What a Cnut.

For another year. I'm none the wiser, as to why it is that families the world over get together to celebrate the birth of Jesus and spend most of the time either, (A) Arguing or, (B) Complaining that the TV schedule isn't what it was when they were young, or (C) Getting drunk. But that's the joy of it all isn't it? It's not about doing what Jesus would do were he here, it's all about spend, spend, spend. Sure, I'll admit that there are some Christians out there who attempt to do what Jesus would have done. There are people who give up Christmas day to go to feed the homeless and there are people who help those who have less than they. I've just never met any of them.

I've come to the conclusion that I spend too much time asleep. Perhaps I'm a sleep junkie. I regularly sleep for 12 hours, wake up, go for a piss, flop back into my bed and have another couple of hours. Is that right? To sleep that long and then want more? I dunno, perhaps I should go see my doctor and see what he says about it. But, fuck that, the last time I went to see my doctor he told me to cut down on my drink/drug/cigarette intake, to eat more vegetables and to take regular exercise. And who, in their right mind, wants to do that? Not me, that's for sure. I'm here for a good time, not a long time and I'm going to squeeze in as many vices as possible. Otherwise, what's the point? Ok, sure... My bad habits will, without a doubt, cause me to die at an earlier age than if I were a tofu eating health junkie, but, that's not my gig man... I'm rock and roll all the way baby... I'm a wild eyed, insane shirted, madman who's on this journey called ...

So what did the Grand Whazoo do? Did It... Shove a copy of The Office into the DVD player in heaven. Or... Smoke a very strong joint and look at a platypus. And the answer is... Neither. Apparently not satisfied with having Bill Hicks, Lenny Bruce, Sam Kinison, John Belushi and John Candy to do a turn at the Heavenly Haha Hole, The Grand Whazoo decided to call time on Richard Pryor 12 days ago. Richard died after suffering a long battle with MS .

Read this . The plot is a bit thin but the ending more than makes up for it.

Kate Bush. Aerial. Other than that it's been a nice long day lying in my bed. Oh the joys of being single and not giving a fuck. Or getting one... But I can live with that.

Today has been one of those days where getting out my bed was low on my list of priorities. Unless I was going for a piss that is. But that's a given. My days of lying in a soggy bed covered in my own piss are gone and forgotten. Never to return until I'm resident in an old folks home and I don't need to worry about who's going to change the sheets the next morning. That's something to look forward to... Waking up in the morning and yelling at a nurse "Hey, I'm covered in piss, change the sheets and give me a sponge bath!" It's been too cold today to venture out my warm bed. In fact if it wasn't for the fact I had a virus in my computer I wanted to remove you wouldn't be reading this now. Now though, the virus has been safely removed and I'm off back to my bed.

Thursday night saw me in Glasgow at the Oasis gig with Steff, Oswaldo and Lilly. We left Edinburgh at 4:15 from Haymarket Station. "Happy new year guys" Said Oswaldo, as he handed Steff and I a small piece of tinfoil each "There's enough for a couple of lines." We arrived in Glasgow just after 5pm and headed to a bar called The Counting House in George Square. The drinks bill came to less than £7 a round, which was stunningly cheap compared to what you would pay in Edinburgh's city centre bars, so there was much rejoicing. And a couple more rounds... Followed by a small sojourn to the gents toilets to say hello to Prince Charlie. Sniff. After another round of drinks and a very reasonably priced curry thedecisionn was made to find a bar that still allowed smoking on the premises. As we walked Oswaldo handed me a joint and told me to "Get a blast of this, man." Lilly spotted a bar across the road from where we were so we trooped over and hit the bar...

Which is surprising given the amount of times I'm wrong... I wrote on here a while ago that Billy Piper sucked as the new assistant in Dr Who, at the time it was my honest opinion, but now I have to go on record and say that she isn't all that bad. In fact she's quite good. My brother loaned me the first series on Sunday after I'd very kindly painted the ceiling and covered the carpet in paint at his house. After watching the full series on Monday, while recovering from our staff night out on sunday night, I found Billy Piper to be way above my expectations and actually found myself completely comfortable with her as the Dr's assistant. The scripts were good and each episode was filled with humor, tension and drama. Chris Ecclestone fitted into the part with a slickness I've never seen from a new Dr and even the introduction of the rogue time agent, Captain Jack Harkness, didn't fill me with the urge to shout "Claptrap!" and hurl abuse at the scre...

Mein Kampf . By Adolph Hitler . For no other reason than I have a copy and think I should read it.

When you drink the same amount as I do. But that's the way it goes. I'm the kind of person who can drink a hell of a lot of booze and still be rational and steady. Not to mention upright. Which is why the staff party was, to me, neither here nor there on the Ross Scale of Acceptable Party Magnitude. There wasn't enough time to get very very drunk and lairy so it went with more of a fizzle than a bang. But, never mind. Tomorrow sees me off to the mean streets of Glasgow to see Oasis play live at the SECC . For sure I'll be smash arse drunk for that. There was a hairy moment today when I asked Steff what time we were leaving Edinburgh and I was told 4pm. "I'm working until 5 man." I said. "Oh fuck." He replied. Not one to worry about such things I calmly said I'd phone one of the part timers and get them to cover my shift for a couple of hours. Problem solved. Or so I thought... I got home ten minutes ago to find a message on my answering machi...

Tonight should be a laugh a minute. It's my auntie Christines 50th birthday party and the whole of the Douglas family will be gathered in a confined space where there is lots of alcohol at cheap prices. Never a very good combination if you ask me. I'll let you all know what went on when I return from the party. If I'm sober enough to drive this computer. Which I doubt.

Today was my nephews birthday. It doesn't seem like 13 years since he was born. Time flies huh? I still remember going to Simpsons maternity hospital to see the wee man on the day he was born. My sister looked knackered, my mum looked overjoyed, my dad looked proud and I wondered when we'd get to wet the babies head. Which isn't, as you may think, a slang phrase for when the baby gets Christened but is a traditional male excuse for getting pissed out your mind and smoking large, smelly and very expensive cigars. Happy birthday Lawry.

And stared at this screen for precisely 45 minutes and nothing has came to mind. Not a bolt. Nothing. Nada. Fuck all. I'm jealous of all the people out there that can sit down at a typewriter/computer and can immediately bash out 5000 words that are insightful, witty and urbane. Columnists the world over are able to take a small moment out of their life and turn it into lengthy morality tale. I, however, struggle and strain, like a hemorrhoid sufferer trying to squeeze out a shit, and go nowhere fast. It just ain't right. It's not as though I have nothing that I could write about. I've got 35 years of experiences that I'm sure would serve as morality tales for the masses but none are forthcoming. Could this a problem with my memory being shot to shit after roughly 20 years of Marijuana smoking? Perhaps. But I'm fucked if I'm giving up on smoking weed, it's the only drug I've sampled that manages to stop the voices in my head driving me right around t...

I'm not much into Christmas. Which makes the next month a nightmare for people like me... And me. I returned to my work today after being off sick for the past week with a chest infection and found the whole place dripping with Christmas decorations. It's like working in Santa's scrotum. There's tinsel hanging from every available surface, a plastic tree covered in fairy lights stands in the corner and large pictures of Santa grace the walls as though the club is some kind of shrine to an overweight god who has an addiction to red clothing. And to top it all Rudolph the Red Nosed reindeer stares at me, with an evil look in his eyes I may add, as I pour drinks and chat with the club members. Thank Christ it's only going to be for the next month. At which time the Christmas crap will be replaced with Easter Eggs...

A busy couple of weeks for me on the social side of things. My auntie Christines 50th birthday party is on Friday night and the Christmas night out for my work is on Sunday. Next Thursday I'm off to Glasgow to see Oasis live. No doubt I'll be suffering a massive hangover following each of these occasions.

I dive. I read Aldous Huxleys' The Doors of Perception today. (It made me wonder where I can get a hold of some mescaline.) And I also read The Firm by John Grisham. Other than that it's been another day in bed coughing my lungs up.

I still feel like I'm breathing through a wet sock, with this god awful chest infection I've got, so I've spent the whole day in my bed with a leggy blonde nurse, a hot toddy and a bottle of cough syrup. One part of that statement was false. Did you spot which one? Give yourself a pat on the back if you spotted that the leggy blonde nurse was actually a brunette... Because of this I've got fuck all to write about other than whatever my mind can spew forth from the depths. So lets face it, this post may be something of a disappointment. Or perhaps not... Who can tell where this will all end up. Perhaps it'll be a sordid tale of woe that ends in a happy ending, perhaps it'll be gripping and dramatic or perhaps it'll end with a laugh. Whatever. Just don't expect miracles. For some reason my mind is pushing forward a memory of when I was a kid and lived in Westburn Grove... Oh well, lets see where this goes... I loved playing in the west burn when I was you...

I bet that's what God was thinking about me all week. But guess what? God lost. Ho ho. One day though... God will look down (Or up, or sideways... Who knows what way up in space He sits.) and will decide that my time on this mortal coil is over and I'll drop like a stone. Possibly of a heart attack. But that won't be because God wants to see me die from a heart attack, it'll be because the body auditors consider it the easiest way for me to go. All my years of bad living will see to that. No man, or indeed woman, can live for a long time when their staple diet consists of fried food from the nearest take-away. But, selah, so it goes. I don't think I've ever had what you would call a healthy diet. But that's a Scottish thing. We're an unhealthy bunch who look at vegetables and fruit like they are alien pods that will rot our minds and will turn us into Englishmen. Ask the average Scotsman what a pomegranate is and they'll tell you it's a type of E...

I've been in my bed a lot this last couple of weeks. Due not only to a grand depression but also to a stinking cold/flu virus which went straight to my lungs and had a party. It's been a great to see all the shit in my lungs get gobbed out though. Huge lumps of green and grey phlegm have been hacked and hawked up at regular intervals and several times I've coughed so hard I saw stars in my watery eyes and almost passed out. Oh the joys of a 40 cigarettes a day habit and a chest infection... Because of the fact that daytime TV sucks like a cheap hooker I've been listening to a lot of music, reading, jerking off and sleeping. Top of the list for listening has been The Goons , even though I've been unable to laugh really hard without coughing until I'm blue in the face... Much like a smurf who has been caught smoking by grampa smurf and has been made to smoke until he pukes. Also on the listening list has been... Athlete. The Ramones. Bloc Party. Babysh...

I said in a post a couple of weeks ago; Jesus, was it that long ago? How time flies when you're hiding from the world; that "To be a half decent writer you have to write about what you know." So, here goes. Writing about what I know. There's only one way to skin a cat... Properly. A shabbily skinned cat isn't skinned. If you've ever see a cat that's been improperly skinned I'm sure you'll agree with me. You're like that... I can tell that by how nicely groomed and respectable you look. But I digress... From whatever I was talking about to your appearance. What was I talking about? Was I even talking? Technically, no. I was typing. But you know what I mean. Lets not get caught up in semantics. It wouldn't do either of us any good. Anyhoo... Skinned cats. What uses do they have? Rugs? Yes, but only the fur will suffice for this purpose. Who wants to walk into a finely decorated lounge to see the rotting corpse of a cat laid out on the floor? ...