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Cowparade lovers of the world unite.

While surfing around on flickr I came across a couple of photostreams of the cowparade in different cities across the globe. So, as I was stuck for something to write about I thought I'd put up the links so you don't have to bother with all the rummaging around. Aint that nice of me?

To view pictures from the Lisbon Cowparade click here. (177 pics)
Some more pictures of the Lisbon Cowparade can be viewed here. (96 pics)
More pictures from the Lisbon Cowparade can be viewed here. (31 pics)
More from Lisbon can be seen here. (18 pics)

To view pictures of the Paris Cowparade click here. (218 pics)

To view pictures from the Sao Paulo Cowparade click here. (20 pics)
More pictures from the Sao Paulo Cowparade can be seen here. (18 pics)
More from Sao Paulo can be viewed here. (28 pics)

To view pictures of the London Cowparade click here. (105 pics)

To view pictures of the Barcelona Cowparade click here. (8 pics)

To view pictures of the Atlanta Cowparade click here. (36 pics)

To view pictures of the Athens Cowparade click here. (22 pics)

To see pictures from the Moscow Cowparade click here. (81 pics)

To view the Flickr Cowparade pool click here. (127 pics)

And to see the pictures I took of the Edinburgh Cowparade click here. (33 pics)


Caption Contest.

Caption Contest.

Here's another caption contest for you all to excersice your funny bones.

Hey ho, lets go.

The song begins with a deafening assault upon my ears.

I'm sitting here with my headphones on and the Ramones are kicking seven bells out of Blitzkrieg Bop.

I've had a couple of joints and the music is connecting with me. The temptation to whip the headphone cord out of it's socket throw open my windows to the world and blast it across the Edinburgh rooftops, until the police come to kick my door in to seize my stereo and possibly beat me with sand filled saps, is huge.

Instead of doing this I satisfy myself by dancing around my livingroom playing my electric guitar.

(Before you think I'm bound to make more noise than the Ramones could allow me to let you into a small secret... My guitar has no strings.)

Slight changes...

Have been made to the layout of my blog.

I really should learn about how to get it looking all arty and creative but that's too much like hard work for me to give it consideration.


Are beards Evil?

I hadn't shaved this week until today when I jumped into the shower.

Instead of doing as I usually do and shaving all of my face I took the bold decision to leave a goatee beard. (It's a bold decision when your stubble grows through with a ginger tint to it. Believe me.)

Later on while I was at work I was told that a goatee makes me look as though I am some kind of devil worshipper. Ok, so it wasn't exactly phrased like that, it went more along the lines of "The beards a new look for you isn't it Ross?" But I saw through the thinly disguised subtext and figured what it was that the accuser meant by his statement.

And this caused me to wonder; Are beards evil?

Take the classic image of the devil; Horns sticking out his head, a menacing smile and a wispy goatee beard are almost standard issue. Several other evil people had beards. The Master (from the TV show Dr Who) wore a goatee and it's a well known fact that Rolf Harris has a goatee beard. And I'm sure we all know that he's the embodiment of evil.

Other goatfaced people include such evil fuckers as Anton La Vey, Rasputin, The Bee Gee's, Osama Bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, Charles Manson, Count Dooku and Jeremy Beadle. Going by that you could, conceivably, come to the conclusion that a beard not only makes you evil but may also have a strange side-effect that makes the fingers on your right hand stubby and chipolata like.

Looking at the other side of the coin throws up famous beard wearers who were inspirational. John Lennon wore a beard. As did Aristotle, Ernest Hemingway, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, Nikolai Andreyevich Rimsky-Korsakov, Socrates, Frank Zappa, Billy Gibbons, Dusty Hill, Charles Darwin, Brian Blessed, Charles Dickens, Diogenes of Sinope, Dave Gorman, Matt Groening, Karl Marx, Sean Connery and Santa Claus.

The realization that there are just as many non-evil beard wearers as there are evil beard wearers may cause you to think that one cancels out the other. And you'd be right. To a certain extent.

There may be a kind of natural balance in the ratio of evil-with-beard/non-evil-with-beard that has developed over time. I don't know. I can only make wild stabs in the dark and hope that this somehow ends up making sense.

I wonder if I succeeded?

I'd like to take this opportunity...

To apologize for the last few posts.

I put it down to the fact that I've been busy wrestling with some major decisions and haven't had the time to think of anything to write about. At times like these I tend to drop into default mode. Which, for me, is the ability to chronicle the base thoughts.

Fortunately there has been a rather enlightening side-effect to this. I've finally realized that unless I get off my lazy arse and DO SOMETHING I'm going to be sitting in ten years time wondering where my life went wrong. And that isn't a place I ever want to be.

The idea of going traveling for a while has been bandied about by various people, who I know and love and I'm beginning to see the positive side to it. For one it'll give me something to write about, for two it'll make my life more rewarding and for three it'll stop me wanking off so much...

A lack of inspiration...

Inevitably leads to nothing worth writing about. Isn't it strange how these things seem to coincide?

A writer, such as oneself, needs inspiration to function properly or he loses his ability to construct wonderful worlds of phantasmagorical imagery. Without inspiration... I am a desert. But this easily overcome. All it requires is for me to excersize the imagination a bit. Picture the scene if you will, dear reader...

(If this was a movie there would be a gentle fade as we begin our journey into the past. But this is text so deal with it.)

It is a cold winter morning. The bedside alarm clock begins to bleep and I reach out and slap it quiet. My cat, Bagpuss, nibbles my nose and I stir into life. I sit up in bed and bang my head on the top of the cabinet that contains my bed when it is folded up. I swear quietly and rub my head as I swing my legs out of bed and pull my jeans on.

Five minutes later and I'm fully dressed and wating for the kettle to boil. I've turned the TV on to catch whatever was qualifying for news on TV-AM. The kettle pops in the kitchen and I go and make myself a cup of coffee.

I return to the living room, sit down on the sofa and stare at Anne Diamond. I drift into a dream...

(Once more, in the movie of this there would be a special effect here.)

Anne Diamond is sitting next to me in a leather basque. "Take me." She says in a sultry voice. She begins to kiss my neck and I feel her hand on my crotch.

I open my eyes and look at the small clock in the bottom of the TV screen. There is still forty minutes until my Dad gets up and I have to leave for work. I look at Anne Diamond on the TV and reach into my trousers...

(In the movie of this is where there would probably be wide shot, from behind the sofa, to save showing whoever plays the part of me wanking off to Anne Diamond. Whereas the next bit would probably be done in a series of rapid cuts to highlight the timing of the climax to this story.)

I build to a crescendo just as the half hourly news builetin begins.

(Rapid cut.)

I hear the living room door click open.

(Rapid cut.)

I realise that my Dad is about to walk in and in catch me spanking my monkey. Somehow, the panic tips me over the edge and I begin to shoot large strings of splodge in an arc across the coffee table.

(Rapid cut.)

My father stands with a look of shock on his face. As I attempt to shove my, still twitching, dick into my trousers he looks away and his eyes alight on the TV screen. Which just happens to be covering the story of a famine in a country far away.

My father quickly adds two and two together and makes five, does a double take that Charlie Chaplin himself would be proud of and comes to the, incorrrect, asumption that his son has been wanking off to some kind of sick and perverted video cassette featuring nothing more than starving Africans.

(In the movie version this is where we'd cut back to whomever is playing me typing this out. There would also be a voice over of the thoughts I'm putting onto the screen in front of me.)

For about a month after this my father and I couldn't make eye contact. Words were limited to such phrases as...

"Do you want a cup of tea?"
"Aren't you supposed to be working?"
"Are you going out tonight?"

Or, "Turn that off!" When the news reports the latest on the famine in a country far away...


Damn it!

Oh well, that's that fucked then.

My attempt to go a week without tugging on my todger failed spectacularly this morning. Less than ten minutes after waking up I was beating my meat like a bored baboon.

Should I be ashamed at my inability to go 12 hours without bashing the bishop?

Who you calling a wanker?

'Cos it can't be me you're talking about.

I've just finished my last wank (Click here for more synonyms for masturbating.) as I'm attempting to go a whole week without pulling on my purple passion pole.

How long this will last is an unknown. I'm guessing I'll crumble in about two hours time...


Lyndsay "With an I" Broon...

Who you can read all about by clicking here, Proudly announced on Saturday night that she was attempting celibacy.

Which has led me to wonder if I could go a whole week without playing a solo on the one string bass. So in order to see if I could go a week without wiping a planet of my stomach with a grey gym sock I'm going to stop tugging at my thomas on Sunday night.

How long I'll last? Fucked if I know. But it's gotta be worth a bash. Or not, as the case may be.


It surely is my calling...

To make my mark on life.

And what better way to do this than to take up a cause worth fighting for?

So, I'm calling on the BBC to have Billie Piper installed as the new Dr Who. I know I may face ridicule and derision from Whovians who will possibly call for a Fatwa to be announced to put me in order, but, screw them. How much damage can a bunch of anorak wearing motherfuckers do?

Please leave a comment stating whether or not you think that Billie Piper should be made the new Dr.

The memories come flooding back...

I spent a significant amount of my time yesterday listening to music.

Amongst the artists I played were...

Crowded House - Woodface.
Crash Test Dummies - God Shuffled His Feet.
American Music Club - Mercury.
Half man half biscuit - The Trumpton Riots.
Midnight Oil - Beds are Burning.
Gorillaz - Gorillaz.
Pink Floyd - Piper at the gates of dawn.
Syd Barrett - Syd Barrett.
Roy Harper - Whatever happened to Jugula?
Ladytron - 604.
Pulp - Different Class.

Not only did I enjoy listening to all those old albums, I also got to have a day remembering the times I had when I first heard them.


Just for fun.

I've decided to have a caption contest.

To enter just leave a comment.

The best caption will win the knowledge that they made me laugh.

This weeks desktop...

Is a picture of Valentino Rossi on the Yamaha M1 during pre-season testing.

Valentino Rossi testing the M1 Yamaha.

To grab a copy for yourself just click on the picture and save a copy.


Dr Who, What and Where...

Billie Piper has decided to pull out of Dr Who at the end of it's current season.


Why not have her come right back into the show on the next series by writing her in as the new Doctor?

This week I will be....

Participating in a small experiment.

I've decided to find out what my "Cool" rating is. In order to do this I'll be awarding myself Cool Points as the week goes on.

The breakdown of cool points is as follows.
  • For each cigarette I smoke I shall be awarded 20 cool points.
  • For every alcoholic drink (beer) I have I shall be awarded 20 cool points.
  • For every alcoholic drink (spirit) I have I shall be awarded 30 cool points.
  • For each illegal substance I take I shall be awarded 40 cool points.
  • Extra points can be earned for doing something I consider a "cool move." I.E remaining calm and collected in a possibly volatile situation. For every "cool move" I will be awarded 10 points.
  • Points will also be gained for combo moves.
  • Drinking a beer while having a cigarette will result in 40 points + 20 points for an active combo = 60 points.
  • Having a rum while smoking a joint will result in 90 points [smoking = 20. spirit = 30. illegal substance = 40.] + 30 points for a triple combo move.
In the past half an hour I have already amassed 180 points.

Should you feel like guessing how many cool points I will amass over the coming week please feel free to leave a comment. I'll even put up a prize for the first person who guesses within 100 points. Deadline for guesses is Midnight (GMT) Sunday the 25th June.


Have you ever...

Been asked a question by someone and your mind has instantly recoiled in shock at the stupidity of it?

Imagine the (hypothetical) scene if you will...

The setting is a bowling club. A 30th birthday party is in full swing, the DJ is spinning the disks and the party guests are drinking like there's no tomorrow. The barstaff are running around like headless chickens behind a bar where the temperature is over 115° and the sweat is pouring off them like they are some kind of aliens who piss out of their foreheads.

The (hypothetical) President of the (hypothetical) bowling club comes to the bar.

One of the staff walks over and asks him his requirements. He tells the member of staff his order and the staff member dutifully attends to it. Upon discovering that the member of staff has given him his drink in a small 8oz glass, rather than a tall 12oz glass, the (hypothetical) President proceeds to ask the most senior member of staff; "Why are there no tall glasses?"

The senior member of staff explains, in a somewhat succinct manner, that all the tall glasses are being used. Upon hearing this explanation the (hypothetical) President makes a remark that insinuates the staff are less than par and should all be sacked. Immediately; If not sooner.

The senior member of staff fights off the urge to tell the (hypothetical) President to "Fuck off, before I pull you over the bar and punch your cunt in." And explains that the bar is very busy and the party guests are asking for their drinks in tall glasses.

The (hypothetical) President mutters and mumbles a remark and walks away from the bar. Fortunately just in time to avoid the inevitable volley of abuse from the senior member of staff...

Would this scenario make your blood boil if you were the senior staff member?

I think it would.

Would this scenario cause you to question the (hypothetical) Presidents thought process?

I think it would.

Would this scenario cause you to wonder what the fuck it is that makes the (hypothetical) President think that members of staff should treat the (hypothetical) President as a special case?

I think it would.

Would this scenario cause you to wonder why it is that the staff member is working in such a place, instead of travelling the world and pursuing his own path unhindered by fuckwits such as the (hypothetical) President?

I know it would.


Coming to a venue near me soon...

The line-up for the Edinburgh International Festival Fringe has been announced in the last couple of days.

And it's impressive. Amongst the acts performing are Lucy Porter, Bill Bailey, Dylan Moran and Doug Stanhope. I've already decided that Stanhope is on my list of acts I want to see and tickets to see Howard Marks are in the process of being got.

Of course I'll be dragging my arse into town to catch the Goddess of comedy that is Lucy Porter. That woman hits all my buttons. She's the kind of woman that could tie me to a bed, take a shit on my chest and leave me for a day and a half and I wouldn't complain.


Bye bye Billie.

I'm sure I'm not alone in being upset that Billie Piper has decided to call it a day as the Dr's assistant in Dr Who.

When I first heard that the new assistant was to be Billie Piper I had reservations about her managing to pull it off without me thinking; "That's the bint that married that carrot topped fucker Chris Evans." But after a couple of episodes I warmed to her and began to appreciate her talents.

And what talents they are. Billie Pipers ass has, on more than one occasion, been fuel for my sordid wank fantasies. (That's a compliment the way I see it...)

So, bye bye Billie, your arse will be sorely missed.

It's what everyone is talking about.

The Diet Coke and Mentos fountain.

And it can be found by clicking here.


In some parts of the word right now...

There are people being born.
There are people dying.
There are people falling in love.
There are people falling out of love.
There are people trying and failing.
There are people trying and succeding.
There are people eating, drinking and being merry.
There are people sad and lonley.

And in the middle of it all stand I.

The Observer.
The Little Voice.
The One with many names.

And I look upon you all. With love in my heart.


Because it's a bloody good laugh.


In fifteen minutes time...

I have to disconnect from the net and go and get ready for another joyous evening of working at the Bainfield.

This is a real shame as I quite fancy spending the evening working on other projects. Such as, putting up more of my African holiday pictures, writing something or finishing reading the pile of books I've got to get through.

But sadly this is not to be. Duty calls and all that.

Some days...

All you can do to make the world a better place is to do something for a fellow human.

It doesn't have to be anything huge. Give your seat up to someone on a bus journey, pass on your all-day bus ticket when you have finished with it, open a door for someone or sometimes just share a smile.

So in the spirit of kindness I'm about to ask you to do something for a fellow human by clicking here.


I think it may be time...

That I knuckled down and put some effort into my career. But the big question that has to be answered before I can do that is this...

"What career do I want?" And, to be perfectly honest, I have no idea.

Should you lot out there feel you have an idea what career path I should take, please drop in a small comment stating your suggestion and, if possible, your reasons for suggesting it.


I hate to do this...

But, I'm going to have to put up the top five list of heartbreak songs that Lyndsay "With an I" Broon asked me about on Saturday night at the Bainfield.

How's that for a film title?

Saturday Night at the Bainfield... Starring... Several hundred old farts so close to shuffling off this mortal coil that Death itself has an honorary membership...

But, I digress. As I was saying before my twisted mind coughed out a small comic phlegm-gem, the Top Five list of heartbreak songs.
  • Thank You - Led Zeppelin.
  • Suppers Ready - Genesis.
  • Man Needs a Maid - Neil Young.
  • Heart of Gold - Neil Young.
  • Foolish Games - Jewel.
And now, in an attempt to lift the spirits a bit, a Top Five list of songs and tunes that I dance around to in the livingroom wearing nothing more than a pair of tatty old boxer shorts. (Doing so makes me laugh like a kid who has just discovered the fun you can have by farting at the most inappropriate times.)
  • Starry Eyed Surprise - Paul Oakenfold.
  • Love Shack - The B52's.
  • From Rusholme with Love - Mint Royale.
  • Viva Las Vegas - The Dead Kennedys.
  • Wild Thing - Tone Loc.
For those of you who have been mentally scarred by the thought of me dancing around wearing nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts... I can only apologize. Take my advice and seek professional help immediately.

Samaritans website.


Surely it's a bad sign...

I generally don't keep a track of what day it is, let alone what date it is, so you can imagine my surprise when I got into work today and took a look at the calendar and realised that today was the sixth of June two thousand and six.

Or, to put it another way, 6/6/6.

(Insert chilling music here.)


Top five, top fives.

Having watched High Fidelity last night I've decided to put up five top fives.

Top Five Favorite Tunes. (At the moment.)
  1. White Rabbit - Jefferson Airplane.
  2. Theme from Doctor Who - Orbital.
  3. Jeff Buckley - Grace.
  4. The Bird - Morris Day and The Time.
  5. The Beautiful Ones - Prince.
Top Five Films. (At the moment.)
  1. Where the Buffalo Roam - Bill Murray plays Dr Hunter S Thompson.
  2. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Jack Nicholson plays McMurphy.
  3. Sane Man - Bill Hicks.
  4. Grosse Pointe Blanke - John Cusak plays an assassin.
  5. 2001 A space odyssey - Stanley Kubrick.
Top Five Motorcycle Racers. (Of all time.)
  1. Mick Doohan.
  2. Valentino Rossi.
  3. Joey Dunlop.
  4. Kevin Schwantz.
  5. Barry Sheene.
Top Five Authors. (Of all time.)
  1. Hunter S Thompson.
  2. John Steinbeck.
  3. Jack Kerouac.
  4. Terry Pratchett.
  5. Bill Bryson.
Top Five Comedians.
  1. Bill Hicks.
  2. Richard Pryor.
  3. The Monty Python Team.
  4. Spike Milligan.
  5. Dylan Moran.
And thus ends my list. Hope you enjoyed it.


3am. Eternal?

I shouldn't be writing this. (Some of you would say I shouldn't be writing anything, at all, ever.)

What I should be doing is sleeping. But I can't. It's a no go. I've lay in my bed staring at the back of my eyelids for almost an hour and a half praying for the hypnogogic stage to kick in but it just ain't happening.

Of course, the fact that I have heartburn isn't making sleep any easier to come by. Perhaps I shouldn't have heated up the remains of last nights Chinese take-away and scoffed it twenty minutes before I hit the sack. I know I've only got myself to blame for that. But, fuck it, I'm going to blame someone else.

It was all John Prescott's fault.

And why not blame the big fat fuck? It seems to be all the rage at the moment. You can't pick up a newspaper these days without seeing a picture of John Prescott next to a headline informing you of his buffonery in running the country while Tony Blair is off on holiday in an Italian mansion or sucking up to George W Bush and his evil cohorts.

My, extremely uneducated, guess is that Prescott drew the short straw at the last power lunch at Labour party headquarters and now it's his turn to take the heat off of our leader Tony "Everytime I tell a lie a UN inspector dies" Blair. (Uneducated or not, that statement may be closer to the truth than you think.)

Thinking that way may not help me get to sleep any faster. In fact I may never sleep again...


Dooved Day.

I'm still tied to my self imposed ban on going into shops that sell books.

Shops that sell DVD's however, Ain't.

Which is the reason I wandered into Virgin today and bought some DVD's.

On the list is...
  • High Fidelity.
  • Angry Kid.
  • Lost in Translation.
  • 21 Grams.
  • Lock Stock and Two Smoking barrels.

Easyeverything? My arse.

Stelios must be laughing his fucking bollocks off right now.

I had fully intended on seeking out the rest of the statues from the cowparade today. But, due to Easyeverything internet cafes not being able to handle Adobe files I was unable to download and print a copy of the locations.

Meanwhile, Stelios is probably sitting on a luxury yacht somewhere getting his dick sucked by a Portuguese ladyboy and snorting coke by the barrowload.

Pissing shit.

There's nothing quite like the feeling of sitting down to take a shit and finding that you have a minor stomach bug and your shit is more liquid than a fruit smoothie. There's also nothing like the feeling of wondering if your next fart is going to run down your leg and dribble out of the bottom of your trousers.

This was how my guts were this morning when I awoke. But, being the trooper that I am I decided that I wouldn't allow this to hamper me in toddling into town to do some arty farty nonsense.

On the list of things I was intending on doing was walking around Holyrood Park to take a look at the statues by Ronald Rae but this would have required a very long walk without easy access to a public toilet. I'm sure I'd have been able to squat down behind a gorse bush had I been in dire straights but I'm not about to go shitting all over Holyrood park as it is technically owned by the Queen and she could have me arrested. (Royals are like that when you start taking shits on their lawns.)

So, instead of walking around Holyrood Park gawping at sculptures I went to the national gallery to take a look at the Three Graces. After dropping my rucksack off at the cloakroom I made my way to the room where the statue is kept.

I ignored the strange looks I was getting from the other visitors and the staff who seemed to be regarding me with suspicion in their eyes. I could almost see their thought processes going through what they'd do if I pulled a gun and screamed; "This is a fucking robbery! No-one try any smart moves or I'll blow a hole in them wide enough to drive a fucking train through!"

As I stood next to the Three Graces a fellow visitor to the gallery spoke to me. I pulled my earphone out of my ear and asked her to repeat herself. "It's lovely, isn't it." She said.

"To be honest with you it's a bit like meeting Mel Gibson." I said.

"Excuse me?" She questioned.

"It's a lot smaller than I expected it to be." I said.

I heard her stifle a laugh as she walked away to wherever it was she was going and I continued walking around the gallery. I tried to appreciate the works of art that hung on the gallery walls but they all made me feel like asking one of the gallery workers if they had any portraits of someone who didn't look like they were suffering from terminal boredom.

As I walked from one viewing room to the next I almost walked into a bust of some Poncey old fucker as I tried to avoid a small child who had been set loose by his parents. For a second I was at a loss for what to do. Should I ask him where his parents were and lead him back to them, tell one of the gallery staff that the boy was wandering aimlessly and could do some damage or clip the little fucker around the head and let his parents find him by the noise of his screams.

In the end I chose to ignore the little brat and walked back to the cloakroom to collect my bag and get out of there before I lost the plot and yelled; "It's all crap!"

As a form of revenge as I left the gallery I dropped a huge fart and thought to myself; "Now that's art."


I shall be delving into the arts.

As I posted previously the Cowparade has been running in Edinburgh for a couple of weeks now and I'm going to go into the tourist office to get a map of them all so I can get their pictures to finish off my collection.

There's also an outdoor exhibition of sculptures by Ronald Rae going on in Holyrood Park and I'll go and get some pictures of these too.

I may also take a small trip to the National Gallery to see the Three Graces sculpture by Antonio Canova.


Today was mostly spent in bed.

If I were to tell you I didn't get out of my bed until 3:38pm today what would you say?

You'd say; "Lazy bastard."

And you'd be right.

But then I'd leap to my defense and inform you that I didn't go to my bed until 9am. Then you would feel slightly bad for being so quick to judge me. Then I'd forgive you and we'd be pals again. Then we'd all go into the wardrobe and meet Aslan, Mr Tumnus and the rest of the inhabitants of Narnia...

Or something like that.

More than likely your next question would be; "Why the fuck didn't you go to your bed until 9am?"

And I'd answer; "Because I spent six hours uploading more pictures of my African holiday so that you could see some of the things I saw." Then you'd feel awful again. Then I'd remind you that my holiday to Africa was more than a year ago and I should have uploaded the pictures sooner.

Then you'd say; "Lazy bastard."

And you'd be right. Then I'd say; "Is this the full five half hour argument or just the five minute one?" And then you'd hit me for never taking anything seriously.

And, once again, you'd be right.

Comedy Skit.

The scene opens on a newsroom. A newsreader is sitting behind a desk shuffling papers.

As he shuffles them a magazine falls onto the desk. He quickly sweeps it off the desk and looks into the camera.

Newsreader: "Welcome back. All this week we have been covering the upsurge in knife usage by inner city teenagers. We now cross over to Dick Johnson who has a report on this.

Cut to a reporter. He is standing in the middle of an inner city estate.

Dick Johnson: "Thank you John. I'm here in the inner city talking to youngsters about the rise in youths carrying knifes.

The camera pans slowly to the side and we see he is standing next to a young man wearing a hoodie.

Dick: "I have with me one of the leaders of the local youth gang."

The hoodie wearer pumps his fist in the air.

Youth: "Big up da Yoof Massive."

Dick: "Indeed my brother. Lay some skin on me homie."

The youth looks at the hand that Dick has offered with scorn. He sucks air through his teeth.

Dick: "Can you tell me if you know of anyone that carries a knife?"

Youth: "Sure man, lots of the posse carry a blade. It's for protection. Dees is dangerous times man, a brother gotta look after 'imself."

Dick: "Have you ever carried a knife?"

Youth: "Nah man, I've never carried a knife in my life."

Dick: "Don't you worry that you could become the victim of random crime? What would happen if, for example, you were walking home one day after having a rap battle with one of the other b-boy crews and someone threatened you with a knife? Would you be able to handle the situation?"

Youth: "Yeah man, sure."

Dick: "But if you don't have a knife what could you do to stop things getting out of hand?"

The youth reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun.

Youth: "I could blow a big hole in 'em... How much is that camera worth then?"

Just a small posting.

To let you all know that I have uploaded more of my pictures from my African holiday.

You can view them by clicking here.

More pictures will be uploaded over the next few days so keep checking back.