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Christmas is over.

For another year.

I'm none the wiser, as to why it is that families the world over get together to celebrate the birth of Jesus and spend most of the time either, (A) Arguing or, (B) Complaining that the TV schedule isn't what it was when they were young, or (C) Getting drunk. But that's the joy of it all isn't it?

It's not about doing what Jesus would do were he here, it's all about spend, spend, spend.

Sure, I'll admit that there are some Christians out there who attempt to do what Jesus would have done. There are people who give up Christmas day to go to feed the homeless and there are people who help those who have less than they.

I've just never met any of them.


Living the dream or dreaming of living?

I've come to the conclusion that I spend too much time asleep.

Perhaps I'm a sleep junkie. I regularly sleep for 12 hours, wake up, go for a piss, flop back into my bed and have another couple of hours. Is that right? To sleep that long and then want more? I dunno, perhaps I should go see my doctor and see what he says about it.

But, fuck that, the last time I went to see my doctor he told me to cut down on my drink/drug/cigarette intake, to eat more vegetables and to take regular exercise. And who, in their right mind, wants to do that? Not me, that's for sure. I'm here for a good time, not a long time and I'm going to squeeze in as many vices as possible. Otherwise, what's the point?

Ok, sure... My bad habits will, without a doubt, cause me to die at an earlier age than if I were a tofu eating health junkie, but, that's not my gig man...

I'm rock and roll all the way baby... I'm a wild eyed, insane shirted, madman who's on this journey called life without a care in the world. I'm the cool guy who doesn't give a fuck and says it. I'm the outspoken voice of the missing generation who remained silent for too long. I'm the guy in the corner of the party, making jokes and taking the piss out of everything and anything that comes to mind. I'm the kitchen philosopher who will journey into the darkest depths of the mind and still come out smiling.

And to be honest, that's the way I like it.


The Grand Whazoo needed a laugh...

So what did the Grand Whazoo do? Did It...
  • Shove a copy of The Office into the DVD player in heaven.
  • Smoke a very strong joint and look at a platypus.
And the answer is... Neither.

Apparently not satisfied with having Bill Hicks, Lenny Bruce, Sam Kinison, John Belushi and John Candy to do a turn at the Heavenly Haha Hole, The Grand Whazoo decided to call time on Richard Pryor 12 days ago.

Richard died after suffering a long battle with MS.


An ideal way to spend an hour or two.

Read this.

The plot is a bit thin but the ending more than makes up for it.


Today I 'ave been mostly listening to...

Kate Bush. Aerial.

Other than that it's been a nice long day lying in my bed. Oh the joys of being single and not giving a fuck. Or getting one... But I can live with that.

Lazy ways and lazy days.

Today has been one of those days where getting out my bed was low on my list of priorities. Unless I was going for a piss that is. But that's a given.

My days of lying in a soggy bed covered in my own piss are gone and forgotten. Never to return until I'm resident in an old folks home and I don't need to worry about who's going to change the sheets the next morning. That's something to look forward to... Waking up in the morning and yelling at a nurse "Hey, I'm covered in piss, change the sheets and give me a sponge bath!"

It's been too cold today to venture out my warm bed. In fact if it wasn't for the fact I had a virus in my computer I wanted to remove you wouldn't be reading this now.

Now though, the virus has been safely removed and I'm off back to my bed.

Hangin with the mancunian monkeys.

Thursday night saw me in Glasgow at the Oasis gig with Steff, Oswaldo and Lilly.

We left Edinburgh at 4:15 from Haymarket Station. "Happy new year guys" Said Oswaldo, as he handed Steff and I a small piece of tinfoil each "There's enough for a couple of lines."

We arrived in Glasgow just after 5pm and headed to a bar called The Counting House in George Square. The drinks bill came to less than £7 a round, which was stunningly cheap compared to what you would pay in Edinburgh's city centre bars, so there was much rejoicing. And a couple more rounds... Followed by a small sojourn to the gents toilets to say hello to Prince Charlie. Sniff.

After another round of drinks and a very reasonably priced curry thedecisionn was made to find a bar that still allowed smoking on the premises. As we walked Oswaldo handed me a joint and told me to "Get a blast of this, man."

Lilly spotted a bar across the road from where we were so we trooped over and hit the bar. Another round was rapidly dispensed with and another one was ordered as I headed to the gents to speak to Charlie again. Snort.

As the time to make a move was rapidly approaching we finished our drinks and headed in the general direction of the SECC. Several attempts were made to flag a taxi but none would stop so close to a rank that had a queue of people waiting patiently at it, so we walked on and stopped one a couple of streets away.

As we drew up outside the SECC there was a small crowd of people milling around. A few Policemen were searching people or emptying bottles of cider down the drains, much to the annoyance of the fans who had paid for them. Oswaldo produced another joint and we stood at a safe distance and smoked it like our lives depended on it.

Then it was time to move into the SECC. As soon as we got past the securityguardss and the Police and into the building we headed for the bar. A couple more drinks were had and a couple of visits to the toilets were made. Snort. Swallow. Sniff. Swallow.

We could hear the support act winding down and it was decided it may be a good time to make our way towards the stage, swallowing the last of our drinks and dumping the plastic glasses on the floor as we went.

We found our seats, after much debate as to where they were located, and waited for the main act to appear. Oswaldo announced that he was going for a piss and headed off in the general direction of the toilets. Returning ten minutes later looking even drunker.

I laughed as I stood up and barged my way through the crowd and headed for the bar. Four double rum and cokes later I wandered back. "Where were you?" Asked Lilly. "I went for a ciggy and a piss." I said, sitting down before I fell down.

Just as my arse hit the chair the house lights went down and the crowd around me stood up. Oasis appeared on the stage and the noise from the crowd rose to a level that made my ears buzz. Liam Gallacher walked to the microphone and said something I couldn't make out over the noise of the crowd and the noise level rose again.

The opening chords of the first song blasted out and, as one, the crowd bounced, swayed and sang along. The cocaine shifted a gear on me and my heart started beating faster as the sweat began to run down my face. The memory of the Scottish Executive Anti-drugs advert popped into my head...

"Taking cocaine can make you twenty-four times more likely to have a heart attack."

Did I care? Did I fuck. The music was loud and I was off my head.

As the gig went on I sang along to the familiar tunes and jumped around like a monkey driven mad by mescaline. Until I remembered that I had left my house keys in my work by accident and had no way of getting into my house when I returned to Edinburgh.

The final song, a cover version of The Who's My Generation, finished off and we began to make our way out of the gig and headed for the train station. I borrowed Lilly's mobile phone and quickly called my work to ask Bobo to put my keys somewhere I would be able to pick them up from.

We walked for about a mile, until Steff managed to stop a taxi, and made our way to Queen Street Station.

As we had arrived half an hour early for the train home we hit the Burger King in the station and I leapt at the counter and ordered three bacon-double-cheeseburgers and a diet coke. Just under a tenner later I headed for the platform and we got on and grabbed a table.

The train was due to leave Glasgow at 11:30 but due to the Oasis gig being on at the SECC, and The Doves playing at the Barrowlands, there was too many passengers and we had to wait until more carridges were added to the train.

The train finally left Glasgow at 12:30 and we got into Edinburgh at 2:15am. After waiting for a taxi we headed towards the club so I could collect my keys.

Having picked my keys up I jumped back into the taxi and it took me home.

All in all a very good night.


I hate being wrong.

Which is surprising given the amount of times I'm wrong...

I wrote on here a while ago that Billy Piper sucked as the new assistant in Dr Who, at the time it was my honest opinion, but now I have to go on record and say that she isn't all that bad. In fact she's quite good.

My brother loaned me the first series on Sunday after I'd very kindly painted the ceiling and covered the carpet in paint at his house. After watching the full series on Monday, while recovering from our staff night out on sunday night, I found Billy Piper to be way above my expectations and actually found myself completely comfortable with her as the Dr's assistant.

The scripts were good and each episode was filled with humor, tension and drama. Chris Ecclestone fitted into the part with a slickness I've never seen from a new Dr and even the introduction of the rogue time agent, Captain Jack Harkness, didn't fill me with the urge to shout "Claptrap!" and hurl abuse at the screen.

The aliens didn't look as though someone in the BBC special effects room went mad with egg cartons, polystyrene and expanding foam cavity wall insulation. The effects for space travel didn't look like a TV recieving a feed from a camera pointed into it's own tube and long shots with models didn't look like they had been built by a guy named Brian in his shed one weekday morning. And the Daleks could finally get up a set of stairs.

Come the final episode, I'd got so far into the make believe of Dr Who that I felt like I'd travelled through time and had become the kid I once was on the outside, on the inside.

This week I 'ave been mostly reading...

Mein Kampf. By Adolph Hitler.

For no other reason than I have a copy and think I should read it.

Booze Ain't Cheap.

When you drink the same amount as I do.

But that's the way it goes. I'm the kind of person who can drink a hell of a lot of booze and still be rational and steady. Not to mention upright.

Which is why the staff party was, to me, neither here nor there on the Ross Scale of Acceptable Party Magnitude. There wasn't enough time to get very very drunk and lairy so it went with more of a fizzle than a bang. But, never mind. Tomorrow sees me off to the mean streets of Glasgow to see Oasis play live at the SECC.

For sure I'll be smash arse drunk for that.

There was a hairy moment today when I asked Steff what time we were leaving Edinburgh and I was told 4pm. "I'm working until 5 man." I said. "Oh fuck." He replied. Not one to worry about such things I calmly said I'd phone one of the part timers and get them to cover my shift for a couple of hours. Problem solved. Or so I thought...

I got home ten minutes ago to find a message on my answering machine from Bobo the manager asking me to start work at 3pm tomorrow, as he has a meeting with a guy from one of our suppliers. "No Fucking way!" I screamed at the answering machine and rapidly grabbed the phone.

Five minutes later, I've spoke to Bobo and it's all sorted. Phew.


Drink up young man, drink up.

Tonight should be a laugh a minute.

It's my auntie Christines 50th birthday party and the whole of the Douglas family will be gathered in a confined space where there is lots of alcohol at cheap prices. Never a very good combination if you ask me.

I'll let you all know what went on when I return from the party. If I'm sober enough to drive this computer. Which I doubt.


Happy birthday.

Today was my nephews birthday.

It doesn't seem like 13 years since he was born. Time flies huh?

I still remember going to Simpsons maternity hospital to see the wee man on the day he was born. My sister looked knackered, my mum looked overjoyed, my dad looked proud and I wondered when we'd get to wet the babies head. Which isn't, as you may think, a slang phrase for when the baby gets Christened but is a traditional male excuse for getting pissed out your mind and smoking large, smelly and very expensive cigars.

Happy birthday Lawry.


I've sat...

And stared at this screen for precisely 45 minutes and nothing has came to mind. Not a bolt. Nothing. Nada. Fuck all.

I'm jealous of all the people out there that can sit down at a typewriter/computer and can immediately bash out 5000 words that are insightful, witty and urbane. Columnists the world over are able to take a small moment out of their life and turn it into lengthy morality tale. I, however, struggle and strain, like a hemorrhoid sufferer trying to squeeze out a shit, and go nowhere fast. It just ain't right.

It's not as though I have nothing that I could write about. I've got 35 years of experiences that I'm sure would serve as morality tales for the masses but none are forthcoming. Could this a problem with my memory being shot to shit after roughly 20 years of Marijuana smoking? Perhaps. But I'm fucked if I'm giving up on smoking weed, it's the only drug I've sampled that manages to stop the voices in my head driving me right around the bend.

And before you start to jump to conclusions and label me a stoner I'd ask you to consider the many ways that human beings, through time immemorial, have sought to dull the self.

From the ancient Egyptians to present times humanity has always searched for enlightenment through the use of substances that are snorted, smoked or sipped. It's what we do. And maybe even what got us here in the first place...

Could it be that early humans liked eating those little mushrooms that produced magical colors in their minds eyes that first set us off on the journey to where we are now? Could be. Lets face it, you'd have to be stoned out your gourd to have the desire to get off your hairy prehistoric arse and see what's in the next valley when there's a nice little fire on the go and you have ample supply of those strange mushrooms.

But who knows. Presumably the pre-humans do, but until we invent a time machine and go back and ask them, we'll never know. And if we did I have a feeling there would be a shortcoming in their ability to communicate with us. How much sense would a stoned pre-human make?

Possibly as much as I am now. You be the judge.

Christmas. Bah Humbug.

I'm not much into Christmas. Which makes the next month a nightmare for people like me... And me.

I returned to my work today after being off sick for the past week with a chest infection and found the whole place dripping with Christmas decorations. It's like working in Santa's scrotum. There's tinsel hanging from every available surface, a plastic tree covered in fairy lights stands in the corner and large pictures of Santa grace the walls as though the club is some kind of shrine to an overweight god who has an addiction to red clothing. And to top it all Rudolph the Red Nosed reindeer stares at me, with an evil look in his eyes I may add, as I pour drinks and chat with the club members.

Thank Christ it's only going to be for the next month. At which time the Christmas crap will be replaced with Easter Eggs...

It's going to be...

A busy couple of weeks for me on the social side of things. My auntie Christines 50th birthday party is on Friday night and the Christmas night out for my work is on Sunday. Next Thursday I'm off to Glasgow to see Oasis live.

No doubt I'll be suffering a massive hangover following each of these occasions.


Into the pool of knowledge...

I dive.

I read Aldous Huxleys' The Doors of Perception today.

(It made me wonder where I can get a hold of some mescaline.)

And I also read The Firm by John Grisham.

Other than that it's been another day in bed coughing my lungs up.


Cough Cough.

I still feel like I'm breathing through a wet sock, with this god awful chest infection I've got, so I've spent the whole day in my bed with a leggy blonde nurse, a hot toddy and a bottle of cough syrup.

One part of that statement was false. Did you spot which one?

Give yourself a pat on the back if you spotted that the leggy blonde nurse was actually a brunette...

Because of this I've got fuck all to write about other than whatever my mind can spew forth from the depths. So lets face it, this post may be something of a disappointment. Or perhaps not... Who can tell where this will all end up. Perhaps it'll be a sordid tale of woe that ends in a happy ending, perhaps it'll be gripping and dramatic or perhaps it'll end with a laugh. Whatever. Just don't expect miracles.

For some reason my mind is pushing forward a memory of when I was a kid and lived in Westburn Grove... Oh well, lets see where this goes...

I loved playing in the west burn when I was young, even though my mum used to tell me to keep away from it. To be fair, it was barely more than an open sewer that regularly got choked with used tampons, toilet paper, condoms and the, very, occasional dead rat.

I still recall the look on my mums face when I came home one day having stood on a rusty nail while playing in the burn and walking in with a hole in my foot, leaving a long streak of blood on the hall tiles. I'm sure she thought It would get poisoned and I'd be Westburns version of Tiny Tim. Which would have been fun, as I would have had the perfect excuse for affecting a Cockney accent and asking strangers in the street if they could "Spare 10p, for a new wooden leg guvnah?"

Hey, if Dick Van Dyke could make money from doing a shitty Cockney accent why couldn't I?

But it wasn't to be. I didn't get some nasty virilous disease and didn't lose my leg. Which is just as well as I'd never have got to play football with George Best if I had. And I never will now...

...Unless there's a Heavens 11 football side and I get picked to play in it after I turn up toes and buy the farm. But I doubt that as well, there's no way I'd get picked. God gets all the best players in history together after they've, metaphorically, hung up their boots and he picks me to play alongside them?

I'd be lucky to be allowed to be the one who retrieves the ball after one of players had skyed a shot and had hoofed the ball past the goals...

...I'm wandering now. I shouldn't be eulogising about Bestie when I was trying to tell a story of how I should have a bulletproof immune system after playing in such a bacterial breeding ground as the west burn.

But hey, that's the thing I enjoy about writing. I never know where it's going to lead. And neither do you. We're both only along for the ride. Strap yourself in and enjoy it.

Stay happy. It could be worse. You could be Welsh.


C'mere you fat fuck... I'm gonna kill ya.

I bet that's what God was thinking about me all week.

But guess what? God lost. Ho ho.

One day though... God will look down (Or up, or sideways... Who knows what way up in space He sits.) and will decide that my time on this mortal coil is over and I'll drop like a stone.

Possibly of a heart attack.

But that won't be because God wants to see me die from a heart attack, it'll be because the body auditors consider it the easiest way for me to go. All my years of bad living will see to that. No man, or indeed woman, can live for a long time when their staple diet consists of fried food from the nearest take-away. But, selah, so it goes.

I don't think I've ever had what you would call a healthy diet. But that's a Scottish thing. We're an unhealthy bunch who look at vegetables and fruit like they are alien pods that will rot our minds and will turn us into Englishmen. Ask the average Scotsman what a pomegranate is and they'll tell you it's a type of English stone that's been imported into Australia.


Recent happenings.

I've been in my bed a lot this last couple of weeks. Due not only to a grand depression but also to a stinking cold/flu virus which went straight to my lungs and had a party.

It's been a great to see all the shit in my lungs get gobbed out though. Huge lumps of green and grey phlegm have been hacked and hawked up at regular intervals and several times I've coughed so hard I saw stars in my watery eyes and almost passed out. Oh the joys of a 40 cigarettes a day habit and a chest infection...

Because of the fact that daytime TV sucks like a cheap hooker I've been listening to a lot of music, reading, jerking off and sleeping.

Top of the list for listening has been The Goons, even though I've been unable to laugh really hard without coughing until I'm blue in the face... Much like a smurf who has been caught smoking by grampa smurf and has been made to smoke until he pukes.

Also on the listening list has been...
I've also been playing on my new XBox. Which is what I'm going to be doing in about an hour after the lovely hot bath that's waiting for me right now.

Stay happy folks. Depression is a bitch.


A Journey into nonsense.

I said in a post a couple of weeks ago; Jesus, was it that long ago? How time flies when you're hiding from the world; that "To be a half decent writer you have to write about what you know."
So, here goes. Writing about what I know.

There's only one way to skin a cat... Properly. A shabbily skinned cat isn't skinned. If you've ever see a cat that's been improperly skinned I'm sure you'll agree with me. You're like that... I can tell that by how nicely groomed and respectable you look. But I digress... From whatever I was talking about to your appearance.

What was I talking about? Was I even talking? Technically, no. I was typing. But you know what I mean. Lets not get caught up in semantics. It wouldn't do either of us any good.

Anyhoo... Skinned cats. What uses do they have? Rugs? Yes, but only the fur will suffice for this purpose. Who wants to walk into a finely decorated lounge to see the rotting corpse of a cat laid out on the floor? Not me that's for sure...

There's something about that image that would make me make my excuses and depart from said lounge. No matter what variety of alcohol and canapes the host has on offer. Chicken vol-e-vonts may be nice with cristal champagne but making small talk over the body of a tabby cat isn't my scene.

Please note; The size of the cat skin is also an equation in whether it can be used for decorative purposes. Tiger, lion, leopard and cheetah are of adequate size for a rug. Household moggie should be steered clear of for even the smallest of rooms. (They never tell you that on all those decorating shows on TV do they?)

And what about uses for the part of the cat that's no longer attached to the pelt... This would be the dripping, sticky, red and slightly warm part of the freshly skinned feline for those of you unfamiliar with skinned cats... What uses does that have?

Attempting to sell it to your local Chinese take-away joint is inadvisable... I personally have experience of this and would not wish upon you the same fate. Being chased along the road by several angry Chinese chefs waving razor sharp meat cleavers may seem very exiting, not to mention dramatic looking for anyone who happens to bear witnesses, but it's not. It's hard work. And this is something which should be avoided. At all costs.

For those of you in possession of a well preserved moggie body and a spirit of adventure there is always the temptation to try to make something practical. This urge should not be fought. Many of the worlds great creations have come about because of this urge.

One idea most amateur taxidermist toy with is a reading lamp.

And in theory it is a good idea, the stomach cavity of an average sized household cat is the perfect size for a standard sized light bulb and the tail makes for routing the power cable easy, but difficulties can arise when trying to preserve the corpse sufficiently against the heat of an adequate wattage lightbulb. Reading by a light that isn't bright enough can damage your eyes. If you had cats eyes that wouldn't be a problem but you don't so please remember to steer clear of the temptation to make a reading lamp.

The most popular use for the smaller breeds is an umbrella stand. The work mainly consists of fixing together the paws, to allow umbrellas to stand freely, and varnishing.

The larger breeds, Lion and Tiger mainly, are perfect for garden ornamentation. Products like creosote and other wood stains should be avoided. A light skim plaster over the corpse should suffice for protection against the elements.

Cheetahs, Lynx and Leopard, while not suitable for outdoors use, make good staircase endings where a flaring staircase leads into the hallway. Ocelot skeletons make perfect supports for the banister but please remember to rub them down regularly with beeswax to keep the bone in tip top condition. Doing this will not only preserve the color of the bone but will almost certainly put value onto your home should you put it onto the meercat. Oops, I mean market.

Disclaimer. No cats were harmed during the writing of this post. I waited until I'd finished. Then I got stuck right in with a carving fork and a hatchet.