It's the future of marketing.

"Wino Wear."
Clothing for the more discerning drunkard.

Are you tired of looking like just another down and out?
Do you crave looks of jealousy from your neighbors in cardboard city?
Then Wino Wear is for you!

Brought to you in association with Addict Apparel; Wino Wear is the brand that all the top hobos are wearing. Just look on the cover of Better Boxes magazine, all the top fashionistas of the homeless world are wearing Wino Wear this year.

Pre-soaked in Eau De Carlsberg Special Brew and the finest imported Llama urine, to give a genuine lived-in feel, Wino Wear empowers the wearer to such a degree that panhandling profits can raise by as much as 15%.*

When Addict Apparel asked people why they felt so inclined to give up their hard earned cash to hobos wearing Wino Wear the majority of them responded by saying it was the "Horrible odour" that drove them to it. Proving, conclusively, that Wino Wear has the best fragrance for the redistribution of wealth that hobos all over the world are working towards.

So if you are one of the millions of homeless drunkards that live on the fringes of society then take the smart choice and choose Wino Wear for all your clothing needs.

Wino Wear stockists are located in New York, London, Rio De Janeiro and Paris.

* Independent survey carried out on 200 hobos who purchased Wino Wear.

It's about time...

That the "Tootsie" issue was brought to a halt.

I've been avoiding writing anything on this subject, as I don't wish to hurt anyone's feelings, but now it's time to lay it all on the table and sort this shit out...

Firstly, Tootsie. Sorry, not interested. My mother, who decided that we would make lovely grandkids for her to dote over, shouldn't have attempted to pair us up in the first place. As much as I love my Mum, I can't stand her attempts to set me up with women she thinks are "perfect" for me. I'm a free thinking human for fucks sake! If I ever choose to join the sheep and get hitched then I'll go out and find someone who pushes my buttons. Mine, get it? Not someone who my Mum thinks is good for me.

Today;

Was the first day of the smoking ban here in Scotland.

And what a joyous, momentous and historic day it was too. The skies were clear blue, the birds in the trees chirped and cheeped Beethoven's fifth symphony and the air was so crisp that walking made a noise like running on a shingle beach. Oh, and pigs swooped gracefully over the city of Edinburgh.

There's nothing quite like...

Being awoken by a semi-hysterical woman.

(Especially when you're right in the middle of a very nice dream involving three brunettes, an industrial tub of KY jelly, several dildos and 23 tubs of Hagen Dazs. But lets not get into that right now. I think that the memory of the dream may be too much for me to handle and I'll start to cry.)

And, there's nothing quite like being awoken by a hysterical woman who announces that you're flooding their Mothers house. (At a rate comparable to the rushing waters experienced by passengers on the RMS Titanic, if her tone of voice was to be believed.)

Which is exactly what happened to me this very morning.

As Little Miss Mayhem stood on my doorstep I made a beeline for the cupboard at the end of the hall. I opened it to find myself being sprayed in the face by a small stream of water. "No biggie." I thought, as I made my way to the phone to call for a plumber. As I explained the situation to the person on the other end of the phoneline, I lit a cigarette, took a large gulp at the cup of coffee that had been abandoned at 6am, turned around and almost stood on a small child.

"Holy fuck!" I said, startled. "Whose? What? Excuse me, is this thing yours?" I shouted in the direction of my hallway. When Little Miss Mayhem popped her head around the door of my livingroom, I pointed at the child. "What's that?" I asked.

"My son." Answered the woman.

"Can you please get your rug-rat out of my livingroom, this isn't the fucking play-area at McDonald's." I snapped. Which, I'm guessing, means I'll not be getting a Christmas card from her this year. Oh well, that's one less to throw into the bucket the second after I receive it.

It's not often

I admit to being incorrect about something, and I hope against hope that this is the last time I have to do it. Because, lets face it, eating crow should be avoided if it's at all possible.

In a post on Jenny's blog, where she was gushing about her new Ford Focus ST, I made a few derisive comments about her choice in cars. Normally, I'd stick to my words like a police dog on the arm of a felon, but having just came back from a test drive I really feel I should state, absolutely and categorically, I was wrong. The Ford Focus ST is a car to be reckoned with.

Police personnel up and down the country should probably stop reading this now. And, those of you who patrol in one of those shitty Vauxhall Astra's should weep openly as you realize that there will soon be "Boy Racers" out and about in one of these cars.

When given the opportunity to get behind the wheel of one of these cars remember to adjust the seat. Even more so if the person who has been driving it is Jenny. (Not that Jenny's some kind of deformed person, but she is taller than I am.)

Having been warned not to crash the car by Jenny I assured her in my most serious voice "I won't prang it." And I didn't. But in the wrong hands this car could quite easily end up slightly askew and halfway up a lampost before the driver has the time to think to himself "Oh shi..."

Ford claim that this car will do 0-60 in a time of 6 seconds and I wouldn't disagree with them on that account, even though I couldn't really give it a proper race car style launch, due to knowing that if I tried anything like that Jennys fist would have rapidly connected with one of the softer and more delicate parts of my anatomy.

Turning onto the Edinburgh bypass I did however get to test the rolling acceleration of the car from 10-100 mph. Let me tell you it wasn't slow. If you imagine a starving man making his first trip to an all you can eat buffet then you've pretty much got the picture.

Unfortunately I didn't get a chance to test the cars terminal speed as when Jenny said, in a somewhat pleading voice "You can slow down at any time." I changed up into sixth gear and let the accelerator take a break from being stomped to the floor. Until about two miles later, when the bypass drops past where I used to live as a child, I lowered the pedal again and hit 125 on the downhill run.

The next part of our journey took us along the roads where first I learned how to take the racing line when you come to a roundabout. "Time for a little steering/acceleration test." I thought to myself. Taking great care, of course, to look for the inevitable patches of diesel that have been slopped from the tanks of heavy good vehicles and any smooth surfaced drain covers. Both of which have been terminal to many a motor vehicle, driver, passenger or pedestrian over the years on this stretch of road.

Coming into the first roundabout I lifted off the accelerator, dipped the clutch, tapped the gas to keep the revs up, shifted down into third and scrubbed off some speed with a gentle tap on the brake. As the apex of the turn came level with the front end of the car I got back onto the go-go pedal and the car powered out of the roundabout with ease.

The second roundabout, which was reached in record time, is a slightly longer corner and can be rolled into at about fifty mph without trouble. The only drawback to it is that when you fire out of the other side of it there's a small rise in the road that can make the steering go very light in your hands. (Should you plan on doing this in an ST please take great care when depressing the accelerator as there is a slight lag on the turbo and a small amount of understeer will be experienced. This isn't a problem when there are so many angry horses on tap, as long as you remember to lift slightly off the gas to regain some of the lost traction before burying the pedal again.)

As Jenny made noises, that sounded very much like I imagine a Ring-Tailed Lemur would make if you snuck up on it and yelled "ARGHHH!" in it's ear, we shot along towards Saughton Prison. Where, in a few years time boy-racers and car thieves will be resident due to this car being too hard to turn down and way too easy to turn upside down.

Who'd have thought...

That a post I wrote, to espouse the good points (no pun intended) of breasts and get in one of my favorite bar-related jokes, would create such a furor on my blog.

Something has been bothering me...

Have you ever had your hair cut and had the hairdresser ask you "Do you want some gel on that?"

Why is it when the hairdresser applies the gel your hair looks great but when you try it yourself it looks like you've been dragged through a field tied to the back of a runaway bull and have been pulled through a hedge backwards?

I know hairdressers go to college to study how to cut hair, but are we expected to believe that there is a whole part of hairdressing college put aside to teach trainees how to apply gel? Surely it's not that difficult.

I really must ask my hairdresser this the next time I go for a haircut. Though, obviously, after he's finished with the scissors just in case it's a trade secret and he makes a lunge for me with a manic look in his eye.

See Emily play.

I was thinking about my school days today and I remembered some of the games we used to play. Mostly I remember a game called Piss Flaps. Not the most ingratiating of names for a game you may think, and you'd be right. Especially when you find out the intricacies of the game itself.

The whole point of the game was to shout "Piss Flaps!" and finish the yell with the term, "No slugs."

Should you fail to say "No slugs" before someone else said "Slugs" they got to hit you on the arm as hard as they wanted.

This was the structure of the game itself until someone came up with an additional rule, which meant that if you said something that sounded like Piss Flaps, i.e, Fish Plaps, Piss Flops, Puss Flags, and someone called Slugs incorrectly you got to hit them on the arm.

Looking back, I wonder why we got so much fun out of Piss Flaps. But when you're young you do stuff like that don't you? I did anyway. And so did most people; Ok, then most guys, at my school.

It may have been a male bonding thing, it may have been a weeding out the chaff thing, it may have been little more than an excuse to beat seven shades of shite out of each other. Who knows? Not me. For an answer to that question you'd need to go speak to a socio-cultural anthropologist, or some other overpaid dickhead who drank his way through college and did less work than a Council workman.

While I was casting my mind back into the fug of yesteryear it occurred to me why didn't we play Cowboys and Indians or Cops and Robbers when we were in school. And then I remembered that it was because if you had suggested anything like that and you weren't a teacher you'd have got the shit knocked out of you.

And you wouldn't have to say Piss Flaps.

Passing the time.

It's been a dull week in the life of me this week.

Nothing major has happened, there has been no drama and I've not robbed my work of a thousands of pounds in order to flee the country and start a new life on a farm in Idaho where I can raise prize winning hogs.

So, I really have nothing to write about. But as I don't want to disappoint my many readers I'll sit here and ramble before I retire to my bed. Damn, aren't you lucky?

(You really have to admire my gift for ignoring the fact that I have very few readers.)

This week I've spent most of my time playing on the XBox, reading, watching Angel and Buffy on DVD and working. I like to term this state of existence as SSDD; Same Shit Different Day.

Aside from all that excitement it's been dull and uninteresting. Should the situation change I'll let you know.

DVD day.

Yesterday I took a trip into the city centre and bought some DVD's.

• Constantine.
• Ferris Bueller's Day Off.
• The Ladykillers. (1955).

So far I've watched Ferris Bueller's Day Off and The Ladykillers in between watching Buffy and Angel.

How quickly they forget...

Football, it's The Beautiful Game.

Or so Eric Cantona would have us believe in the new Nike advert.

I trust I'm not the only person who remembers Eric Cantona jumping into the stands at Old Trafford in an attempt to kick seven bells out of a fan. I hope I'm not. I know I've smoked enough hashish to knock out a baby elephant but even I remember that.

In the future...

When historians look back on the late 90's and early 00's they'll wonder what the hell we were on that made us all go PC mad.

And by PC I don't mean Personal Computer, I mean Politically Correct.

Apparently, and I'm not making this shit up, children in nursery are no longer allowed to sing Baa Baa Black Sheep. They've got to sing Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep.

What the hell is that all about? I'm against racism in all it's forms but this is Political Correctness gone insane. The color black isn't even in the rainbow! As far as I remember the order of the rainbow goes Red Orange Yellow Green Blue Indigo Violet.

To show just how insane this attitude is I'd like to take the next minute of your time pointing out some of the flaws...

• Black Sabbath shall be renamed Colorful Sabbath. [Which kind of takes the fun out of having a deaths-head tattoo and telling your friends you worship Satan.]
• When someone gets punched and suffers a Black eye it will be referred in medical circles as a Colorful Contusion.
• The AC/DC song Back in Black will be renamed Back in Deep Grey.
• The Scottish cake Black Bun will just be called Bun.

And that's just not right. I like Black bun.

But that's not the end of it either. Last week in Herefordshire a shopowner was told to remove three golliwog dolls from his shop window as a passer by made a complaint to the police that they were offensive.

What I fail to understand is how a doll can be termed offensive. Fair enough if the complainee was a citizen of Golliwogia, or whatever country it is that has Golliwogs as inhabitants, I'd support the complaint. But it's plain to me, even with my limited knowledge of geography, that this is horseshit.

Will the police be raiding toy shops up and down the country to seize Cabbage Patch dolls as they're offensive to ugly white people? Or maybe we'll see dawn raids on Hamleys toy store because they stock Troll Dolls and they're offensive to midgets who like punk music and have dyed their hair green.

We have full power captain!

There's nothing in the world quite like Jimi Hendrix playing Star Spangled Banner at full volume on a high power stereo. And, thanks to my having spent the last hour and a half putting my Goodmans amplifier back together, I can now appreciate Jimi making my ears bleed.

I also went to Asda and done my monthly shop.

So today wasn't a totally wasted day.

Lazy day.

Well, today I'm on a day off. Ain't that just tickety-boo?

Because of this I dragged my arse out of my bed at 2:45pm, staggered to the toilet and pissed away the raging boner that inadvertantly woke me up when I rolled over onto it. Since then I've done fuck all except scratch myself in deeply personal places, watch Monk, played Project Gotham Racing, and watched some more of Buffy on DVD.

I should be doing laundry, washing dishes and tidying up but, fuck that guff. I'll leave that to the maid... Shit, I don't have a maid. Nightmare... Oh well, these things can't be helped. But, balls to that. I'm not in the mood for tidying. I'm in the mood for lazing around, scratching myself in personal places and watching Buffy DVD's.

Football.

Did you know that David Beckham gets paid £10,000,000 a year?

How on earth can that be justified? Easily. If they introduce the following steps into the game.

• If a player attempts to cheat a punch in the face should be the punishment.
  

Lets see how many times pretty-boy Beckham and his hair gel wearing cohorts claim they've been fouled with this rule introduced.

• If a player attempts to get another player sent off the "School Gym" rule shall be the punishment.

The "School Gym" rule is known to everyone who ever attended school. Remember when you left the house without your gym kit? What did the teacher tell you? That's right, play in your underwear. [Side clause: No designer labels allowed. Blue and white Y-fronts only]

• Random landmines should be placed in the pitch.

Some of you may think that this is a tad on the extreme side but lets be honest wouldn't this make the game more interesting? ("Shit yes!" is the answer you're looking for.) By the way I'm not talking about a full power landmine, nothing that would be big enough to kill just enough to blow off a foot.

Now be honest wouldn't this make the game a lot more entertaining?

On the subject of...

Breasts.

Tits. Hooters. Funbags. Chats. Boobs. Jigglies. Bazookas. Floppily doppilys. Ho-ho's. Call 'em what you will.

Personally I'm in favour of the epithet Juggs. It's such a heartwarming word don't you think? And so it should be. It describes such heartwarming things. And not just heartwarming either, I for one know that they don't just warm my heart. But, let's not get into that. It wouldn't be a pretty picture to implant in your minds.

There was a woman in the club tonight that had a pair of juggs so large it looked like she was smuggling 747 nosecones. The words that came out of my mouth when I saw her sitting were "Holy fuck, would you check out the puppies on her!"

Seriously, these were huge. But not overly huge, they weren't Lolo Ferrari huge, 'cos that's just wrong no matter how you paint it. These were all natural, god made pillows of fun that caught my eye, not to mention other parts of my anatomy, and I couldn't take my eyes off them.

When the woman in question came to the bar I flirted shamelessly with her, which is a rare thing for me... Well, not that rare to tell the truth, but that's immaterial at the moment... And she flirted back at me. I think. It's been that long since anyone flirted with me I'm fucked if I remember what it's supposed to be like. Anyhoo...

As she ordered the round of drinks for her company she set me up for a top quality line. "Do you have any nuts?" She said.

"That's a bit of a personal question isn't it?" I said. "We've only just met."

Someone accused me...

Of being nasty last night. And that's not true, I'm not nasty. Sure, there are times when I can be a bit abrupt, but generally I'm a nice guy.

When I questioned the accusation the person who made the claim changed their mind and said that they were wrong. "You're right, you're not nasty. You're evil with a capital EVIL." They said.

"I'm not evil." I said. Then I considered the accusation. "Ok, I might be a little bit evil. But I'm not on the scale of evil that you claim I am. I mean it's not like I take part in goat sacrifice or eat babies. Justify your claim."

"You're always taking the piss out of people without a thought for their feelings." They said.

"Fair enough, but I also take the piss out of myself. I'm very self deprecating." I said.

"But the things that you say about other people are never on the same level."

"Ah, not true." I said. "I take the piss out of myself just as much as I would anyone else. And if someone is taking the piss out of me I accept it in good humor."

"Prove it." They said.

"How?" I asked.

"Whoever comes to the bar ask them what they think of you. Tell them to be brutally honest and take it all with a smile on your face." They said.

"Ok then."

The next person who came to the bar was asked their honest opinion about me and they told me. "Well, there are times when you're a total letch. You have conversations that start off well and then you degenerate into talk that would shame a sailor. Plus you swear like a trooper all the time." She said.

"I resent the accusation that I'm some kind of a fucking letch." I said.

"Can you say that without looking at my tits? Or swearing?" She said.

"Balls to you, Get the fuck away from my bar you mardy cow." I said, turning away.

I faced my accuser. "And don't you start either you useless bag of piss. Isn't it about time you went home and fiddled with your little brother? Just remember to wipe the spunk off his face in case he thinks it's a bad dream but wakes up to find your jizz on him in the morning." I said.

I think I proved I wasn't evil.

Fuck Menthol.

Menthol cigarettes are shit. It's official.

The only thing they have going for them is that they have a white filter and give you that whole Humphrey Bogart cool look when you light up. Which almost makes up for the fact that smoking them is akin to smoking a Polo mint.

There is another positive side to smoking Menthol cigarettes. No-one ever takes one when you offer them. If you offer the pack to most people they'll look at you like you just offered them shit on a stick.

And it's not like you can talk people into trying them. You'd have a better chance of getting people to try abortion on toast. "Honest, it's not that bad. It's sort of crunchy and slimy at the same time."

Who's a sexy boy then?

After having my hair dyed black on Wednesday I've found a whole new me that I didn't realize was there. A nice looking me. A handsome me. Fuck it, I'm gonna go out on a limb and claim that there's a gorgeous me.

Alright, those of you who know me can stop laughing now. I mean it, quit it.

Bring me fine champagne and Cuban cigars!

Or alternatively, and more preferably, bring me coffee and cigarettes.

After successfully kicking the smoking habit for a week due to the bubonic plague, Ok I know it was nothing more than a bad chest infection but allow me at least a little drama in my life, I'm back on the cigarettes.

It would appear that the hooks are deep. Very deep. Deep enough to stress me to the point of wanting to knock seven bags of shite out of random people. And that's pretty deep. The funny, and by funny I mean humorous, side of it is that I'm smoking menthol cigarettes in an attempt to kid myself that they're not as bad as full on cigarettes.

And I know this is horseshit. But as we all know there are times when we need to pretend something is different than the reality. Ok, fair enough, maybe there aren't times when pretending is absolutely necessary but I've got to justify starting smoking again, so back off bubba.

The slightly good thing is that I've cut down on how many cigarettes I smoke in a day. Today I managed to get by on only 20 cancer sticks. And believe me, that's a big drop in my carcinogen intake. In fact, if I were to make a comparison, I'd liken the drop in my cigarette intake to the drop experienced by jumping from the top of the Eiffel Tower.

Though, to be fair, jumping from the top of the Eiffel Tower will kill me a lot quicker than 20 cigarettes a day. So, pass the lighter.

It's all so Seattle.

Yesterday, after wandering amongst the shelves of the bookstore, I decided I'd go grab a coffee in Costa Coffee on Hanover Street. Mainly because I hate Starbucks with a passion, but also because there's a really hot girly works there. Yeah, I know, I'm a shallow cunt.

After almost managing to get up the stairs without injuring myself, god knows why but the stairway must have been designed purely for people who had their feet bound at birth, I wandered over to the counter and ordered my coffee.

Unfortunately, the hot girly must have been on a day off, as the only person on duty was an acne riddled teenager who looked like his mother wouldn't trust him with the kettle in the house and working at Costa was his way of rebelling.

I asked for a large latte, much to my chagrin as I'd much rather ask for a milky coffee and be done with it, then made my way towards the sugar and threw six sachets of the sweet stuff into my coffee.

Having thrown enough sugar in my coffee to make a five year old climb the walls like spiderman, I wandered across to the seats and plonked myself down on a comfortable looking chair that had a view of the castle.

Small snow flurries began to whip and whirl around outside, making me relish the fact that I had chosen to have my coffee in the warmth of the indoors rather than have it while making my way home, and I pulled out my newly bought copy of A Confederation of Dunces and began to read.

As I took the first sip of my coffee I realised that I had unknowingly sat at a table that was already taken. Across from me there sat a woman who was immersed in a book. "Sorry, I didn't realize that this table was already occupied." I said. The woman looked up from the book she was reading and I looked into the deepest green eyes I've ever seen.

"It's fine, I was just leaving." She said, her Irish accent plain to hear.
"Was it something I said?" I asked, attempting to make a joke.
"Yes, the word occupied always strikes fear into my heart." She said, with a slightly sarcastic tone.
"You better not read anything about the West Bank then. That's bound to have the word occupied in it at least a few thousand times." I said.
She laughed at my joke and I introduced myself. "I'm Ross by the way."
"That's a strange surname." She joked.
"It's hereditary." I replied, continuing the humor. "I think it's a family heirloom. Some people get paintings, some people get Ming vases, I get a silly surname."

She smiled, picked up her bag and began making preparations to leave. "Well, Mr By The Way, it was nice talking to you." She said.
"I didn't catch your name... Miss..." I enquired.

"It's Mrs Unfortunately Married." She said, as she turned and walked away. Taking a little bit of my heart with her.

Hair today...

I popped round to my brothers tonight and raped his DVD collection.

For the next few days I'll be immersed in six series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and four series of Angel.

I also got his wife Julie to colour my hair while I was there. I now have black hair instead of boring boring brown.

This week I will be mostly reading...

This post is merely to list the books I bought today. If you want words of wisdom, go read Descartes. So, without further ado, here's the list of books I bought today.

Joseph Heller - Something Happened.
Nick Mason - Inside Out. A Personal History of Pink Floyd.
John Kennedy Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces.

I also bought another copy of On the Road by Jack Kerouac.

I say another copy because I've bought at least seven copies of this book and have given them all away. In actual fact the last copy of On the Road I bought wasn't really given away. It was set loose... Freed, emancipated, liberated... Whatever, call it what you will...

Last year when I popped over to South Africa for the month to visit Steve, I bought a copy of On the Road to read while lazing around on sunkissed beaches or at the side of swimming pools. When Steve was returning home to South Africa I wrote a little note inside the cover of the book and asked Steve to leave it in the airport somewhere that someone would find it, read it and pass it on.

The copy I bought today will be going much the same way. Not in the same fashion though, this copy is going to be given to a reader of this blog. Mr Alex Allan.

Earlier this week Alex and I were discussing books and writers and I mentioned that one of my favorite books of all time was On the Road by Kerouac. Alec had never heard of the book or the writer and I said I'd root out my copy and let him read it. Little did I realize that I had set my copy loose and didn't have another in the house.

And that's the reason I've bought yet another copy of On the Road.

[Editors Note] Alex and his wife Alma, who bares no resemblance to Margaret Thatcher at all and is in fact very sexy, come into the club I work in.