatant anti-Catholicism."

Scotland's Minge said, "Catholics are blatantly anti anything which isn't Catholic."

Scotland's sensible majority said, "An idiot is a stupid person with a mental age below three years, while a moron is a stupid person with a mental age of between seven to twelve years. Scotland's Roman Catholic leader is clearly not a moron."

Oh, have a look at this, too. Yes, and they preach peace and love. I know.

You couldn't make it up, could you, dear reader?

Am I anti-Catholic? No, not exclusively. I happen to think all organised religion does mankind no favours whatsoever.

I am a wicked boy, in the evil sense, not the fabulous sense. For this, I have the delicious Anjou Wu to thank.

Maintaining the theme, not only of Scotland but of separation, please click here to read 50 years in two paragraphs. You'll be glad you did, dear reader.

Untitled

I always fancied having a blog entry entitled Untitled, dear reader. I now feel terribly nineteenth century.

Although we're losing Autumn to Winter, there is still some green to be seen.



Mortonhall, slightly hidden by some evergreens, a birch and some strange plant with red stems, the name of which escapes me. I do love the colours, but, as I might have said here before, I hate people who claim that Autumn is their favourite season, "...because of all the lovely colours." I hate people who always look for something positive when all seems negative. I'm not a pesimist, but a realist. I hate fantasists. Perhaps that's a bit strong. I love fantasy. I just hate, I suppose, the glass half full, not empty brigade. They need to get a grip, get real. And I need to stop this rant.



Look! A squirrel! A grey one, not a red, sadly. You have to go up North to see those.



Meg thinks she's a budgie. She loves to perch on the fallen down tree.



Mary's very proud of her immense tongue. I'd love a tongue that size. The things I'd do with it just boggles my tiny mind. I'd never leave the house.

Phyllis took these photographs yesterday whilst walking mes filles.



When I was a wee lad, I was obsessed with the story of the Forth Rail Bridge and its constant painting. I would beg teacher to tell us all about it time and time again. I never thought I'd live near it. It's like winning the lottery.

This photograph was taken, also yesterday, at South Queensferry.



The Forth Road Bridge was opened by The Queen a few years back. It's already falling down whereas the Rail Bridge, which, at one hundred and sixteen years of age, is far older, is still going strong. I have to laugh to myself when I think of this. I don't think many people will be laughing, though, when all the deaths are announced. Let's hope, dear reader, that it happens in the night when as few people as possible are using it.



I noticed this sign, yesterday, in South Queensferry for the very first time. I had no idea what a bleaching green was and had to have it explained to me. All to do with the manufacture of cloth, dear reader.



The sign is at the bottom of this rather lovely clock tower. I've no idea how old the tower itself is, but it only became a clock tower in 1887 when the timepieces were installed to celebrate Queen Victoria's Golden Anniversary.

Tesla Girls.



How, dear reader, I ask you, do you suppose that this vile 1960s monstrosity was allowed to be built next to the clock tower in South Queensferry?



We walked around the harbour wall after a trip up the high street. Another view of the Rail Bridge.



In the other direction an unshven Minge is found with two bitches.



Now, today, dear reader, Phyllis and I went to the beach at Cramond. Just away into the Firth of Forth is an island, Cramond Island, which can only be reached at low tide. Well, it could also be reached at high tide, too, I suppose, but one would need a boat.



Here, dear reader, before Cramond Island, we see shaven Minge.



This is the first and, i think, only building one will find on the island. Shamefully, yobs have written all over it.



The city of Edinburgh can be seen from the island. I can pick out The Castle, Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags. Can you?



Looking back towards Cramond from Cramond Island. The sun was in our eyes. And, thankfully, the tide was still out.



Phyllis lobs with the bunger (and then breaks the bunger). This was primarily done to clean off the dogs' legs. The lobbing, not the breaking.



Sadly, this did not work so a proper leg washing exercise took place on our return home. Look at Minge in rubber gloves. How gay.

I can't stop Fib Sunday

Art, or the arts, is the pinnacle of life and humanity. Of this, I have no doubt, not even a shadow. For proof, I'd point to high days, holidays, weddings, wakes and funerals. We sing songs, hymns, carols; we read poetry; we get a photographer in; we commission a portrait painter.

When we are at our lowest ebb, dear reader, we reach for something higher. The higher life, if we believe in all that, or something highbrow. We reach. We are always reaching. Until we give up.

In order not to give up, I always reach for a favourite book of mine: 101 Poems That Could Save Your Life. J'adore them all, but two favourites are as follows:

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Perhaps I shouldn't say so, but Résumé by Dorothy Parker always brings a smile to my face. If I need to think, to consider, I turn to Fujiwara No Kiyosuke's I May Live On:

I may live on until
I long for this time
In which I am so unhappy,
And remember it fondly.

Why do we turn to a poetry anthology for inspiration, put pen to paper or wander an art gallery? Why are theatres obvious secular cathedrals? Why do we reach? Why are the arts, then, on a higher plane, above us, within reach of some, out of reach to others? And do we like it that way?

Now, dear reader, it's time to turn to Fib Sunday.

If you don't know what's going on or indeed what Fib Sunday is, click here to read the original instructions.

In brief:

1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new topic.
2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.
3) You then supply the next topic.
4) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given topic and then provides a new topic and so on...

A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:

One

Small,

Precise,

Poetic,

Spiraling mixture:

Math plus poetry yields the Fib.

Last week, Brian left us with the topic of The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe. My response:

So
Far
Inside
The closet.
(So glad we made it)
You are in fucking Narnia.

Next topic:

Killing

Blackford Hill

Just down the road from my house, one will find Blackford Hill. Phyllis and I decided to go there today. Click here to see the photograph I took of him. We walked up to the top, lobbed the tennis ball for the dogs a few times with their new bunger, then went back home. It was so cold and windy up there, it wasn't true.

One of the many benefits of Blackford Hill is the superb view. In the photograph above, we see Edinburgh Castle, dear reader. Beyond it, across the sea, is Fife.



Here, we see Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags.



Sometimes, Mary looks criminally insane.



Meg loves to sit atop the trig point. Doing so gets her lots of attention, which she adores.



Minge from the back.



Minge bungs.

Elizabeth from Big Brother II came up to Blackford Hill to do her this is me video. I hated her. She was smug, superior and an idiot. Click here to see her best bits, though how they found any is beyond me.

Memories of Portugal

That's me, stood near the Belém Tower in Lisbon, Portugal. It was the Summer of 2003. September.



Minge as a shawn Rapunzel.



I loved the trams, old and new, but especially the old!



I've no idea where this is. Any ideas, Ric?



In the rooftop pool at our hotel in Lisbon. I thought it was terribly posh for an Ibis.



Phyllis thinks he looks young here.



Pena National Palace. It blew my mind. Sadly, the day we spent there was wet and misty, but it did seem quite fitting. It felt quite luxurious to mop up all that history, notwithstanding it having only been built in the nineteenth century.

Portugal was rich and filled the coffers of my mind.



As you can see, dear reader, I ate a lot in Portugal. All delicious.



After being stung by a Weaverfish, I refused to sit on the beach any longer. The pool was quite nice, though. An elderly lady, sitting near me, was quite entertaining. She was on holiday from London with her daughter and granddaughter. I thought she was quite the Bohemian, sat there, with her relatives, reading a book subtitled an erotic novel.



No fuckwits. Just a chubby (yet brown!) man and his beau in a beautiful country.

Haiku Saturday

Och, ya bawdy wee bints, whit ya deeyin?

Click here. Now! It is Haiku Saturday!

Go on! You know what will happen if you don't. I'll come over there and shag ye.

Aye.

17

Do you ever wish you were seventeen years old again, dear reader?

Quote du jour

Quote of the day:

It was like I was a space alien, every cunt was staring at me. Probably 'cos my hems weren’t raggedy and I didn’t stink. Poor cunts.

- My friend, Aaron Fletcher.

Her

I should be going to bed, but it would be pointless as I won't sleep. I hate lying in bed with no sleep in me.

So, instead, dear reader, I'm going to bitch about someone. I'm going to say her, that might mean her or she in the gay way, or it might mean a lady - or neither. I'm not saying. I'm also not saying if she reads this blog or not. I'm not saying if she has a blog or not. But what I am saying is this:

You're a conceited bitch. You're a prima-donna. You love the fact that people suck up to you. They are careful with your heart and yet you are careless with theirs.

You don't wash your hair often enough. You don't know how to apply eye make-up.

You're condescending and patronising. You think you're doing me a favour by even communicating with me. Well, honey, I'm the one doing you the favour in allowing you to communicate with me. I should tell you where to get off, but, unlike you, I'm too polite.

You get off on people feeling sorry for you. You live on pity. For the love of Jesus, do you think you're the only one who's had it bad? Have you ever thought about anyone else's emotions, thoughts, hopes, fears or feelings?

And don't tell me to look after your friends when you're away. They are quite capable of looking after themselves. And don't imply you're looking after them just now. You can't even look after yourself. If anyone wants or needs to be looked after, I'll know it or they'll ask. You'd be better off, going home, throwing out all your dowdy clothes, washing yourself, washing your filthy hair and getting a good hair cut. When you've done all that, clean up your abode. Clean the floors, throw out all the junk you've scattered across the floor, vacuum the carpets, clean out your kitchen cabinets, change your bedding and then go and wash your face and hands again. Oh, and invest in some antiperspirant: you stink.

Only in my dreams

Although Edinburgh's morning was sunny and bright, it was very cold, dear reader. My daughters and I went up to the fallen down tree and then, sans hat, decided to turn back. I promised them a proper walk after lunch, once my body had thawed out.



Lunch, oatcakes and sandwich spread soon came and went. With a coffee in my belly and a hat on my head, Minge headed off for Mortonhall. There's a beautiful wee house called Morton Hall (how the area got its name) not a fifteen minute walk from where I live now and, spookily, about a fifteen minute walk from where I used to live in Mortonhall Park Crescent.



We met some Highland Cattle on the way. I'd hoped that we would as I'd taken my camera with me to take the very picture, above, having promised Anjou Wu I'd do so well over a week ago. Perhaps a fortnight. Better late than never, dear reader.



I wanted to also take a snap of Megan and Mary with those ginger dears. I managed it, though getting the pups to look at the camera was a task. I think they were a bit nervy, baby.



They needn't worry, of course. If only I could tell them that. I can't speak for all Highland Cattle, of course, but these are very placid. They'll let you stroke them, feel their horns and, if you're lucky, will lick you. Be warned though, dear reader, their tongues are rough! Cats' tongues are smooth in comparison!



It was time to say, "Tata!" to the darling cow, the curious one, the one smelling quite strongly of lawnmowers.



From the field, the dogs and I walked on along the edge of the crematorium heading to the block of flats where we used to live. Meg got very excited, still able to remember the way.

When we lived around there, we woke up once or twice to find ash on the windscreen of the car and on the roof. There was often a strong smell of paraffin, buring etc.



In only a few minutes, we were there. Meg did her usual trick or party piece and ran all around the block several times.

Have a look where I used to live, dear reader. It was a very modest dwelling, but I did love it there. We were very comfortable. My former living room window now has red curtains at it. Can you see? Practically in the centre of the picture. The window to the left was my bedroom.

An old woman called Mrs Stewart lived below us. She must be long dead, now, having been on her last legs when we still lived there. Next door to her was Miss McKendrick. She was a fabulously outrageous old lesbian. I quite liked her. Sadly, she never knew who I was, being unable to recognise my voice through being so deaf and unable to recognise my face due to her poor eyesight. Mr Smith lived two floors above McKendrick. He'd not decorated his flat in the whole time we lived there with bare walls and a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Practically below him and opposite me, lived Mrs Brown. She was a terrible old gossip, but quite harmless. We'd often meet at the washing lines and she'd natter to me. I once told her I'd been to Bournemouth, she replied saying she'd been to London. I then said we'd been to Italy. She said she'd been to Florida. I was afraid to tell her we'd been to Saint Lucia. I thought she was going to tell me she'd been to the fucking moon! If you had a headache, dear reader, she had a brain tumour. If you had heartburn, she was having a heart attack. It was fun living there. She was always having huge rows with the people who lived above her. They wound each other up the whole time. I'd spend hours stood my my front door listening to their arguments, almost in hysterics.



From the flats, we headed off back home, along the way we came. I was certainly not prepared for what came next, for who came next! It was The Baldy Man! I'd not seen him in years. He was always walking about the place and I'd often see him passing my window (usually to go down the offy, Scotmid or the Chinky) so I really should not have been surprised to see him. I'd have asked to take his photograph, but he'd have thought me a total freak, so I had to do so from the rear once he'd passed. He was dubbed The Baldy Man after we'd seen him once or twice and admired his crazy hair-style: bald as an egg on the top, long hair at the back and sides. I thought he was quite similar to the character from Naked Video, the guy with the comb-over. Click here to see his infamous Hamlet commercial.



Back through the field with the Highland Cattle. "Hello, Mr Cow!" I patted his head, stroked his back and carried on, on along the strange route Ian likes, the route which fills me with fear. I have no sense of direction and was sure I'd get lost, which I did. A few telephone calls later, asking for directions, we were back home, back in the warm.

I'd had my iPod with me the whole time. The last track I heard was Only In My Dreams by Debbie Gibson. You can download it, if you like, dear reader. Click here. Go on, you know you want to. Be quick though, one hundred downloads or seven days, whichever come soonest, and it's gone.