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The Grand Whazzo is a shithead.

And why? 'Cos he done stole The Godfather of Soul, Mr James Brown. Right after I wrote about being visited by James Brown in a dream.

I wonder if I dream about George W Warmonger he'll pop his clogs and die?

Rest in Funk James.


It's that time of year again...

When goodwill to all comes streaming down from up on high and peace spreads throught the world...

Yeah, sure it does. And monkeys fly out my butt...

Anyhoo, if it's your gig I wish you the best of the season.

Ho Ho Humbug.


Last night I had the strangest dream...

♪♫ I sailed away to China, in a little row boat to find ya... ♪♫

Ho, ho. I didn't really dream that I sailed away to China, that's merely a small thing that popped into my head when I wrote the title of this post. (For your information those lines come from an old 80's song called "Break my stride" by Matthew Wilder.)

Nope, my dream was way stranger than that...

I was sitting on an old dry stane dyke next to an elderly man with a drunkards nose as he told me of his love for a Dover Sole that sat on the wall between us. The grey sea behind the old man was angry looking and every once in a while he turned to look at it with melancholy in his eyes.

Ocassionally he'd swing his head in the opposite direction and stare at an elderly woman, whom I assumed was his wife, and stared at her with a barely disguised contempt in his eyes. The woman was hanging over the top of a hinged door of a thatched roofed cottage that looked as weatherbeaten and dry as the rest of the wind blown surroundings.

The old man stood talking about how the Dover Sole had been his lover for many years. He'd steal out of the house during the night and he and the Dover sole would spend time frollicking in the surf. His passion for the Dover sole seemed to me to be heartfelt and I recall feeling sorry for him that his love now lay dead. (Though to be honest it looked great as it sat suggestively in garlic butter sprinkled with parsley.)

The old woman would occasionally sing "Isn't she lovely" by Stevie Wonder in a voice that sounded like it drank turpentine, smoked full strength Marlboro and ate brillo pads for breakfast. Whenever the old woman took to song, the old man would jump up and down, flash his dick at the old woman and yell "Look here at what you will never receive again woman! My love lies fried in garlic butter like some fancy french whore!"

A figure popped into existence behind the old man. To my surprise the figure that appeared was that of the Godfather of soul, Mr James Brown. "It's too funky in here!" He said. "Take it to the bridge!" He continued, as he danced and spun.

He began descending into James Brownian motion. (A method of singing and dancing that the version of James Brown I hold in my head does.)

"Can I count it off? Haaauugh, Good Gawd, Aaooow, Siddytang! Ahh one, ahh two, ahh won too tree fo! I! I! I! Git own the Siddytang, Siddytang!" The figure of James Brown sang, as the old man danced around flashing his dick at the old lady in the doorway. I looked down into the eyes of the Dover sole that sat in slowly congealing garlic butter and its mouth moved.

"Don't look at me." The Dover sole said, "I'm just a bit part in this little drama... And to think I've worked with Brando! I've taken direction from Hitchcock!" It continued, its voice rising as it made its feelings known to me.

Weird huh?


On a bus...

..."So I was like, naw. And she was like, Aye. And I was like, away and fuck off radge. And she was like, aye d'ye think so? And I was like, aye ah fucking know so. And she was like, Dinnae think so. And I was like, you'd better fuck off or I'll glass yeh ya fuckin whore. And she was like, calling me a whore aye? And I was like, aye ah um ya manky wee slag. And she was like, ootside then ya tart. And I was like, C'moan then bitch. And she was like, 'moan then. And I was like, 'moan then. And she was like, 'moan then. And I was like, right now then. And she was like, 'moan then. And I was like, ootside then radge. And she was like, 'moan then."

It was at this point in the conversation between the two teenage girls that I felt I should interject. I tapped the girl who was speaking on the shoulder and she turned her head around and said, "What?"

"If you insist on talking," I said, "Please, do everyone a favour and do it somewhere else. If I hear "And she was like" one more time I'll punch you in the back of the head so hard that the only thing "you'll be like" is a coma victim."

For the rest of the journey it was extremely quiet.


Something to while away a few minutes...

Do you have any old vinyl lp's lying around?

Feel like making something? Yes? Then maybe this guide is for you.

I'll be giving it a bash with a few of my old LP's at sometime in the future.

I'm an open human...

And so could you be if you pop along to openhuman and sign up.

Visit my openhuman page of facts by clicking here.


Looky Looky...

I have my own domain name now. is the address and it replaces the address so please remember to update your favorites.

Thanks must go to Simon for showing me how to do this.



Language of the drunk...

Casuggleahey, cahuggleashah and welcome to this post. Which is coming to you partly in Gaelic. Well, not really, I'm making it up as I go but fuck it, when did you expect any different? Never; Or, as you'd say in Gaelic, Awooglyshoogledy.

Sheronykin andubist Ross and I will be your hiyost for the entire length of this piyost... Damn this language is easy. It really is a proggle of piss... Which will deal largely with the history of the Gaels and the evolution of the language.

Gaelic was originally a language that was spoken in the regions of the world now known as Indochina and was brought to Scotland by a man named Angus Hong in the year AD1800. Angus was thought to have been a missionary who left Indochina to teach the Scottish people how to make wicker baskets to hold cheese and other assorted dairy products.

(Some of these baskets can still be seen if you pay a visit to The Scottish Museum of Natural History which is located at 1 High Street, John O Groats. Just ask for Shuggie McNightwatchman at the pub and he'll give you the keys.)

After an arduous crossing, in a boat made entirely of wicker, Angus finally hit land in what is now the border town of Melrose.

According to ancient records the locals are said to have welcomed Angus by bringing him gifts of an early form of tupperware, a kilt made of nettles, a gallon of honey and a freshly captured Haggis which was then slaughtered for the feast of "making the tourist welcome." a tradition which is sadly no longer as the Haggis was hunted to extinction in 1944. (Due to war rations locals killed Haggi as an addition to the low rations given by the government.)

Angus is said to have introduced himself to the locals by speaking to them in Gaelic. (The locals spoke only Jockenese.) Over time Angus managed to teach the locals how to speak his language and in return the locals fed and housed him and brought him regular copies of Punch magazine and the Financial times.

Angus was a father of 15. (3 boys 9 girls 1 hermaphrodite and two sheep.) Most of whom took on the mission their father had set them on his deathbed that they should spread the Gaelic language to the two corners of the globe.

Thus over the next few hundred years the Scots adopted this language as their own, dropping the previous way of communicating which was a simple series of grunts, punches to different body parts and occasionally a roundhouse kick to the forehead. (The roundhouse kick to the forehead is thought to have meant "I wish to rape your sheep.")

Angus is thought to have died after an accident with a primitive version of a George Foreman grill and a faulty rewire in the year AD1847. (Some sources claim this is an impossibility as the local firm hired to do the rewire was a well established family company. Other sources claim that Angus was killed in a fit of jealousy by an enraged ram.)

Angus' language however lives on in Scotland during the hours of 1AM and 4:30AM every Saturday night in Wishaw.

Weird tales from many moons ago...

A blast from my past loomed out of the mists today.

My cousin Simon got in touch, after something like 15 years or so in the wilderness, following the random chance that his brother Lee fitted the cable at my Mothers new house. The reason for losing touch for so long is complicated so I'll not go into it. Besides, it had nothing much to do with either of us so I couldn't give a fuck. It's just good to hear from him.

Simon and I were a bit of a pair when we were younger and our mums were still talking to each other... Oops, I wasn't going to go into it, ahem, ermm... And I have many happy memories of us tearing up the areas of Westburn and Livingston in days long gone.

I'm sure everyone has cousin like Simon. If they don't then they should buy/rent/steal one. Someone who is more like a brother, or sister as he case may be, than a cousin. The kind of cousin that you click with, a kindred spirit, a blood brother all that spiritual shit... You got the idea.


Who'd have thought?

That 30,000 people would visit this blog. I certainly didn't.

When I first started this blog I intended it to be a diary of sorts, somewhere for me to put my thoughts, ideas, random snippets of my inner self, that kind of thing. Now, however, it has turned into something different.

What that thing is I don't know. Should you know please leave a comment.

It's the soundtrack to our lives.

Music I've been listening to this week...

Prince. Sign 'O' the Times. In my opinion this is the purple ones finest work. Replete with funky jams (Housequake, It's gonna be a beautiful night, I could never take the place of your man) and smooth ballads (Slow love, The Cross, Forever in my life) this album is highly recommended.

Cypress Hill. Black Sunday. Hip hop and Rap aren't usually high on my listening list but Cypress Hill are one of the exceptions. Turn it up loud, light a joint and bounce along to this album.

Placebo. Meds. (Click here to read my review on

The Who. Live at Leeds. Possibly The Who's finest live gig ever recorded.

The Magic Numbers. The Magic Numbers. A modern classic.

My Chemical Romance. The Black Parade. Balls out rock and roll.

Israel Kamakawiwo'ole. Facing Future. This album will paint pictures in your mind of palm trees, long sandy beaches and grass skirted dancers.

David Bowie. Best of Bowie. Thirty-nine tracks of David Bowie at his best.

Jamiroquai. High Times: Singles 1992-2006. Who said white men can't play funk?

Depeche Mode. The Best of Depeche Mode, Vol. 1. Better than it sounds.

Bill Hicks. Rant in E-Minor. My favorite comedian lets loose and tells it how it is. If you do not own this album or have never heard Bill Hicks then get yourself a copy. Immediately, if not sooner.

Should you feel like expanding your music collection and want to purchase any of the above albums click the links and buy these albums.

Piss them off...

I've just had a small visit from a Scottish Gas representative who did his level best to get me to change suppliers.

I opened the door and knew what his gig was as soon as I saw the Scottish Gas identity card around his neck. The small voice in my head attempted to get me to say "Fuck off, not interested." and slam the door in his face but as I'm in a very charitable mood I didn't.

He began his pitch about how he could save me £1.70 a week on standard charges. I stopped him short. "Before you go any further I'll tell you straight away that I'm not interested." I said.
He bravely plunged on with the script. I listened to a little more and waited for him to ask a question. "Are you happy with your supplier?" He asked.

"I'm over the moon with them. There is always gas in the pipes and electricity in the sockets. It's almost perfect." I said. Thankfully he fell for the bait I had laid by saying it was almost perfect. "How could it be better?" He asked.
"Well, they could send cute women with big tits and loose morals around once a week to pleasure me in ways that even I can't imagine." I stated.

"I can see you really aren't interested." He said.
"You're very perceptive for a Scottish Gas worker." I said, struggling not to laugh.
He bravely plunged onwards. "What are your interests?" He asked.

I figured what his angle was straight away. He was attempting to use my interests to introduce me to the interest of saving money.

"Apathy." I replied, and closed the door.

Something I learned today...

Showering with your clothes on isn't quite as much fun as having a bath with them on.


It was with a sense of wild adventure...

That I got into the bath tonight.

Not only because I had never had a bath at such a late hour (midnight) but also because I had never had a bath whilst still fully clothed. And I'm not talking about getting into the bath wearing a pair of jeans to shrink them, no sir, I'm talking about getting into the bath whilst wearing underwear, socks, jeans, t-shirt and a sweatshirt.

(Fortunately I had the good sense to take of my shoes. I'm sure that there's some old wives tale that wearing shoes in the bath is bad luck. I remember my granny giving me a row for putting my shoes on a table once so you never know...)

And why did I do this? Well because in a moment of fuzzy logic I reasoned that the bathroom itself was quite chilly and I didn't want to have to put up with the cold before I got into the bath. So the clothes stayed on.

I must say that it was actually a rather pleasant experience. In fact I would recommend that you give it a try. You never know, you may enjoy it. I know I did.