Search This Blog


Despite... Having shit loads of time to sit here and write.

I'm finding it difficult to think of anything to actually write about. My desk is not a good place to be when the creative juices are refusing to flow... The eyes of Hunter S Thompson look down from a picture on the wall behind my monitor and challenge me to "Finish the Fucking Story!"

But what is the fucking story? Huh, hunter? Is it the tale of someone sitting staring at a monitor for an hour and producing nothing more than three bad starts and a half page of gibberish filled with cod psychology and lunatic ramblings? If so I think I have the story. I have it firmly by the balls if that's the case...

But the words, Hunter, the words... How do I describe the anguish caused by trying to create something which cannot be created. Do I risk an in-depth description of my surroundings in an attempt to somehow define the reality I face when I am sitting in what I have reserved as my creative space?

I seriously hope not... I'd have a hard job explaining away the inflatable sheep in a noose above me, people would ask why I have a large poster of Darth Maul on my wall. And I'd certainly loose good friends when they find out I have a Stars and Stripes upon which I have daubed a Nazi Swastika and the words "Burn This Flag" in black magic marker... Should I include details that let the reader know I am sitting here in nothing more than a tatty pair of boxer shorts and that I can smell the sweat from beneath my balls? Probably not.

That's not a nice image to give people. Sure, it's the truth but sometimes the truth is too ugly to consider.


Grasping the future with both hands...

And giving it a damn good shake.

I've finally switched over to the new version of blogger so for the next couple of weeks there may be slight glitches in this page as I try to figure the bugger out.


I'm a writer, me...

I've always wondered just how people would define me if someone asked them to describe me. I know my friends and family have made the following comments...
  • A Lunatic. (Sandra.)
  • Insane. (Boo.)
  • Slightly Mad, but in a good way. (Jenny.)
  • You can't describe Ross. (Steff.)
  • Sick. (Oswald.)
  • A Bam. (Terry.)
  • A fat cunt. (Bobo.)
  • Silly. (Alex, Cameron, Daisy, Lawry.)
  • 'Illy. (Matthew.)
  • A twat. (Stuart.)
  • Off his head. (Sarah.)
  • Eccentric. (Laura.)
God, that list could really spiral out of control... Anyhoo, back to the matter in hand...

My Mum told me a couple of days ago that she was speaking to a workmate about her family and she said that I was a writer and a poet. When she told me this I was slightly stunned. My Mum looked at me and said "And that's what you are, isn't it. A writer and a poet."

When my Mum said this to me, I realised that I was. And still am. I'm a writer. I may not be great, I may not create great works, I may not get paid to do it... But Goddamn it, I'm a writer.

Thanks mum.

A lack of a job...

Has somewhat prevented me from purchasing the luxury items my soul craves for; DVD's, CD's, Books and Hardcore Pornography... Ho ho... But this small detail didn't stop me yesterday when I was sauntering around the town centre and popped into HMV.

I limited myself to £30 maximum and bought a copy of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (IMDB link) and a rather nifty copy of Pink Floyd - The Wall 25th Anniversary (Deluxe Edition).


How a President became associated with failure.

Google Explains why typing the word "Failure" into their search engine took you to the official Whithouse autobiographical page for President George W Bush.

Perhaps George W Bush has been associated with the word Failure because this is exactly the proper way to describe him. Or maybe that's just my opinion... But I doubt it.

Recent Listening...

This last couple of weeks I have sunk myself into the following albums.


Oh Goody...

Jade Goody's career is over... Hallelujah, joy of joys, Praise be to The Grand Whazoo, Etc etc etc... Thanks to her allegedly racist attitude towards Bollywood star Shilpa Shetty. And I for one am thanking The Grand Whazoo that Jade's career is now going to spiral into the ground like a pidgeon that has just suffered a cardiac arrest.

Good news indeed.


♪♫♪ Happy birthday to ya ♪♫♪ Happy birthday to ya...

♪♫♪ Happy Birthday. ♪♫♪

So sang Stevie Wonder about Martin Luther King Jr, who would have been 78 years old today if he hadn't been shot and killed on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee on the 4th of April 1968.

When I woke up this morning and switched on my computer I was greeted with an offline message from a friend of mine informing me of this so I decided that I should do something to remember Martin Luther King Jr. I trawled through my CD collection and found the disk that contains Dr King's famous "I have a dream" speech and popped it into my CD player.

To read the text of the speech click here.

To see a video of the speech click here.


Here comes the headache...

It's ten past one in the morning and I'm just back from my dads 60th birthday party. I've had at least 20 rum and cokes and I'm surprisingly sober considering this fact. My head is just starting to thump due to the dehydration and I know I'm going to suffer even though I feel sober.

When my mum and dad picked me up before the party I was warned to be on my best behaviour and spent the night being watched at every turn by my sister, my mum, my dad and a couple of others who had been told to keep an eye on me. Fuck knows why though, it's not as if I was going to set fire to the place. (Shit, as you may know, doesn't burn...)

Anyhoo, the party was great. Friends and family were present and many a drink was quaffed. My dad looked resplendent in his Clan Douglas kilt and I, of course, looked good enough to eat in my jeans and a black shirt. (Black, my friends, is the new black.)

But bugger sitting here typing when I should be retiring to my bed to attempt to get some sleep.

Oh the irony...

Here's something for you all to try.

Go to google and type in "Failure" (include the quote marks) and hit the I'm feeling lucky button.

(Still working as of 01:10 on Sunday 14th Jan.)



I shall be partying hard at my former workplace (Yeah, that one...) despite the fact that I'm persona non grata. What is a man to do? Well, for one I'm gonna drink like there's no tomorrow and do my level best to get Lyndsay "with an I" to show me her ample breasts. Ho ho...

The reason for the party is that tomorrow is my dads 60th birthday and he booked the function hall to have a little shindig that he had to ask the president for special permission for me to attend.

I guess I should be on my best behaviour as I could get banned. Again...


Be... An agent of evolution.

Rage against timidity
Rally your temerity
Grab life by the balls.

Speak out against oppression
Speak up for your transgressions
Justify your life.

Be... An agent of Evolution.

Live your life with passion
Never follow fashion
Individualize instead.

Realize what's real
Say just how you feel

An agent of Evolution.


♪♫♪ The wonderful thing about Tiggers... ♪♫♪

♪♫♪ Is Tiggers a wonderful thing,
Their tops are made of rubber,
Their bottoms are made of springs,
Their bouncy bouncy bouncy bouncy
Fun fun fun fun,
But the most wonderful thing about Tiggers is...
That they don't carry a gun. ♪♫♪


Oh how I laughed when I read that Tigger bitchslapped a kid at Disney MGM Studios on Friday.


If you don't have the courage of your convictions...

You ain't shit...

This post is to let you all know that from this moment on any anonymous comments will be deleted from this blog. And if you are reading this anonymous (you know who you are) then I have this to say to you...

You're a fucking spineless cunt who has less backbone than a slug.


Someone I worship...

Once commented that "Watching TV was like taking a can of black spray paint to your third eye." I'd like to go one further and state catagorically that watching celebrity Big Brother is like puting a magnum to your temple and pulling the trigger.

Or at least that's how I feel after watching that shite for roughly 45 seconds. And believe me if I lived in a country where I could get my hands on a magnum this screed would never make it to posting and my walls would be redecorated a delicate shade of brain matter and blood red.

The thought that there are millions of idiots sitting watching that dross fills me with an urge to hunt them all down and slaughter them. After I did that I'd have to dedicate a little time to hunting Jade Goody so I could drive railroad spikes through her eyeballs.

Found on

You Are Barney

You could have been an intellectual leader...

Instead, your whole life is an homage to beer

You will be remembered for: your beautiful singing voice and your burps

Your life philosophy: "There's nothing like beer to give you that inflated sense of self-esteem."

If there's one thing...

That really gets on my pecs it's young couples who paw and grope each other in public.

Only yesterday I was subjected to one young loved up couple who were in the middle of eating each others faces. That's faces by the way, just in case you misread that and thought I was subjected to the early throws of coprophiliac love...

Anyhoo... I was on the bus headed into town and the two passion merchants were playing a rather energetic game of tonsil hockey from the moment they got on the bus until the moment that I couldn't take anymore and spoke up.

"Excuse me, is there any chance you two could forgo the foreplay. I only got out my bed twenty minutes ago and the last thing I want to see right now is you two practically humping each other." I said.

The pair separated and the guy turned to me and said, in a somewhat laconic tone of voice, "You what?"

"I was asking if you two could pack it in, if you got any further down her throat you'd be able to lick her clit from the inside." I said, squaring up to him as his physical movements made me wonder if I'd pushed things just a tad too far, this time.

The object of his affection put her hand on his chest and held him back, as though that would have any effect if he'd decided to attempt to rip me a new arsehole. "Talk to me like that again and I'll punch your fucking lights out mate." He said.

"Well I'm getting off at the next stop if you fancy trying your luck cuntface." I said, as I pushed the bell to let the driver know I wanted off the bus. As the bus drew to a stop I moved towards the door whilst keeping an eye on Romeo in case the grip his girlfriend had on him wasn't sufficient enough to prevent him from throwing himself at me.

"Your girlfriend looks like she's had more cock-ends than weekends as well" I shouted as the bus pulled away and I knew he'd have at least a couple of hundred yards to catch me if he decided to exact some kind of revenge on me. When I got around the corner I burst out laughing and decided that I should maybe make my new years resolution...

Keep my mouth shut in future.



I was standing in the bog having a pee when a stray widdle of poorly aimed piss bounced back and splashed onto my leg. I looked down and what did I notice? Apart from the fact that my aim was terrible? I noticed that my pubic hairs made my cock and balls look like they had a handlebar mustache. I jumped in shock, and in doing so pissed all over the wall and my other leg.

I reached for the scissors and trimmed my pubes into the bog. Taking care not to accidently circumsize myself in the process of course. As I watched the hair fall into the bowl I wondered if this was a sign that I'm getting old. Surely when it gets to the point that you have pubes that make your cock and balls look like Tom Selleck you're getting old.

Why didn't anyone inform me of this? I'm pretty sure that someone could have mentioned it at some point... Even if it would have grossed me out at the time that kind of information is something that should be shared. Along with the knowledge that at some point in your life you will develop hair in your ears that you'll need to trim in order to hear what the person next to you is saying.

Come to think of it, that may have been how I missed being told that one day I'd have a dick that resembled a walrus' face.

Way back when...

In my youth I used to spend my Friday nights driving around Edinburgh in an orange Vauxhall Astra with a few good friends. Much dope was smoked, much acid was swallowed and much hi-jinks was gotten up to.

Our usual haunts were places like the picturesque South Queensferry in the shadow of the Forth bridge, Musselburgh Harbour (which was a few hundred yards from where my girlfriend lived) and Calton Hill. These three places became something of a home for me for a few years. Many a weekend was spent either stoned, steaming drunk or off my tits on LSD.

On one particular night, after we had driven around the road that winds its way around Arthurs Seat to pass some time, we noticed several fire engines and a couple of police cars sitting at the foot of the Salisbury Crags. Being the curious type we drove along to see what the fuss was.

As we approached the bottom of the crags I looked up to see several firemen attempting to reach someone who was standing on the cliff. "It's a jumper!" I yelled to my mate, who immediately threw the car around and headed to the bottom of Calton Hill.

It was with a squeal of rubber and smoking tyres that we handbrake skidded to a halt next to a group of cars occupied by friends. Before the car had even stopped sliding I was halfway out of the window screaming at the drivers to follow us. After shouting that there was someone going to top themselves by hurling themselves off the crags a troop of car engines sprung to life and at least a dozen cars followed us to the crags.

We must have looked like quite a sight to the pedestrians we passed on the way. Twelve to fifteen cars filled to the brim with stoners, acid freaks and pissheads screamed along Regents Road at way over the speed limit must have been quite a thing to behold.

In the time it took for us to drive to Calton Hill and back the firemen had managed to get within a few feet of the jumper and were in the middle of talking him down. As the road had been shut off to allow the firemen access to the crags our troop of cars pulled up onto the pavements and we all poured out to watch the show.

Joints were being smoked and bottles were being passed around amongst the crowd and people were chatting idly about how the firemen and police were dealing with the situation. Everyone seemed to have an opinion on the specialised training the emergency services were given to deal with occasions such as this, and to a man all were voiced.

The only voice that didn't give a flying fuck about the specialised training the emergency services received was, surprise surprise, mine. I took a deep breath and yelled as loud as I possibly could... "JUMP YA PRICK!"

This got a quite a laugh from the group of people that were watching the spectacle and I continued. "TRY AND TAKE A COUPLE OF THOSE BASTARDS WITH YOU!" I yelled. More laughter erupted from the crowd and a few of the group joined in. Meanwhile the potential jumpee had been convinced by the emergency services that it wasn't worth it and were in the process of helping him down the hill.

I often wondered what was going through the guys mind as he was helped into the back of an ambulance to yells and screams of "POOF!" - "FUCKING CHICKEN!" - "JESSIE!" and my personal favourite... "I HOPE SOMEONE KILLS YOU IN THE JAIL YA COWARDLY CUNT!"

Which, of course, issued from my very own lips.

I read yesterday...

That weather forecasters have stated that 2007 is set to be the hottest ever on record.

As I read, I wondered how it was I'd managed to miss the more startling news headlines that weather forecasters were actually able to predict the fucking weather...


Those of you who read this blog regularly...

May know of the high regard I have for a comedian named Bill Hicks.

Over the last few days I've constructed a page in memory of him and his works.

To view the page click here.

Another tribute page I've knocked together is dedicated to Hunter S Thompson.

To view the Hunter S Thompson tribute page click here.


Fully Recovered...

Well, the hangover to end all hangovers has finally dissipated and I'm back to whatever passes for normal. There's no longer a green tint at the edge of my field of vision and my stomach isn't churning and chundering like a cement mixer filled with horse shit.

And so I begin a new year...

My resolution? Well, who knows. Perhaps I should resolve to pack in the cigarettes or cut down on the junk food but that'd knock fuck out my basic diet, so bollocks to that.

If you have any suggestions as to what I should make my new years resolution please leave a comment.


Happy New Year...

To one and all.

I'm sitting at my mums with the biggest hangover I've had in a long time. My head feels like my brain is three sizes too big, my mouth is drier than the Sahara desert and my guts are churning and groaning like a retarded child trapped in a washing machine.

And the reason for this hangover? Apart from it being new year obviously, a time when Scottish people the world over sup large amounts of booze and drink like there is no tommorow. (We are still a relatively backwards country and still aren't sure we shouldn't still be sacraficing virgins to ensure the sun rises in the morning.)

Well, the main reason for the hangover I'm suffering is that I knocked back 3/4 of a bottle of Hills Absinth. It's a funny old drink Absinth, it's the kind of drink that if it were a human it'd be the kind of person who befriends you in a bar, gets you to drink a little more than usual and then mugs you for your wallet after he makes the pretense of making sure you get home alright.

In short, it's an evil bastard of a drink. But goddamn! It's good... At the time.

Unfortunately it's also an evil bastard the following morning. When the light hit my eyeballs I felt as though pure raw reality was being burned into my retinas. There was a certain strange green quality to it.

A tinge of chartreuse around the edge of your field of vison can be a bit offputting in the first moments after opening your eyes. Especially as my brain was still in the process of trying to figure out if this was a strange dream that my Absinth soaked brain had conjured up.

After a few glorious seconds of uncertainty my head began to pound. I realised that this was no dream. This, unfortunately for me, was reality.

I dragged myself out of my bed and headed into the kitchen to get a drink of water to assist in removing my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Big mistake. The water hit my stomach and it began to cramp up. "Oh shit." I thought, "Here we go."

The cramp turned out to be nothing more than a vile smelling fart that had obviously been stored up during the few hours I had slept. As soon as the smell hit my nose I began to retch. I bolted for the bathroom, threw the lid of the toilet up and came face to face with a shit I must have laid after arriving back from my friends house.

So, there I was, head down in a toilet bowl full of my own shit, puking up green tinted bile while staring at the slowly bobbing turd and wondering if I'd survive the next few minutes. Eventually the hurling pukes finished and I stood up like a young deer taking its first steps.

I slowly walked back to my bed, stopping only to grab a bucket in case there was more puking on the cards for me, and slunk back to my bed for the next seven hours.