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667... The neighbor of the beast.

Today was a spectacular day in the life and times of our hero, the Right Honorable Dr Ross Douglas (B.n.g A.o.h) Monsters were battled with and slain, maidens fair swooned at his feet and the Powers That Be were dealt a blow from which they may never recover.

Thanks to the author of this blog knowing our Hero on a personal level there now follows a description of the day through his eyes...

The sun streamed through my bedroom and woke me. A quick glance at the digital clock informed me it was 11:23 and I dragged my body into an upright position. I coughed and cleared the lump of guff from the top of my lungs and reached for my cigarettes.

I staggered through to the toilet and took a piss as I lit my first cigarette of the day. I shook the dribbles from my dick and took a look at myself in the mirror. The Little Voice that resides in my head spoke to me. "You really should finish cleaning the house you know." It said.

"FUCK OFF!" I screamed at my reflection, hoping that the Little Voice would take the hint and leave me alone. "Why do you have to bother me all the time?" I said with a plaintive tone to my voice.

"Because I'm your Little Voice, I'm the one who forces you to question things, I'm The One. The Soul, The Spirit... In other words, I'm GOD." Said the voice in my head.

Somehow it didn't seem so little anymore.

"Oh fuck off." I said to my reflection, dragging my eyes away from the mirror before the Little Voice attempted to continue the conversation.

I walked into the livingroom and put on some clothes. As I pulled my shirt on the Little Voice sprung up again. "You do know I'm omnipresent don't you?" It said. "YES, I KNOW YOU'RE OMNIPRESENT BUT I'M THE DRIVER OF THIS BUS! SO FUCK OFF!" I screamed, angrily.

"Jeez, if you're gonna be like that I'm leaving." Said the Little Voice, with a tone similar to that of a friend that you have just offended. "Look, I didn't mean to upset you..." I said. "Don't you have somewhere you could go so I can have some "Me" time?" I asked.

"Well, there is a tribe in South America I've wanted to free from oppression for a while now. Nice people, they just have issues with dealing with the more violent part of revolution. They keep getting to the point of overturning the local armed gang and then it all goes tits up because none of them is able to stove in the skull of the gang leader without questioning if killing is against God."

"And is it?" I asked the Little Voice.

"Not when the intention is to free those who are unable to free themselves. But you shouldn't really be asking it when you're standing over the gang leader with a rock in your hand and his hand is only a couple of inches from a gun." Said the Little Voice.

"So what are you going to do?" I asked.

"I think I'll go biblical on one of the tribe. Give him a vision... Enable him to see the future for his friends and family if he doesn't take control of the situation. The whole Scrooge gig. That's always been a good motivator." The Little Voice replied.

"Go do that then, I'll be fine. I'll go into town and read my book for a couple of hours." I said.

"Ok then, I'll speak to you later." Said the Little Voice. I heard it whistle the tune of Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life as it faded into the middle distance of my mind. I heard a door closing and there was silence in my head.

I switched on my stereo and put on Viva Las Vegas by The Dead Kennedy's. As the sound took over my body I danced around the livingroom singing along...

♫♪ Bah-Right light city gonna set mah soul, gonna set mah soul on Fiah. ♫♪

Twenty minutes later I was on a bus headed for Princes Street. I sat down and took my book out. (Pryor Convictions by Richard Pryor.) As I sat reading the person sitting opposite me began laughing for no apparent reason. I looked over to see what it was she was laughing at.

"Sorry." She said.
"Why?" I asked.
"I was laughing at the book you're reading." She announced.
"What's so funny about it?" I asked, thinking that she had something against Richard Pryor.
"The quote on the front." She replied.

I looked at the cover of the book and read the quote.

"Makes Jesus's life sound utterly tedious" Maxim.

"It does as well." I said. "You should read it."
"I'll keep an eye out for it." She said.

I went back to reading my book and tried to ignore the occasional snigger that came from the woman opposite me. As my stop approached I stood up and she said "Enjoy the book."

"I will. Have a good one." I said and walked down the aisle.

I got off the bus, walked into the papershop, bought a packet of Rizla and a copy of MCN and headed for Princes Street Gardens. I found a quiet spot in the park and sat down to read my book and have a few joints.

An hour and a half later the shadows had begun to cover my seating area and I decided to move somewhere better. I walked along to the Scott Monument and climbed onto the large stone steps that lead up to the plinth where Sir Walter Scott resides in statue form. I pulled my jacket off and began reading again.

I switched on my MP3 player and let the music drown out the noise of the traffic and the people. After about ten minutes of reading I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a Park Warden. He said something that I didn't hear and then motioned to me to come down off the base of the monument. I pulled the earphone out of my ear and said "What?"

"You're not supposed to be up there." The warden said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I said so. Now, off!" He replied with a commanding tone to his voice.

I thought for a second. This was obviously nothing more than an attempt by him to assert his power on me. I decided that he wasn't going to get to play his little game with me. I looked at him and said... "Fuck off. I'll sit here if I want. If you want me off come up here and make me."

"I'll be back in ten minutes and if you're not off of there I'm calling the cops." He said as he began to walk away.

"Fuck off." I said, loud enough so that he could hear me.

Forty minutes later, as the sun was dipping over the top of the national gallery, there was still no sign of the park warden and having reached the end of the book I got up and walked towards the bus stop.

I got back to the house within half an hour. I rolled a joint, changed into a pair of shorts and walked into the bathroom to take a piss. I whistled as I pissed.

♫♪Always look on the bright side of life.♫♪

I Looked in the mirror and the Little Voice came back. "Had a good day?" It said.
"Great." I said. "You?"
The Little Voice replied. "Not too bad. The guy got the vision." It said.
"And will he overturn the local gang?" I asked.
"I don't know. It's up to him now. At least he'll not begin asking silly questions when he's leaning over the leader with a rock in his hand." Said the Little Voice.


Instead of tidying...

I've decided to spend most of this week reading.

Lyndsay "With an I" Brown (Who you can visit by clicking here) came into work at the club on Saturday night with eight books for me to read. Plus I've still to plough my way through Descartes, Freud and Darwin so it's into the pages I shall sink.

The books Lyndsay "With an I" brought in are as follows.
  • Richard Pryor - Pryor Convictions.
  • Chuck Palahniuk - Haunted.
  • Dave Eggers - A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius.
  • Chuck Palahniuk - Diary.
  • Bret Easton Ellis - Less Than Zero.
  • Franz Kafka - Metamorphosis.
  • Vladimir Nabokov - Lolita.
  • Natsuo Kirino - Out.
I'm terribly tempted to get up early tomorrow to head into town to spend the day lazing under a tree somewhere reading. The plus side is that if I do this I can avoid doing the rest of the housework.

I can't take it anymore...

Don't panic. This isn't some kind of suicide note.

I've just had enough of cleaning for the day and have decided that the time has come to sit down and roll a spliff while Jeff Buckley belts out Grace and the sun is shining through my window.

I've cleaned up the livingroom, hoovered and dusted, the bathroom has had a bottle of bleach thrown at it and I've done two loads of washing. That's more than enough cleaning for me for one day. I did give some consideration to begining to tackle the dishes but I can't decide if they'll be usable after cleaning so I've abandoned them for the better things in life.

Such as Jeff Buckley, joints and my thoughts.

Housework is never done...

So why bother in the first place?

I knew I'd have to clean some of the house when I got up this morning. Well, actually, I knew I'd have to clean most of the house as it's in such a state that even the most desperate illegal immigrant, or escaped mental patient, would think twice about living in it...

The kitchen resembles the Withnail & I set... The dishes in the sink resemble the leaning tower of Pisa. The fridge is home to a lump of mouldy cheese, a jar of black olives, a pineapple and a jar of seafood sauce. The only thing that's missing is Richard E Grant ranting and raving... "There is a strange colour growing on the worktop!"

The bathroom is also a sight to behold... There are enough empty toilet roll tubes for Blue Peter to recreate the space battle from Star Wars and the crud that has gathered in the plughole of the bath is only waiting for an extra molecule of some kind to enable it with independent thought and self government.

The living-room resembles a hotel room that's been inhabited by some kind of Fear and Loathing fan hellbent on recreating his favorite scene from the movie. The detritus includes... Enough newspapers to enable you to make a copy of war and peace in the style of a ransom note. Enough pizza boxes for an arty type to make a sculpture of an armchair in an attempt to show how disinterested in quality cuisine the modern person has become in an age where we want everything Now, Not later.

I'm not even going to mention the bedroom. Suffice to say, should the pile of empty cigarette packets piled on the bedside shelf topple, I'm in danger of being killed in an avalanche.

So, I'm cleaning. Kinda. In between writing this, that is.

And the reason I'm cleaning? My mum is popping around tomorrow night and I want to avoid the whole "I didn't bring you up to live like this" lecture that she hits me with everytime she visits. It's damage limitation really. I know I'll get the lecture anyway but at least if I clean it to my standard of clean I'll have a rational argument to present to her and I may save myself the lecture at high volume.


The first day.

Of my holiday has been a super-lazy one.

I dropped my head onto my pillow at 4am this morning and surfaced at 11:30am.

Twenty minutes later I was asleep again. For another six hours.


I bet you thought...

That Sir David Niven was dead? To be honest I thought so too. Until tonight when he came into my work. Luckily I had my camera with me and asked Sir David to pose for a picture.

Mr Niven I presume?

Sadly Sir David couldn't stay for very long as he was claimed he was going out for a drink with Cecil B Demille and Frank Sinatra.


For fans of Hunter S Thompson.

Anita Thompson has started writing a blog.
Check it out here.

There is also a Gonzo store where you can buy official Hunter S Thompson goodies.
Check it out here.


I'm on holiday next week.

What am I to do? I did consider grabbing my tent and disappearing into the Scottish scenery for a few days of solitude and separation. But I may, however, spend the week lying in my bed wanking like a monkey.

One thing is for sure, I'll not be popping into my work for any reason. I don't care if the rum is cheap and the stagger homewards is relatively short, I'm not going down that road.

Is it a coincidence?

That just after Lord "I'm a firestarter" Watson gets out of jail there just happens to be a huge fire in an Istanbul airport?

Does anyone know if Watson was planning a holiday abroad to celebrate his release?

Danger! Cow invasion!

As my pledge to keep away from bookshops is still in effect I was somewhat stuck for something to do today. So I thought I'd get some batteries for my camera and go into town to get some pictures of the Scottish Parliament building.

Little did I realise that in doing so I would end up walking around town looking for a herd of cows.

The Cowparade is being held in Edinburgh over the next ten weeks.

To save you lot the bother of going out and seeing them yourselves I took the trouble of grabbing pictures of them for you. Ain't that nice of me?

To see the pictures click here.

Parliamentary Pictures.

I decided that it wasn't really very nice of me to rip the piss out of the Scottish Parliament without allowing you all to judge it for yourselves.

So in order to let you all see for yourselves I took my camera and got some pics for you. Ain't that really nice of me?

To View the pictures click here.


How to talk to your cat.

While flicking through a copy of womens weekly that a co-worker had brought in to read while she was on her break I stumbled across the craziest advert I have ever laid eyes on.

"Open up a whole new communication between you and your cat."

If you're a cat lover like me, and wish to communicate better with your pet for a deeper, more loving relationship, then you'll want to out how to talk to your cat. And that's where a new guide -"Your talking Cat" - can really help you... especially when it comes to understanding what your cat is actually saying - not just what you think she is saying.
It begins.

It goes on to make the claim that "Cats are scientifically proven to possess certain telepathic powers for reading the true mindset of a human companion." Now, I'm no scientist and I openly admit that my reading of scientific journals has been poor of late, but I'm sure if humanity had invented some sort of device that can detect telepathic ability I'm pretty sure I'd have heard about it.

Anyhoo, the advert then lists a few of the things that the book can help you read your cats body language, facial expressions and meows to decipher such things as...
  • Why your cat rubs you to show affection.
  • Why your cat circles in your lap before settling down.
  • Why your cat blinks.
  • How many different ways your cat purrs.
  • How your cat sizes up your friends.
  • Why your cat always seems to come over when you're reading or doing paperwork.
  • Why your cat doesn't like being stared at... yet sometimes stares at you.
  • Why your cat may panic if you oversleep.
  • How your cat knows when a disaster is about to take place.
  • Why your cat likes to explore open pipes or even inside paper bags.
  • And many, many other questions answered.
And all this for the price of 15.95

As I'm a believer in the free sharing of information I'm about to answer these questions for you. Not just to save you the sixteen quid but to save you from having to suffer the embarrassment of having someone see the book on your bookshelf and asking you what the fuck you were drinking, smoking or injecting when you purchased it.

So, here are the answers.
  • Why your cat rubs you to show affection.
When your cat begins to rub itself against your legs when you are walking across the room it isn't to show affection... It's trying to trip you up. Cats are like that, they have a built in evil streak and love nothing more than watching you trying not to step on it's tail and falling over in the process.
  • Why your cat circles in your lap before settling down.
This is also part of the evil streak that is inherent in cats. The cat knows you are friendly, because you don't like standing on it's tail and buy it a nice new catnip filled toy when you do, and it enjoys testing your ability to suffer pain. Circling around your lap while digging it's claws into your upper thigh is how cats test how far it can go before you scream in pain and hurl the furry little fucker across the room.
  • Why your cat blinks.
Because it has to stop its eyeballs drying up. A cat may be agile and supple enough to be able to lick it's own arsehole but it's tongue isn't long enough to lick it's eyeballs to keep them moist or to remove dirt from them.
  • How many ways your cat purrs.
The easiest way to get a cat to purr is to stroke it's back. In doing this you are simulating what happens when a tomcat mounts up and gives it one up the cathole. (If you doubt this try tickling the part of it's back just above it's tail. The tail will go up and the cat will take great pleasure in showing you it's pussy. So to speak.)
  • How your catsizes up your friends.
Your cat is indifferent to people. You included. Whatever way a person treats a cat is how your cat sizes people up. In order to try this theory have two people whom the cat has never met before and have one be nice to it and one be nasty to it. You will find that the one who is nice is welcomed with affection and the one who was nasty is welcomed with sharp teeth and flying claws.
  • Why your cat always seems to come over when you're reading or doing paperwork.
Because it's fucking with you. Cats are like small children in that respect. If you look like you are interested in something other than them they'll get all sulky about it and try to distract you from whatever you are doing and make you pay attention to them instead.
  • Why your cat doesn't like to be stared at... yet sometimes stares at you.
Cats don't like being stared at because they are arrogant little fuckers. Staring at a cat is a challenge of their authority.
  • Why your cat may panic if you oversleep.
Because when you're having a lie-in the cat is unable to open the tin of cat food.
  • Why your cat knows when a disaster is about to take place.
It doesn't. Plain and simple. (Though there are occasions when the cat knows when a disaster is about to occur as it is about to become the cause of the disaster. Once again, just to fuck with you.)
  • Why your cat likes exploring open pipes and paper bags.
Your cat likes to explore open pipes as they are generally where you find rats and mice. In other words, things it can fuck with. Paper bags, however, are fun to explore for cats as they rub on the cats back and cause those sexy feelings that the cat gets when you stroke it.

Should you still wish to buy this book then please remember not to let your cat see you reading it. Why? Because as soon as you sit down to read it the cat will see that you are interested in something other than itself and the following thought will pass through it's mind...

"Why isn't the food bringer paying attention to me? I'm going to go up there and dig my claws into it. Maybe it'll rub my ass and make me horny. Then I can go and lick my own cunt for an hour or so."


This weeks desktop.

Is from the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Fear and Loathing

To grab a copy of this just click on the picture and save a copy.

Oh lord,

It's Lordi.

I watched the Eurovision song contest last night. Kinda. What I actually did was flick between watching and stabbing myself in the leg with a fork just to make a comparison between the two things. (The results weren't conclusive but I'm swaying towards the leg stabbing being the more pleasant pastime.)

True to tradition the Terry Wogan-Bot was taken out of the storage cupboard in the BBC's special effects department and was plugged in to charge its batteries so it could commentate on the proceedings. (This is the real reason you don't actually get to see the Wogan-Bot at the ceremony. In recent years it can't get past the metal detectors at the airports.)

After fifteen minutes of watching/stabbing I couldn't stay awake anymore and sleep took me.

Either that or I passed out through sheer boredom.

Just for fun.

TV Cream Themes

Alphabetical listing of classic TV theme tunes.

Good fun if you fancy killing an hour or so of your life remembering classic TV shows and cartoons from your youth.


Architecture and Miralles...

But no Ted or Alice.

Though, to be fair, for all I know there may have been an Alice...

This morning I hauled my arse out of bed, showered, dressed, rolled a joint and headed into town. The High Street was my destination, so off I toddled. (I didn't literally toddle, I've become quite proficient in walking since I first started at about the age of one and a half.)

I've been threatening to pop into Yvoone's work for a couple of weeks now so just for the laughs, and having pledged to stay out of bookshops until I've caught up with my reading pile, I headed for Clarinda's Tea Shop. While walking down the High Street I looked around and saw swarms of Japanese tourists clicking away with digital cameras and decided that I'd have an attempt at seeing Edinburgh through their eyes. (I could throw in a deeply racist joke here by saying I squinted my eyes and put on an oriental accent but I'm not about to, so forget it.)

Clarinda's tea Room is a strange little place. Tucked away at the bottom of the High Street it offers an interesting dichotomy to the Starbucks on the other side of the road. The walls are covered in ancient looking portraits of persons unknown and blue and white china plates. The tables are covered in white knitted table covers and it has the feeling of quiet hospitality the likes of which you expect if Arthur Ransome had written a teashop into Swallows and Amazons.

As I sat down at a table next to the window I was approached by one of the staff. There was a distinct look of wonderment in her eyes and I could see that she was questioning why someone wearing a hoodie, jeans and a camouflage style bucket hat was sitting in a tearoom and not connecting to the internet by wi-fi in the Starbucks opposite. I ignored the slight look of wonderment on her face and asked for a coffee. As I waited I pulled off my hoodie and revealed my Terrorist? t-shirt. (I love scaring the straight.)

Less than a minute later Yvoone appeared with my coffee. She was shocked to see me, I inwardly reveled in the knowledge that she'd been caught off balance, but she smiled and told me she didn't think I'd have come in. I drank my coffee as she continued working, all the while letting the other staff know, without a shadow of a doubt, I wasn't her boyfriend. One of the bosses told Yvoone to get her lunchbreak so she sat and drank a coke while I finished my coffee. We took a walk outside and Yvoone had a cigarette while I lit the half joint I had in my cigarette packet. After finishing our respective smokes we walked back into the teashop and I picked up my hoodie and said cheerio to Yvoone.

I figured that as I was in the area I should take a walk down to Hollyrood Park where I could roll myself another joint and have a read at my book. (Machiavelli, if you're interested.) I wandered across the road and headed for the shop around the corner where I knew I'd be able to buy a pack of Rizla papers, a sandwich and a bottle of juice. I cut through a vennel that leads past the new Scottish Parliament and looked up at its bamboo covered windows and it's poured concrete blast walls to prevent car bombs from blowing large holes in it. (Not that I'd really give a fuck if someone did, as long as no-one got hurt. But more on that later...)

Having got my Rizlas and something to eat I walked towards Hollyrood Park. As there was a bit of a breeze I couldn't sit in the open space and roll a joint, without potential wind-related-joint-theft, so I walked across the road and headed onto Arthurs Seat to find a hollow where I could skin up out of the wind.

I walked about a hundred yards up Arthurs Seat and found a nice big lump of Volcanic rock that would protect me from any gusts of wind on a joint stealing mission and made a nice strong joint to smoke while I ate my lunch. I searched my Mp3 player for Radioheads Ok Computer and sat looking out over the top of the houses, monuments and church steeples of Edinburgh. As the joint began to take effect I remembered that I was supposed to be looking at Edinburgh as though I were a Japanese tourist. In a small private moment, that I wouldn't normally admit to, I pulled my eyes into slits and said "Ahhh so, is a velly plitty city." in an oriental accent.

As I sat looking down upon the new Scottish Parliament I found myself wondering what kind of drugs Enric Miralles had been on when he designed it. As you look out over Edinburgh you can see such historical landmarks as the Castle, the Scott Monument, Calton Hill Tower, the Tron Kirk and other interesting features and buildings that are stunningly beautiful and make up an all together wonderful cityscape. And then your eyes alight upon the Parliament. (More on that later...)

I smoked my joint and decided that I'd walk over the top of Salisbury Crags to get a better view of the city. As I sat there an attractive looking tourist, I could tell by the large camera and tourist information map that she had in her hand, walked into my field of vision. She was a pretty girl with strawberry blonde hair and a face like a 20 year old Alice in Wonderland and I wondered if I should offer her a pull on my joint in an attempt to strengthen the political ties between Scotland and the United States. (Well, in these times when America is invading oil rich countries and shooting it's inhabitants, you never know when you might need an American ally.)

I decided not to offer her my joint as she didn't look the type who did bad things like smoke drugs with total strangers in a place far from home. Besides, she may have got the wrong impression as I was wearing a t-shirt that has Terrorist? written across it and I may have had to try to explain to her post 9/11 mind that it wasn't supposed to offend anyone, it was merely to point out that no-one knows what a terrorist looks like. With a headfull of cannabis this might have proven difficult.

As we were both walking over the Crags at the same time our paths crossed more than once and I wondered if I was seeing Edinburgh the way that she was seeing it as a tourist. I do know for a fact that there was one perfect view I could see that she couldn't without the use of a mirror, her arse. Damn, that arse made me more determined to walk up Arthurs Seat than anything else ever could have. At times Goatboy took over and I found my inner pervert making suggestions such as "never mind Arthurs Seat, look at Alice's seat" and other equally twisted things to think about a random stranger. (Hey, don't get all judgmental on me, you have those kind of thoughts as well. If you claim that you don't, you're lying to yourself.)

After about two hours of walking up the Crags, I'd stopped to roll a few joints on the way, I began to head back towards the Parliament. I must have made a fine sight to anyone watching me as I stumbled and slipped down the steep slopes swearing like a stoned sailor all the way.

I sat at the bottom of the hill and got my breath back, after fighting gravitys attempts to make me rag-doll down the side of Arthurs Seat for the amusement of any onlookers. After five minutes or so my legs stopped shaking long enough for me to stand up without looking like a drunken giraffe and I wandered across the road to the Parliament building.

I walked around the Parliament slowly. I looked at it from as many angles as I could. I stood in strange places and stared along walls and up at the sides of the building. I tried to put myself in the mind of the architect and found myself stuck.

I stared at the building and wondered how something that cost so much money could look so fucking awful. The windows make it look like the builders had been offered a great price on
bamboo, the concrete looks as though it was poured by amateur builders who were trained by monkeys, the shape of it all looks like Miralles had drawn it while hanging upside down with a leadless pencil and broken fingers after swallowing 5 tabs of acid and drinking a pint of tequila.

After at least a half an hour of staring at the building I couldn't take anymore and I wandered off wondering why it is that politicians allowed so much of the publics money to be spent on something that a child of four could have conjured up on an etch-a-sketch after eating 3 chocolate liqueurs at their grans at Christmas.

Afterwards I walked back up Hollyrood Road and headed for the High Street. I wandered down Cockburn Street resisting the temptation to pay a visit to Pie in the Sky, where everyone worth their salt in Edinburgh knows is where you can get a nice bong, screens for pipes or multicoloured skins for rolling huuuge Bob Marley style joints, and headed for Princes Street.

I walked along Princes Street and popped into Virgin where I bought three DVD's for £20. Snatch by Guy Ritchie, National Treasure starring Nicholas Cage and Restless Natives, an independent Scottish film made in the 1980's which was made in and around Wester Hailes where I spent my youth. (I even have memories of watching the filming of it.)

Tomorrow I'll no doubt pay for all the walking up and down hills I've done today but hey, what's a few muscle aches and pains when you've had a great day out? Nothing really.

*Update* Pictures of the Parliament building are available by clicking here.

Comedy Skit.

[Authors note: This skit is an attempt at a skit for the TV show Dead Ringers.]

(The scene opens in the Oval Office of the White House. George W Bush is sitting behind his desk. He begins to address the nation.)

Bush: Fellow Armenians, the time has come for strong leadership in our war on globule terroristicality. In a recent survey conductified by me and my daddy we discovered a state who sponsorificates terrorists.

(Cut to: A large map. It has Venezuela written across it in bold type.)

Bush: This is... (He begins to read the name of the country by running his finger along the letters as he reads.) ...Vee-nez-oo-ella. (He looks off camera.) Did you see that daddy? I read it proper.

(He turns back to camera.)

Bush: After speakifying to my daddy (He looks off camera again and waves.) I have come to the conclusification that we the United Steaks of Armenia must take steps to bring this rogue state to justice. After conferifying further with my faithful dog Barney I have decidified that countries and states that do not join us are our enemies and we must take positive action.

(He looks off camera again.)

Bush: Am I doin' good Daddy? (He gives a thumbs-up sign and turns back to camera.)

Bush: In order to fight the war on terroristical activications I have ordered the army to begin Operation Barney.

(He lifts a Fisher-Price telephone and pushes the center of it. The phone makes a squeaking noise.)

Bush: (Speaking into the phone.) Send in the secret weapon.

(Former President Bush's voice is heard off screen.)

Former President Bush: That's the wrong phone you god-damned dummy. (His voice fades.) I knew I should'a had Jeb put into office. (FX: Off screen. Door slaming .)

(Bush realises his error and picks up another telephone.)

Bush: Send in the secret weapon.

(Cut to a door. The door opens. fog rolls out of it.)

(A Dalek rolls out of the fog.)

(Cut back to Bush.)

Bush: This is the latest weapon our technicians have came up with.

(Cut back to the Dalek surrounded by fog. The camera pulls back to reveal that it is only twelve inches high. There is a white coated technician standing next to it.)

(Cut back to bush.)

Bush: Show our fellow Armenians what it can do.

(Cut to the technician. He produces a remote control and begins to press buttons. The Dalek moves around crazily.)

(Cut back to Bush.)

Bush: Ain't it great? (Laughs.)


New Feature.

I'm introducing a new feature to my blog.

"This weeks desktops" will feature whatever pictures I'm using for my desktop.

Big Wave Surfer.

To download just click on the picture and save a copy.

Has it really been almost a week?

Since I posted on here?

Shame on me. I almost feel guilty for not keeping you all abreast of the goings on in the life and times of me. But then the feeling passes and I remember that I'm not writing this blog to satiate your lust for depravity, mayhem and sordid tales of masturbation. (Which this blog could so easily descend into...)

Truth be told it's been a quiet week really. There have been minor hickups on the road to enlightenment but nothing major has decided to steer itself in my direction and the cosmic wheel still turns. I've popped a few billion sperm onto my stomach, slept, scratched my arse, smoked at least a hundred and thirty cigarettes, swallowed several pills, smoked fifty to sixty joints, worked and slept. An average week really.

There has, however, been enough drama on here to keep you all on tenterhooks. Will Tootsie ever meet Kev? Is Kev really named Andy? Is Kev/Andy really off to foreign parts with the Army? Are there two Kevs? Will channel four make it into a made for TV movie? Will it be Ewan McGregor or Pierce Brosnan in the male lead role or will the production company use an unknown actor? Will these and other questions ever be answered?... Who knows. Certainly not me. I just work here.

Via con dios and all that.

I, Ross Douglas, do solemnly swear...

To stay the hell away from all bookshops for at least a month. Or possibly two given the amount of books that sit on the mantelpiece unread and gathering dust.

The list of unread books goes as follows...
  • Descartes. Key Philosophical Writings.
  • Democracy in America. Alexis de Tocqueville.
  • Darwin. The Origin Of The Species.
  • Freud. The Interpretation of Dreams.
  • Graham Greene. The Comedians.
  • Gordon Graham. Philosophy of the arts. An introduction to aesthetics.
  • Gary G Graham. The Cannabis Octet.
  • Martin Amis. Night Train.
  • Dean Koontz. Sole Survivor.
So, all in all, I think I may have enough reading material to keep me going for a while...



I fear something. It's not a big fear really, it's more of a small worry than a fear if I'm being truly honest. It's probably one of those things that people suffer from. Like those who fear the number 13 (triskaidekaphobiacs) or those who have an irrational fear of spiders (arachnophobics).

But my fear isn't as stupid as those are. I mean, come on, 13 is just a number and a spider ain't shit to a decent sized shoe or a rolled up newspaper. Deal with it.

The problem mainly stems from my general lack of care as to how I look. If you were to put me into a police line up with an assorted cross section of society I'd be the person most likely to be picked out at random as the one who looks like he would steal the sugar from your coffee without you even noticing.

This annoys me. I'm a generally well balanced human being, I just couldn't care less than a fuck if someone else's perception of me is flawed. And I'm no stranger to this human foible, I have on occasion judged strangers by how they look. I'm forever looking at fashion conscious youth and wondering what the fuck they were thinking when they got ready for the day ahead.

And it's not just the youth that I've been guilty of blindly evaluating either. Everytime I see someone wearing a suit and tie I automatically think "There they go, just another number in the misery machine." Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly anti-people, I even wish bad tidings upon them. Nothing major you understand, I don't pray they suffer a sudden aneurysm in the middle of ASDA or that they are mown down and killed by an out of control lawnmower.

Occasionally I call upon the Gods to have someone punch them very hard for no apparent reason. Not me, you understand, I'm not a violent man by nature. Perhaps the Gods could have their spouse whack them in the head when they get home that night, maybe their best friend could whip out a fist and sock them in the jaw while they are playing squash at the gym. Whoever does the deed isn't important, just so long as it's done.

By having these thoughts and subsequently realising that these thoughts are shared by all of humanity at some level, whether you want to accept them or not, I know that there are people judging me by looks alone on a regular basis. (I wonder, are they calling for misdeeds to be done upon my person? If so I'm going to up my wish level to include aneurysms in ASDA's)

Anyhoo... My fear is that sometimes I'm mistaken for an uneducated idiot. ("Mistaken?" I hear you question.) I mean it's not as though I look like I have been educated in any way, shape or form. I've never owned a pair of corduroy slacks, I can't stand tweed and I think elbow patches on Barbour jackets look stupid and that the people who wear these abhorrent clothes should be punched on principle.

I have what you might call a "distinctly uneducated" look about me. More often than not I wear jeans and a t-shirt, trainers and a hat of some description. Which is standard issue apparel for what are endearingly called Neds up here in Bonnie Scotland. (Oh the land of the free... And the home of the Ned.)

As such I could be mistakenly identified as a Ned. And this causes me much angst. everytime I'm trailed around a store by a security guard or I'm looked at in a strange manner by a random person I have the urge to say to them...

"Honestly, I'm not a Ned. I've read Descartes, Freud and Nietzsche. Ok, sure, I may not have understood it but I still read them."


Sunshine and Shmokes.

After waking up this morning and looking around the house I realised that I should dedicate the day to tidying up and doing some laundry.

Then the voices in my head started. "Fuck that." One said. "It's not all that bad." Said another. "You've got a fucked shoulder, take it easy." Said yet another. I commanded the voices to stop talking and thought about the situation.

Ten minutes later I was on a bus heading into town, away from the visual reminder of a pile of washing so high that the Army could use it for altitude training and the everyday detritus my coffee table, desk, bedside shelf and floor seem to produce out of nowhere.

Armed with my MP3 player and my book I sat in Princes Street gardens and whiled away five hours. I read my newspaper and some of my book as my music played. I had a few surreptitious shmokes and watched the world go by.

I spent at least an hour and a half staring at a leaf on a tree and wondered what it was like to be that leaf. Should I be worried? Is this a normal thing to think about? I'm fucked if I know. Answers to the usual address.


In a Downing Street backroom...

Sits Tony Blair pondering the state of The State. Newspapers calling for his resignation are strewn across the desk in front of him...

A well dressed gentleman walks in. He is a slim man who, visually, has all the charm of a hungry Buzzard. He speaks and reveals his tone of voice to be exactly how you would expect a hungry Buzzard to sound if it were able to convey its thoughts.

"Prime minister. There is a major swing in support for the opposition. There are letters calling for your resignation being circulated by backbenchers. Your public support is dwindling as is your parties support. Strong action must be taken." Says The Man.

Tony Blair looks directly into the mans eyes. "There will be no resignation." He says, coldly.

"The powers that be demand it. You are aware of how much power they have." Says The Man. He gently clears his throat as if to indicate an association and continues speaking. "Perhaps you need reminding of their reach."

"I am fully aware of their reach." The Prime Minister says. "I remember Dallas... But still... There will be... NO RESIGNATION!" He shouts and slams his fist into the desk. "Now leave me."

"But..." The Man begins.

Tony Blairs eyes glow bright red, he raises his hand and slams it into the desk. The desk explodes in a shower of splinters. "LEAVE ME!" He growls. His voice is rough and inhuman sounding.

The Man turns to leave the room.

"And..." Continues Tony Blair, his voice calm and reasonable. "Have another desk sent up."



The following video is not suitable for children, co-workers or people with no sense of humor.


A hat-stand? With a chaise? Have you gone mad?

I've been off my work for almost a week now with a fucked shoulder.

I'm so bored of the four walls of my house that I actually considered redecorating. Seriously considered. I gave the thought at least six seconds of wandering around my brain before I called the whole farce to an end. Trust me, when it comes to interior decorating, six seconds is a very, very, very long time. Universes can be created in six seconds and redecorated in seven.

All it took to rip me back to reality was the thought, "What goes nice with sky blue?"

After this thought comes such mentalist statements as... I'd quite like a breakfast bar, some wicker chairs would look good in the study, Would a hat-stand be too much when you take into consideration the chaise longue... and, from then on in you're well and truly fucked.

As soon as you give a longer thinking time than six seconds to these notions you're on the rocky road to ruin. Next comes delusions of grandeur that would make, Lawrence Llewellen-Bowen audibly shit himself and Handy Andy have a cardiac arrest. (Both of which I'd like to see. But, only if Laurence Llewellen-Bowen shit himself first and then had a cardiac arrest to follow.)

Decorating, to me, is like Basingstoke. I know it's there but I never want to go. Which is exactly how I feel about MFI, Carpet Warehouse, Homebase, Ikea and all the other We-sell-you-things-that will-kill-trained-experts stores that live in little groups on the industrial estates all over the country. I never want to go there either.

And to end this post I'll let you in on something I found out today while researching DIY stores for this post. There's no B and Q in Dundee... Dundee is spelled D-U-N-D-E-E.

Revenge of the fuckwits.

Last month I made it my duty to inform the public at large that they should never work for fuckwits. This month I'm making it my cause célèbre.

I've just been to the bank to cash my wages cheque. Sorry, that last sentence is slightly misleading, what it should say is... I've just been to the bank to try to cash my wages cheque. The difference being a three lettered word and a whole lot of hassle.

Once again I was informed by the bank that the cash isn't made out to clear straight away. I asked why the cheque wasn't able to be cleared and the money deposited into my account and was told by the assistant that even though the cheque has "Salary cheque" written on it the cheque isn't made out to cash.

"Mr Banky Man he say dem paper no good massa!" My negro slave would no doubt say if I was stuck in the timewarp that my workplace seems to be stuck in. I mean come on, what the fuck is so difficult about making sure that staff are paid on time? It ain't rocket science. And it's just as well it ain't rocket science, if it were then the chances of mankind becoming masters of its own destiny amongst the stars would be non-exsistent.

The irony of it all is that the guy in the bank told me that he has recently been in touch with my work to offer the club an easier way of doing its banking. Go figure huh?


It's just not good enough...

I don't know what the world is coming to these days.

After giving kudos to the grub4u site a couple of days ago I'm forced to re-evaluate my judgment as their site has been down for three days now. This has forced me into walking to the local take-away twice in the last two days.

Ok, so the exercise will do me good but that's not the point. If you're going to run a site that people such as myself see as a great way to avoid people then at least have the decency to make sure it's running smoothly.

I can see my house from here.

And now so can you by clicking here.

I think I'll send google an e-mail asking when the next time the satellite will be passing overhead so I can look up and smile for the picture.



Was May-Day.

A day on which people commemorate something. What they commemorate I don't know...

Perhaps there is an historic figure who was named May and the powers that be decided that we should all have a day off of work to remember her good deeds. Which, despite all good efforts, has failed miserably as I'm fucked if I know who May was, never mind what she did that was so fantastic as to warrant a day when the shops close and you can't get a decent fried breakfast for love or money.

Or perhaps this is the day when sailors around the world put aside their differences and help each other. (Which would go a long way to explain why you're supposed to yell May-Day when you're in need of rescuing.) As someone who was fathered by someone who has salt in his blood I know that sailors can be an unruly mob who would argue, that black was white and that Bo Diddly was a better guitarist than Jimi Hendrix, just for the sheer hell of it.

(I'm not about to use this post to have a sly dig at my dad because he thinks Bo Diddly is a better guitarist than Jimi Hendrix, so I'll leave that train of thought there and attempt to steer this barge into a safer port.) So, anyhoo... It's May-Day once again and lots of people are getting drunk and having a good old fashioned knees up in worship of whatever deity it is that they have chosen to give kudos to. And, well done, I say.

There's nothing quite as spectacular as, dancing naked on a mountaintop or bathing in the fresh morning dew to refresh your spirit and cleanse your mind of everyday worries such as mortgages and responsibilities. Such things can be good for people. (Especially if there's copious amounts of alcohol and drugs to help.)

I celebrated May-Day lying in my bed complaining to myself that the TV is always shit on holidays and making the odd injured-bear noise due to my shoulder being fucked. Actually that's a lie... I'd much rather be dancing on a mountaintop smashed out my gourd on alcohol and drugs than lying in my bed. And, also, bears don't have quite the same ability to swear as I do.