Anger is an energy

I don’t want to get angry. You won’t like me when I’m angry, but some people are trying what’s left of my patience. Things have been said. Attacks have been made. Is it any different from any other week? No, except that this hasn’t been just any other week.

I’ve been avoiding the political talk shows, averting my eyes from newspaper stands and tuning in to different radio stations. My mind is made up. My mind was made up a long time ago, with no aid from outside influences but, for health reasons, it’s best that I don’t get too agitated.

On Wednesday 25^th, Burns Day, the First Minister went to Edinburgh Castle and announced the Scottish Government’s consultation on the forthcoming Independence referendum. He also announced his preferred question. Yes, ONE question; what all the Unionist windbags have been bleating on about for weeks. They want one question, and he’s come up with one:

Do you think that Scotland should be an independent country?

It’s ‘biased’, apparently. It’s ‘loaded’, apparently. It’s ‘unfair’, apparently. No, hold on a minute, it’s a simple question, so simple that Labour retards and Tory in-breds can understand, and that’s what they don’t like about it.

In the past, I’ve said to people that the dream of a better nation would be shattered by vested interests. What are they?

1. The landed gentry and big business (Tories); exploit the land and its people for their own benefit.
2. The parasites (Labour); pocket the money at all levels of Government but put nothing back into their communities. I mean, why is that the East End of Glasgow is still the poorest place in this wonderful United Kingdom after almost 80 years of being represented by Labour?
3. The bigots (Protestants, mostly of the Orange and Masonic variety); shit scared of an independent Scotland cozying up to a Catholic EU.
4. The fearties (Catholics); shit scared of being marooned in a Presbyterian Scotland twinned with Northern Ireland.

This week, we’ve had Reg Empey, sorry, SIR Reg Empey telling us that our Independence from Tory England will harm Ulster. Here’s his considered opinion, stolen from the BBC:

“The former Ulster Unionist Party leader said Northern Ireland had “spent decades overcoming nationalist terrorism and we gradually after years and years and years managed to settle down our community”.
“I don’t wish to exaggerate, but if the Scottish nationalists were to succeed it could possibly reignite the difficulties we have just managed to overcome,” he said.
“I do not say that lightly.”
He told peers said that if Scotland broke away from the UK, people in Northern Ireland would have “a foreign country on one side of us and a foreign country on the other side of us”.
“We would end up like West Pakistan,” he said.”

Funny comparison, considering his mob wanted partition. Even funnier the idea that 'our community' is settled down. That'd be why there's a honking great 'peace' wall, then.

This is the same Reg Empey who led his party to the brink of extinction. Naw, Reg, that’s not what’s going to kill off your apartheid state; the Catholics, as per orders from Rome, have been breeding like rabbits for years and the entire balance of the population is going to change in the next couple of decades. Now whether or not they throw their lot in with the bankrupt Republic remains to be seen, but it’s over.

His successor, Tom Elliott, spouts more pish on his blog. I loved the bit about us all benefiting economically, politically and socially from being in the UK. So that would be why Northern Ireland was left virtually undefended at the start of World War II, or why a large number of its citizens were actively discriminated against for decades. I also loved the bit about Salmond being more of a threat than the IRA. I know I’ve written some shite in my time, but that takes the biscuit.

We’ve had the usual guff from Michael ‘yes, it is my real accent’ Forsyth, Johann Lamont (who?), Foghorn Curran and even Christine Lagarde’s best buddy Alistair, too, but surely the best contribution to the debate has come from ‘bra tycoon’ Michelle Mone. According to her, Scotland will go tits up if we get independence and she’s going to pack up all her underwear and run away from home. Oh, dear.

At your age who knows what excitement might do

I had pie and beans for dinner. Nothing reminds me of school more than pie and beans: pie with baked beans on top. There are fewer than six degrees of separation between school and the City Bakeries. Pie, beans and potato: pie with mashed potato on top, baked beans in the middle. It’s funny just what I remember, and sad how much I’ve had to force myself to forget.

I arrived at 2:30am from two different directions this week. In the early hours of Wednesday, I woke up for no apparent reason, and never slept again until that night. This morning, my head hit the pillow at that unsociable hour, but not before I noticed something in my Twitter feed; a tweet from ‘Philosophers Quotes’ (@philo_quotes) attributed to William James, brother of Henry, the novelist:

‘Believe that life is worth living and your belief will help create the fact.’

I’m not sure I can subscribe to that, at least not every day. I’ve tried, many times, but to no avail. I’m a fatalist, or so I’ve been told. If my life was meant to be different, it would be.

Searching for the William James quote, another caught my eye, from Jean-Paul Sartre:

‘For an occurrence to become an adventure, it is necessary and sufficient for one to recount it.’

I woke up one day and realised that I’d stopped saying ‘Oh God, not another one’. I woke up one day and discovered that I was on one of those adventures. It’s a story I’d love to recount, one day when I figure out what occurred, and when. But how, and who would listen? A friend I've not seen for a while, a philosopher, no less, replied to me today in one of her fleeting appearances on Facebook:

‘At your age who knows what excitement might do’

Well, it might just kill me off this time, but I hope I can accumulate at least a chapter’s worth of memories and occurrences for the storytelling.

A footnote: ‘Revenge of the Folksingers’ arrived in the post today. It’s everything I hoped it would be, and something that probably played in my ear one night as I slept during ‘Late Junction’. Catherine Bott even gets a mention in the ‘Thanks’ section of the liner notes.

Where do the nights of sleep go when they do not come to me?

It’s five past four.

In the morning.

My head.

I had no idea I was an insomniac. Why now?

I’ve slept through most of the last few years, so why now? 

That’ll be my guilty conscience.

Or the lettuce.

We’re a litigation nation.

This is a blame culture.

I blame you. Yes, you.

Don’t look at me like that.

I love it when you look at me like that.

Baroque and roll

A woman with about a dozen recorders, another one with a viol and a cello and a man on a harpsichord; it just screams 'Renaissance' and 'Baroque', and I'll not be able to get Concerto Caledonia under the Trades Descriptions Act. A concerto by Couperin, a sonata by Handel and pieces with unpronounceable names by people no one has ever heard of, including Scottish music that pre-dated the 'fiddle tradition'. All it needed was a voice-over from Catherine Bott and I'd have been lulled into thinking I was at home listening to Radio 3 in my pyjamas (place phrase at wrong point in sentence or omit punctuation for comic effect). But this is a life of surprises.

An unattended harmonium with no apparent owner; the words 'traditional music' and 'collaborations' in their biography - it didn't register. They left the Muzette from the Couperin concerto, promising to play it later - it still didn't register. Then David McGuinness, the man on the harpsichord, explained everything and introduced a special guest; the harmonium owner, Olivia Chaney. I was expecting some baroque-y soprano-y throat-warble-y rubbish, but I got a folk babe, instead. She even name-checked Alasdair Roberts. I think I'm in love.  I wonder what the old duffers of Milngavie made of it.

Rage against the machine

Have I been here before? Are you sure I've never been here before?  It seems like yesterday that I woke up to reports that English Tories (is there any other kind?) want to condemn the Scottish people to winters more miserable than they are already. Well, yes, I have been here before. I e-mailed the MP responsible for the Private Member's Bill to change our clocks, effectively, to CET. Did we get blown to France in that storm a few weeks ago? No. Is France even in Central Europe? No. Should we just lie back and think of England? No. Did the bitch write back? No.

We had Stuart Pearce and Hope Powell up here yesterday banging the drum for the 'TeamGB' football team and, every minute of every day now, some 'Unionist' politician tells us that the only way we'll ever earn the right to self-determination is if we move to the Falkland Islands. 2012? The year that everything changes? The year that the worm finally turns? I hope so.

No more nails

I’ve not done a match report for a while, so here goes.

Not long after Victor Wanyama’s powerful header yielded his third goal for the club, and Celtic’s second for the day, the game died. Samaras made a run up the left-wing, came inside and stopped as if he’d been frozen in time by an invisible beam emanating from a fiendish, one-eyed villain’s ray gun housed in a cloaked ship above the stadium. He barely moved for the remaining seventy minutes of the match. The most schizophrenic footballer ever to wear the Hoops continues to fail to confound expectations. What’s the betting that he’ll still be there when the Transfer Window closes in 16 days time? What have we done to deserve this?

Adam Matthews, who turned 20 on Friday, looked exhausted, and rarely made it to the byline, presumably paralysed with the fear that he’d not be able to return to his post in time to avert any danger posed by the opposition. I have poor eyesight, and don’t know the boy. Neil Lennon sees him at close quarters every day, yet not only decided to include him in the starting line-up, but also continued playing him when it was obvious to all and sundry that he was well below par. There was no point in alluding to his suffering from a virus in the post-match interview. His inclusion could have been a fatal mistake for Celtic who, yet again, tortured the home supporters within an inch of their lives with a nervy and mildly incompetent second-half performance, made worse by contrasting it with the scintillating display of Barca-style passing that characterised the first quarter of the game. It’s just as well we were up against Dundee United and not the Catalan masters.

Celtic is a club blessed with many right-backs, but only two are available, and Cha, for all his strength and stamina, can’t cross a ball to save himself. With Matthews’ lack of fitness, and the absence of James Forrest, there were limited chances of getting balls from the right into the box above or behind the effective but, ultimately, inflexible Gary Kenneth. Scott Brown possesses tenacity, and motivational skills, but is a poor substitute for a creative footballer. He also struggles when having to play the role of midfield enforcer that Beram Kayal has carved out for himself. Stokes and Hooper frequently were deprived of the necessary service from midfield and this led to seemingly constant frustration with each other and their colleagues.

Stokes’ head went down so much in the second half that he was substituted, not by the fit-again and much in need of a debut James Keatings, but by Ki, who is never going to be sufficiently consistent and convincing in the centre of midfield to command a regular place in the rough and tumble of the SPL. He slows the game down too much, the very thing Marc Crosas was criticised for, yet Neil insists on throwing him into games against teams with opportunist, whippet-like midfielders and wingers ready to pounce on one of his many stray passes. He even had a chance to get on the score sheet but squandered it by pausing long enough to allow the baby elephant Kenneth to take it off his toes.

On the left, Izzaguirre displayed his trademark coolness under pressure from the likes of Johnny Russell, but it’s clear that he needs more game time to get back to his best. He went off midway through the second half, making way for the returning Kris Commons, and both men received warm, enthusiastic ovations. This meant that Joe Ledley moved to left-back. Alarm bells were ringing, as he was also having an off day. Luckily enough, so were most of United’s players. With Forrest out, and Samaras asleep, we were also impotent on the left going forward, so it’s a miracle that we came away with a victory.

Both keepers made excellent and important saves, with Pernis’ efforts in thwarting Stokes and Samaras worthy of note, but it was another stupid goal that dented Forster’s hopes of emulating last season’s record clean-sheet count. John Rankin, he of ‘squiggler’ fame, hit one from about 30 yards that went in off the side of the post. The big goalie was visibly disappointed, and not least by the fact that no one closed down the one-trick pony former Hibee.

Hooper was given the Man of the Match award, presumably for his well-worked opening goal. Yet again, I find myself in disagreement with the nameless, faceless individual(s) responsible for making this decision. Clever readers and anyone knowing my views on the subject will know where this is going. In spite of a goal lost at home (which may have been avoided had the midfielders done their job), my favoured central-defensive partnership of last season, Rogne and Mulgrew, were immense throughout the game, and it is perhaps best for the team that their talents continue to be underestimated by outsiders. However, they are always appreciated by me, and for that reason, I award them both the accolade.

Finally, according to Neil, the pitch was a bit bobbly. Wasn’t it re-laid in July? Don’t we pay a load of money for a large ground staff and some grass-nurturing contraption? If this is the best pitch in Scottish football, God help the rest of the clubs.

I just blew in from the windy city

The weather hit the headlines again this week. It also hit families and businesses hard as a storm now universally acknowledged to have been worse than the infamous Boxing Day 1998 event left a trail of devastation in its wake on what was expected to be a quiet, boring Tuesday morning. Falling masonry, flying cladding and uprooted trees damaged homes, cars and power lines; transport was disrupted and the public was advised not to travel. Some idiot with nothing better to do phoned Radio Scotland and blamed the Scottish Government. The rest of the population counted the cost or gave thanks that they had escaped, this time. It could have been so much worse.

It was the last day of what passed for a holiday. I had planned to go out early to pick up some essential provisions then return home and wallow in self-pity for the rest of the day. I awoke around seven-thirty and came to the conclusion that the ferocity of the wind would prevent my escape for some time, so I stayed in bed. It was immediately obvious that, once awake, I’d never be able to sleep through it. I decided that it would be a good idea to take a look at the Met Office web site and plan my day around the forecast. Then I got out of bed.

I couldn’t understand why all the (internal) doors were open. The door to the living room (or whatever it’s called these days) was more ajar than the rest, so I wandered in there and turned the lights on. I stared at the centre window for what seemed like an age and couldn’t figure out where it had gone. As I made my tentative approach, I had visions of the frame recumbent in downstairs’ garden, but I soon realised that it had travelled through 180 degrees and was resting against its neighbour to the right. I haven’t got a clue how the window had come loose, but fortunately, when it opened, it must have taken the curtain with it and the fabric had wound itself round one of the hinges, immobilising the frame by tethering it to the (lightweight) curtain track. There was no damage to the frames or the glass, so I sacrificed the curtain and secured the window. I’ve no idea how much time had passed since I arrived on the scene, but once I’d closed the window, I realised that I was in a state of semi-embarrassment. Thankfully, for all concerned, it was a holiday and it was still dark. I loosened my grip on the window catch and made a swift exit in the general direction of my pyjamas.

It’s been blustery ever since, though nowhere near as wild. As a result of the swirling winds and driving rain of Wednesday evening, I was left with a small puddle on my kitchen floor. I couldn’t find any obvious signs of fluid ingress in the loft, and an inspection of the roof (through binoculars) the next morning didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary, so I’m hoping that it was the result of a freak gust blowing some (i.e. a lot of) rain under a roof tile. I’m scared to look at weather forecasts, now.

On a brighter note, I braved the elements last night for a recital by Thistle Brass at Kilmardinny House. There were no programmes (the programme person had returned from holiday to a storm-damaged house), so I’m making this up as I go along. The ensemble comprised two trumpets (and variations thereof, including two flugel horns at the same time; very nice), a trombone, a French horn and a tuba. This combination was easy on the ear however, like a typical clarinettist, I sat as far away as possible. I think they opened with the ‘Earl of Oxford March’ by William Byrd, and may or may not have followed this with ‘Dances of the Scottish Court’ by John Maxwell Geddes (who is still alive; he found the manuscripts somewhere). They played something by a Russian composer called Victor Ewald, who used to hang around with the likes of Borodin and Rimsky Korsakov. He was a cellist, but wrote a lot of music for brass ensembles and, like his chums, he had a day job. It’s always nice when the musicians include some background information, though it would have been better if I’d written down a list of the music performed. I think they also played ‘Fire Dance’ by someone called Di Lorenzo and the piece John Williams composed for the Los Angeles Olympics in 1984, ‘Olympic Fanfare and Theme’. There was a lovely rendition of ‘Farewell to Stromness’ by Peter Maxwell Davies, some tunes from West Side Story and something by Michael Kamen. The evening closed with two slightly jazzier numbers; the Fats Waller favourite ‘I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate’ in the style of a wind-up gramophone (think about it) and Irving Berlin’s ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’. I’ve not heard such appreciative noises from the Kilmardinny audience since I started attending.

Fitter, happier, more productive

I gave up New Year resolutions a long time ago. Come to think of it, every year I’d given up most of them a few seconds after the bells. A self-confessed chocolate addict and couch potato like me will never be able to summon the willpower to defeat the evils and excesses of modern living. Depression has a lot to do with it, and I should be grateful that the effects are mild in comparison with other sufferers, but what’s so difficult about seeing that something needs fixing and actually fixing it? Let’s examine some common resolutions, the problems with them and their chances of success (Y/N).

1. Lose weight: This depends on the next resolution. (20/80)
2. Eat less: I don’t eat much, but what I do eat is wrong. Constant comfort eating of industrial quantities of biscuits and cakes is not a good idea. (50/50)
3. Go to the gym: There are other ways to get exercise, but paying gym membership and not going is, in these austere times, downright stupid. Would I have gone over the holidays had the place been open? Now, there’s another question. (50/50).
4. Drink less: Less than the quantity I drink already? I probably drink less in an entire year than the average Glaswegian drinks in an hour on a Friday night. Anyway, I might need to develop an alcohol addiction if I’m off the biscuits. (No chance)
5. Work harder: In work? I think not. (No chance)
6. Write more: Of this? Probably. What do you mean ‘this doesn’t count’? (50/50)
7. Read more: This might help with a number of the above (particularly the number 6). (20/80)
8. Travel more: Money, time and the ability to slip off the chains; three things I rarely have at the same time. I had a mad idea earlier about visiting places beginning with the letter ‘B’. Does that mean I can’t go back to Llandudno? (40/60)
9. Be nice to people: In the last five years, I seem to have mastered the art of being nice to people I don’t even like. Even though I don’t mean it, I hope they appreciate the effort. (50/50)
10. Use Twitter less: Well, that’s a new one. I signed up for it a couple of years ago, but it took me until September 2011 to figure out how to use it. It’s great for sending rude messages to politicians or compliments to artistic types. The 140-character limit is a bummer, though. No, I’ll give it while longer before I pass judgement on it. (10/90)
11. Go out more: This means gigs, doesn’t it? It’s not as if I go anywhere else. Well, this is a difficult one. I’ve got a bit of a hearing problem (pardon?), due to going to gigs in the past; I want to punch anyone who talks at a gig; I’ve not been up late for years; I don’t want to meet anyone I know; I can’t handle the amount of laundry; too expensive, and so on. Enough excuses? I could be here all night at this rate. (20/80)
12. Count to ten.