Nightmare on Kerrydale Street

It was a dark and stormy night afternoon. It was Halloween weekend (no day is ever alone with rampant consumerism). I saw the Pope, some nuns, a couple of Scooby Doos, a (solitary) 118 and what may or may not have been a panda. Hibernian came as Parma Violets. Celtic masqueraded as a football team. I discovered that time travel is not a thing of Science Fiction or Fantasy; it’s reality, and I’ve just gone back two years.

Last Sunday, Aberdeen came to town. In the equivalent fixture last season, in the presence of Henrik Larsson (King of Kings), Chris Sutton and Lubomir Moravcik, Celtic trounced the Dons 9-0. The crowd chanted ‘we want ten’ and it wouldn’t have taken a gargantuan effort to give the people what they wanted, but the job was done. We all went home elated but under no illusion that we would see anything like that again in our lifetimes. The dismal Mark McGhee limped on for another couple of games before being sacked, and so began the Craig Brown era. Under old Werther’s Originals, Aberdeen FC has hardly set the heather on fire. They’ve learned, as all his teams do, to defend to the point of boredom (and put in the occasional nasty tackle), but they haven’t exactly improved since McGhee’s time. They did, however, win the second half of last season’s League Cup semi-final (well, he is 70, isn’t he?). Celtic put something like 21 goals past the Dons’ keeper last season but we have only managed three in two games this term. After going ahead through a goal from Ki, some amateurish defending allowed Aberdeen back into the game. It took a strike from captain for the day, Charlie Mulgrew, scoring his first Celtic goal at Parkhead, to restore our advantage, but at no time did we look like we were safe. There was even a Halloween prequel, and Steven Moffat couldn’t have come up with a scarier scenario; Glenn Loovens being substituted early on by Daniel Majstorovic. We held on, though and at least there was no post-Europa League slip-up. The league leaders drew at home, so the status quo was maintained.

On Wednesday night, in the League Cup Quarter-Final tie at Easter Road, Celtic went behind and (to all accounts) were lucky not to be down by three or four at half-time. A spirited fight-back resulted in a 4-1 win, but it appears to have come at a cost. If Neil Lennon were to take a seat in the Directors’ box, would he be able to see what I, and many others, can see? It’s not just the ever-growing injury list, and a host of off-form or inept players, it’s the jaded look and the tired legs of men who are being expected to do everything twice a week with no help whatsoever. Joe Ledley, 19-year-old Adam Matthews and James Forrest, who only turned 20 in the summer, are being relied upon too much because of a paucity of talent, heart and endeavour in our current match-day squad. Another 19-year old, new signing Victor Wanyama, has put in a couple of good performances, particularly in the Europa League games in which he has featured, and looks like he could be of use, but apart from them and Charlie Mulgrew, few other players have been what I could call ‘first on the team sheet’.

Gary Hooper is starting to resemble Scott McDonald (who is not a first choice for Tony Mowbray’s revitalised Middlesbrough) and Anthony Stokes is half the player he was last season (which means he’s quarter of the player he should be). As I have said before, Ki should never be a regular starter; Kayal, in particular, is missing Scott Brown and I have finally realised what is ailing Mark Wilson: Dennis Hopper has strapped a bomb to him - if he exceeds two miles an hour, one of his knees will explode! Then there’s Kris Commons: mystery injuries, strange Twitter messages - what’s going on? The team is comprised of (mostly) the same players from last season, so why, apart from there never being the same line-up twice, is there no consistency in performance (apart from their inconsistency which, you have to admit, is consistent)? With seven minutes of regulation time left, there came the last act of a desperate man; Samaras on for Hooper, the same Samaras that Neil said could get him the sack. This time, the Greek was far from top of a very long list.

The sickening thing about today is that a team that has lost stupid goals all season keeps a clean sheet (Big Dan take note) but can’t win the game against a poor Hibs side. I could take it if we were losing to, or drawing with, the likes of Manchester City, or the entertaining and cavalier Norwich City, or even Mowbray’s Boro, but we are doing nothing less than making some of the worst excuses for football teams look so much better than they really are. This coming Thursday, Celtic play Rennes in the Europa League, but next Sunday (eek), they’ll go to Fir Park at lunchtime (double eek) to face in-form Motherwell (triple eek?). The omens are not good. If, God forbid, those Swiss clowns get back into what has been, for Celtic, a curse of a tournament, there will be at least two more games for a team that can barely cope with the ones they have to play domestically.

Last season, Celtic came within a whisker (one goal, for or against, actually) of winning the SPL. They had the best defensive record of any senior, professional team in the entire United Kingdom (and Celtic fan Steve Evans’ Crawley Town). This season, they have lost NINE away goals in the league, alone, and have won only 7 out of 12 SPL matches. The buck stops with the manager. Neil Lennon, the Celtic board and the fans must realise that he is one league defeat away from parting company with the club he loves. Celtic have to win EVERY remaining league game, some very handsomely, in order to win the title. Current, and recent, form suggests that this is beyond both the manager and the players. Stranger things have happened, however, and Celtic’s history is full of tales of derring-do in the face of adversity, but it’s hard to ‘keep the faith’ when sitting in the pouring rain watching THAT, like I did today. Prior to the match there was some protest or other against the Scottish Government’s ‘Offensive Behaviour at Football Matches’ legislation, or whatever it’s called. Talk elsewhere is of our city rivals possibly going into administration and the consequent docking of points (trust me, no harsh, meaningful sanction would ever be taken against them). I think that some people are too easily distracted from the problems that are right in front of their faces, week-in and week-out.

Land of my high endeavour

For my fortieth birthday, I climbed aboard a Ryanair jet and headed for Dublin’s fair city. It took about five minutes to get there and half a day to get back. When I come to write my autobiography (what do you mean ‘you mean this isn’t it?’) the return leg of the journey may well take pride of place, as it is still one of the most exciting things that ever happened to me, for all the wrong reasons, but I digress (as usual).

I never used to support the idea of Scottish independence. I’m British, my ancestors were British (even the Irish ones, whether or not they approved) and I’ve been steeped in British (English) history and culture since I was knee-high to the proverbial grasshopper. Scaremongering wasn't going to work on me. I was never frightened of the prospect of living in a poverty-stricken, Third World country at the back of beyond because I was already living in one. By the time the Scottish National Party was making waves in all those General Elections we had in 1974, I’d already lived through one Wilson administration’s devaluing the Pound and most of the last of our colonies telling the Man from the Ministry to shove it.

Over the years, the SNP’s fortunes at the ballot box waxed and waned (relatively speaking), it had leadership troubles and it made up enough slogans to keep Saatchi & Saatchi in business for a generation. It even expelled the very man who one day would lead it to the brink of achieving its ultimate aim. No, I was against Independence because, as a Glaswegian, the idea of an independent Scotland run by Labour was not only anathema, it was the stuff of nightmares.

At that early age, and for many years after, I resolved that I’d move to England should the split occur, but I was too naïve to realise that the political establishment would never allow it to happen (Independence, not my moving to England). The Tories, friends of the landed gentry (and, in some cases, the actual landed gentry) would never sanction it in case the old duffers found themselves relieved of their grouse moors. To this day, post-Thatcher, the lesser-spotted Tories are only elected to national office in Scotland from rural constituencies and posh Edinburgh postcodes. Labour, on the other hand, has almost always required Scottish MPs to give it a majority (or what passes for one in these days of low turnout) to form a Government and get its legislation on to the Statute Book. In return, Scottish Labour MPs are given power and patronage disproportionate to their ability, their grace and favour benefits bestowed in perpetuity. It’s no wonder that the People’s Party, the party of the workers, the downtrodden and the dispossessed, doesn’t want any man to put asunder, especially when that man is Alexander Elliot Anderson Salmond.

The coach trip from the airport and subsequent perambulations revealed what was to me a hitherto unknown wealth of Georgian and Victorian architecture that made Dublin look like any other British city. For the five days I was there, I found it hard to believe I was in a foreign country, even if that country was, is and always will be inextricably linked to its neighbour across the Irish Sea. The currency was different, the accent was different, the attitude of the people was different, but I could almost feel at home. Of course, a trip to the Post Office in O’Connell Street was sufficient to shake me out of that particular dream, but it also made me think ‘what if?’ What if we had faith enough to step out on our own? What if, for once, we took a risk and decided that we wanted more control over our affairs? What if we grew up and became, in the words of an Irish song, a nation once again?

That time is almost upon us. The SNP won an unexpected landslide victory in May’s Scottish elections, defying the very system that was meant to prevent such an occurrence. Their vote in Aberdeenshire, for example, where they won all of the first-past-the-post seats, was so great that they were even awarded a List seat, an unprecedented event that surprised the victor: he can be seen in video footage as one of a huddle of party workers celebrating in a luminous yellow jacket before he realises that he’s the one who has been elected! 

The party has a clear mandate to govern as it promised in its manifesto. With great power comes great responsibility but none of those returned would claim to be superheroes. What they can claim, however, is that they will be honest with the electorate, and I hope they will be. They have said that there will be a referendum in the second half of the parliamentary term (extended, very considerately by Mr. Salmond, to five years to avoid a clash with the UK General Election in 2015). Even for the hard of thinking, that means that we will not encounter this plebiscite, or have to worry about it, much before 2014.

What’s so wrong with keeping promises made in an election manifesto or during a campaign? I know Labour has trouble with that concept: Tuition fees? Top-up tuition fees? Re-nationalising the railways? If I could be bothered to read their election literature, I could probably have filled this entire blog with their broken promises and their surprise packages. The Tory Health bill alone shows that one half of the Coalition is happy to deceive, and as for the LibDems, playing fast and loose with the truth for the sake of a ride in a Ministerial car is becoming the norm. Not one of them can be trusted to do the right thing, so if the SNP adheres to even a fraction of its manifesto commitments, it will be able to command the moral high ground, with only itself for company.

I do not need such a vantage point to see what is afoot at Westminster. A whispering campaign by vested interests to have London call a referendum on ‘its’ terms is well and truly gathering steam. Salmond and others are playing it cool, up to a point, but this patronising, imperialist attitude cannot go unchallenged indefinitely. If I hadn’t felt that patriotic tingling in Ireland’s capital all those years ago, I would now. If there’s one thing sure to get my dander up, it’s people who poke their nose into my business and tell me what I can and can’t do. Bring it on, Alex.

Finally, for now, the death was announced yesterday of bandleader Edmundo Ros, at the age of 100. As a very small child, I remember hearing him presenting a show on the Light Programme (which became Radio 2). I used to stand in front of the wireless with a pen or pencil and conduct the music he played. There’s one 78rpm record by Edmundo in my mother’s collection, and it was a source of great amusement and delight to me in my early teenage years when I finally got a record player but had nothing of my own to play. It was his rendition of ‘Scotland The Brave’.

Down time

I'm bored. I'm the Chairperson of the Bored. I shouldn't be, I've got work to do; reading, writing (this counts, I believe), practising, counting, tidying, relaxing. Did I say 'relaxing'? I'm surprised that word is in my vocabulary. I'm permanently wired (or should that be 'totally wired'?) and the least relaxing time for me is when I know I've got nothing to do.

I listened to an album the other day, 'A Creature I Don't Know' by Laura Marling. How can someone so young sound like she's been alive forever and seen everything and done everything? She's 21! I've not read reviews of it (I heard a track when driving home one night), but I'll wager a few contain the word 'mature'. I'm hearing Joni Mitchell, Jennifer Warnes ('Famous Blue Raincoat' vintage), Joan As Policewoman and someone else I can't recall. She's in good company (apart from the last one, until I find out who she is). I've ignored her (and everyone else; no money for CDs, and no space to store them); unfairly, it seems. What else have I been missing out on?

I went on an impromptu holiday in November 2007. OK, it wasn't a holiday, it was business, music business. After that, I found it difficult to cope with Marc Riley's show being extended to four nights per week, and I've never recovered. I don't mean that I only hear music I might like on his show, but it had become the only place for me (no longer having access to daytime radio) to get exposure to new (and old) bands playing the kind of music I enjoy, as he is a reliable barometer on such matters. I've been forcing myself to tune in recently, and it's beginning to pay dividends, though it is to Hairy Toes herself (Jo Whiley, for non-Mark and Lard types) that I owe thanks for Miss Marling's delightful masterpiece.

I've not really been ignoring Metronomy, having had subliminal images (erm) of them on Marc's show for quite a while. Their CD arrived in the post with the Marling one, and the first half of it is worthy of the Mercury alone. They lost out, as we all know, to the legend that is Polly Jean Harvey. It's all subjective. I've never been a fan of Peej (another M&L-ism, I think) but that doesn't mean that I can't appreciate her artistry. I'd still prefer being locked in a room with Metronomy on a loop, though.

Veronica Falls' album dropped through the letter box today. I've not opened it, yet, and it may have to wait until the weekend. Why hurry? Their predecessors, the Royal We, split up before I could buy anything they released or get to see them, so I'll just play it cool. No point in running for the train after it's pulled out of the station. What's that you say? They're playing in Glasgow on Saturday? Nah. I'm not up to going to gigs anymore. I can turn the volume down on the CD player.

I've no idea what happened to my musical life. It's not just because I'm old or have wonky ears or loved one band too much. I don't want to go back in time, I just want to get back to a place where I can feel. I'll leave you (whoever YOU may be) with these words by Leonard Cohen

'...and if you ever come by here
for Jane or for me...'

Imagine Jennifer Warnes singing it. I do, frequently. It has a strange effect on me, just as it should.

Cleaning out the rooms

If Kim and Aggie walked through my front door (probably not together, as they no longer speak) they’d be appalled. This whole place is a disgrace, and not even the proprietor of a crack den would lower himself to live here. My work/life balance is wrong (call it unbalanced); five days there and two days here, barely enough time to do anything. It’s all about priorities, though. Why do housework when you can waste time blogging, tweeting, watching the telly, going out or, God forbid, sleeping? Why do it when, as Kim or Aggie (probably Kim, though it could have been Aggie) would say, it’s like polishing a turd? It’s not much of a house to come over all house-proud about and not much of a home to get all homely about. It is, however, where all my stuff is.

I reacquainted myself with the vacuum cleaner a couple of hours ago and took it for a walk around my bedroom. It’s now cleaner and a little tidier than when I eventually fell out of bed around noon. There’s still not enough room to swing the proverbial cat (metaphorically; I am NOT related to Cat Bin Lady). Ideally, everything needs to come out and only some of it should go back in, but where would I put everything else? I’ve already got hundreds of books in the attic (I’m not sure this is an exaggeration, actually) and a large cupboard I can barely get a big toe into. I tend to have a bit of a clearout of (ill-fitting) clothes after Christmas (because I’m on holiday at that time) and head for a charity shop or two, but there’s only so much you can discard before you start to chip away at what’s left of your identity.

Earlier, I stayed in bed long enough to try and clean out some other rooms; the nooks and crannies in my mind where the ideas go after I’ve thought of them. I found about a dozen lurking under floor boards and in priest holes and at the back of a large wardrobe (sans lion and witch) and committed them to paper before Alzheimer’s kicked in. Who knows when, if ever, they’ll be developed? After all, it’s taken nearly five and a half years to get started with this!

“What about the weekend?”, you say. Very kind of you to ask, so I shall bore you with it. I had another mad dash to a cash machine on Friday on the way to the first (official) recital in Milngavie Music Club’s new season. I missed the free, extra one a month ago due to a dose of the galloping heebeegeebees, so I was relieved to finally make it to Cairns Church where I was relieved of my subscription and where, instead of the flowers on a stand, two standard lamps (floor lamps, for any young ‘uns reading) are strategically placed near the musicians to help them read their parts in the dark. This month’s performers were the Fidelio Trio, and they treated those assembled to Schumann’s Piano Trio No. 1 in D Minor, something by Scottish composer Alasdair Nicholson (which verged on the plinky-plonky*), Percy Grainger’s ‘Colonial Song’, which I quite liked, and Ravel’s Piano trio, which I also quite liked. For an encore, they played something about meerkats by a South African composer. Well, it was different. I went to Tesco on my way home, but was dismayed to find that they didn’t have any Cornflakes.

I was forced to have toast for breakfast on Saturday. I know I have to rethink my breakfast fare, as neither are very filling and almost always lead to mid-morning snacking or the overpowering desire for a sugar rush at lunchtime, but I hate porridge and don’t have time to ‘cook’ anything more substantial. Yet again, I left home over an hour later than planned and headed for M&S via the local Royal Mail sorting office, where I picked up some top secret documents that may either change my life or confirm what everyone already knows about me (ask me in three months time). After some over-expensive food was purchased and transported back to the car, I went to the Mitchell Library, though not for the seminar on the Spanish Civil War. One of these days, I’ll find out about such events well in advance and buy a ticket.

I read for a while, from a book about understanding what Shakespeare was on about, but couldn’t help checking Twitter or the radio for news from Rugby Park. I needn’t have bothered. Somehow or other, my team decided that they’d like to go in at half-time 3-0 down to the team second bottom of the league. With one or two exceptions, noted below, performances have been poor this season, so far, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who would like to know why. I expected to tune in an hour or so later to hear that the manager had resigned or been fired, but the news was slightly better, a 3-3 draw. This time last season, before the (comparatively minor) slump that cost the league title, they’d lost one game, not three, and didn’t draw until the disastrous last minute shambles against Dundee United on the 20^th of November. They are now ten points adrift of the leaders and sit third in the table. It’s not an impossible position but an embarrassing one when you consider that we have almost the same match-day squad of players, the same guys who played some wonderful football last season, ultimately with very little reward. Questions are being asked, but no answers have been forthcoming up to now. Round 2 of the SPL begins next week against Aberdeen. I shudder to think what the outcome will be.

*Standard musicological term for tuneless crap

Winners and losers

What’s the significance of the 12^th of October? On this day in 1973, we got a colour telly. Not only were we waving a belated goodbye to the black and white era on that Friday afternoon, but we were also bidding our old 405-line set a not-very-fond farewell and replacing it with one that had BBC2! I don’t recall many details about it, other than my being unable to move from it for hours, but I could easily jog my memory by going to the Mitchell Library and asking to see copies of the Radio Times from back in the day. I had never seen ‘The High Chaparral’, ‘Alias Smith and Jones’, snooker or ‘The Old Grey Whistle Test’ (or whatever), so I was like a kid in a sweet shop or, to be more accurate, a TV shop. Gone were the days of my standing and drooling outside electrical retailers, wishing we could afford a new set. Gone also were the days of struggling to get a picture with a broken set-top aerial, as we now had one on the roof!

One final indignity from a few weeks before ‘colour’ saw me standing by the TV, holding the aerial in the air, whilst we tried to follow Scotland’s World Cup qualifying game against Czechoslovakia. We won that game 2-1, and so went through to the finals in Germany in the summer of ’74. Those were the days (relatively speaking), and such achievements are as distant a memory as a 405-line black and white TV that got us through ‘Dad’s Army’, ‘The Forsyte Saga’, ‘The Avengers’, ‘’Til Death Us Do Part’, ‘Steptoe and Son’, ‘Doctor Who’, and countless other great British classics. Losing to the current World and European champions is nothing to be ashamed of. Playing 4-6-0 is, as is selecting players who don’t get a game for their clubs. Things might have been different if the sons of those Czechs hadn’t cheated at Hampden a few weeks back. Fourteen years without a sniff of a major tournament is too long for a country that lives for its football. The countdown to Craig Levein’s departure begins today. He has a maximum of two years to get us at least as far as a play-off, which is the best we can hope for, or he, too, will be history.

Something else that looks like it is about to go the way of the dodo is the National Health Service. When Cameron said that the NHS was safe with the Tories, it appears that he meant it was safe for plundering by private (probably foreign) companies, speculators and asset strippers. Britain’s poor will have to do as their ancestors (from pre-1948) did; check how much money they have in their wallets or piggy banks before going to hospital, getting a prescription or even visiting a GP, or they’ll have to go to the council or churches or charities and beg for money. This isn’t scaremongering; this is recent history, family history and, in some households, living history, unless, of course, you’re Cameron or Osborne or the Peers who today refused to back Lord Owen’s amendment.

In Scotland, we still have an NHS. None of these reforms will see the light of day north of the border (and, hopefully, not in Wales), but they could come back to bite us in the consequentials. Every day, in every way, the Tory-led UK Government shoots itself in the foot. It’s a pity that, for reasons of self-interest, Labour does not support Independence for Scotland. We need a united front against these ideological attacks on the NHS and the Welfare State. In the meantime, let’s just hope that someone in Salmond’s office is keeping a list of words and deeds that, one day, we may use as the key to Independence; not a bitter or bloody separation from like-minded people in England, but the building of a thoughtful and compassionate country where no Tory will ever again hold the reigns of power.

Finally, here’s this week’s rehearsal report. Tuesday night was meant to be Handel night. We should have been getting stuck into ‘Zadok the Priest’ (now, now), but we digressed. Fresh from last week’s triumphant BBC SSO performance of the Tchaikovsky, which over half of our lot attended, we played the entire 4^th movement all the way through (at a much slower tempo, obviously). Having survived that, we tackled bits of ‘Finlandia’ but without any brass present! My abiding memory of the first meeting, my first time ever in a musical ensemble of any description, was how it sounded when deconstructed section by section, and the power of the brass was all too evident. Without it, in a much smaller room, it may be easy on the ear, but I’d rather have it than not. I promise never to criticise brass players again, no matter how much they deafen me, or how often they go to the pub!

Who knows where the time goes?

Blogging is not an efficient use of my time. On second thoughts, TYPING is not an efficient use of my time. I spend far too long correcting typographical errors and not enough time expressing myself. I need a secretary.

I also need a laundry maid. Surveying this room, trying not to dwell on the large, growing heap of dirty clothes, and remembering last week's iron catastrophe, I can't help thinking that my body will be strained and my soul will go hungry for as long as this clutter remains unattended. I just can't get out of bed in the morning. It's cold, it's dark and I don't get enough sleep. I could stop going out, I suppose....

It's easy to take the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra for granted. They're so good that I forget to enthuse about them as often as I should, but just once in a while they turn in a performance that blows my socks off ('Pictures At An Exhibition' a couple of years ago, Janacek's 'Sinfonietta', and so on). If the aforementioned Schubert 8, the 'Unfinished', and Tchaikovsky 4 were the bread, Prokofiev's Piano Concerto No. 3 was the very satisfying filling in a thrilling and delightful musical sandwich that I suspect had everyone in the audience skipping out of the doors of the City Halls at the end of the evening. Those who were able to stay for a while after the concert proper were treated to some of the Orchestra's principals and the young Russian pianist Denis Kozhukhin's rendition of Prokofiev's Overture on Hebrew Themes. My faith in music restored, I skipped off home to watch 'Question Time' and found myself rapidly descending into the torpor I had been in prior to 7:30pm.

I'd have preferred not to get out of bed on the Friday morning, but I had to. I'd have preferred not to go out at night and, this time, I had a choice. I plucked for a recital by pianist James Willshire, the opening concert in Kilmardinny Music Circle's season. I love these little evenings, and find the tall stand with the vase of flowers placed at the side of the stage very endearing. I keep expecting Hinge and Bracket, or even Armstrong & Miller, to enter stage left and give us a song or two. Young James played a couple of things by Scarlatti followed by Schubert's Impromptus (is that the correct plural?), a number of which I had heard before. After the interval, one of the local up-and-coming musicians (who turned out to be the daughter of composer Sally Beamish) treated us to a couple of traditional tunes on the clarsach then Mr. Willshire returned to play short pieces by Scottish composers Rory Boyle and Ronald Stevenson, as well as something by Lizst, which made him (Lizst) sound melodramatic and utterly bonkers, which I suppose he was, or Ken Russell would not have made a film about him.

Saturdays aren't much better than weekdays at the moment, so it's always good to get out and do something interesting like going to the library, eating half one's body weight and seeing the annual production by the Glasgow Light Opera Company. They don't do any opera these days, light or otherwise, as there's not much demand for it, but they're starting to do a very good line in musicals. This year, it was my favourite British musical, 'Me and My Girl'. Last year, it was my favourite American one, 'Calamity Jane'. The company has come a long was since I first saw them doing the latter in 1992, helped (mostly, but sometimes hindered) by an increasing number of young people developing an interest in musicals. I came to love 'Me and My Girl' on a trip to London earlier in the same year, when I think the lead was Les Dennis. I'd rather have seen Bryan Conley, but I was too late for that. It's funny, some would say camp, and very English, and it's a refreshing change from even the best American shows, though not as slick. GLOC is an amateur company, and you have to make allowances for that in terms of the acting and singing, but the enthusiasm of the performers never fails to compensate for any faults the most cynical of critics would find with such a production.

Do three good outings compensate for the mess this place is in? At the moment, yes. Tomorrow, I may not look upon it so favourably.

It's a cat's life

According to Britain's answer to Imelda Marcos, Theresa May, an illegal immigrant was allowed to stay in the country because he had a cat. Last week, it was revealed that the estranged wife of some LibDem MP kidnapped a kitten from a house she claimed to part own. When you add to this the tale of the mad woman who threw a cat in a wheelie bin, our inscrutable furry friends have been in the news for all the wrong reasons. If I had time, I'd trawl the Internet for even sillier cat pictures than one normally finds out there; like this, for example:

I've tried to avoid coverage of the Tory conference, even more than I tried to avoid the LibDem and Labour events over the last two weeks. I figured that if I heard the phrase 'we're all in this together' one more time, I'd throw a heavy object at the telly. This wouldn't be a good idea, as I'd not be able to replace it due to the pay freeze and the upcoming industrial action, only one of which would be happening if this mob had never been born. The cat business almost got me interested. On the BBC News website this evening, we have the headline 'Theresa May in deportation cat flap'. I wonder if she's having kittens about the tomorrow's newspaper reaction, or that of her boss.

In other news, the orchestra had another go at the fourth movement of the Tchaikovsky. Just in case any of us has no idea what it's meant to sound like, the BBC SSO will be playing that symphony and Schubert's 'Unfinished' on Thursday evening.

How far we have come

This blog is about opinions, my opinions. It's not the scene of my acting out any delusions you may think I possess about being a journalist; an arts critic or an expert on football or politics. I can only say that I did or didn't enjoy something, or that I like or dislike something or someone, and, in a limited fashion, I may even say why. It is not dressing those opinions as facts; I leave that sort of thing to other people.

When I can afford the time and/or money, I go out, ostensibly to ‘have fun’, but primarily to convince myself that the world is not the uninspiring, miserable place the daily grind would suggest. I go to concerts (classical and jazz); I go to football (which is, at the moment, uninspiring and depressing); I visit art galleries, museums and castles; I go out bird-watching. The theatre has been somewhat neglected in the past few years, so it is unusual for me to have attended two plays in almost as many weeks. This is an example of what I alluded to earlier; it’s a recounting of my experience, not a review.

I don’t know much about Ena Lamont Stewart, or about the left-wing inspiration behind the plays written and produced by the Glasgow Unity Theatre in the late 1940s. I had, however, seen the title ‘Men Should Weep’ before, associated with the theatre company 7:84. If I cast my mind back to the 80s, and Glasgow’s Mayfest, I’m amazed that I’ve never seen the play, though I do recall seeing 'The Gorbals Story' (not that I recall anything about it).

The play is set in a tenement flat in Glasgow’s East End during the depression of the 1930s. The man of the house, in common with many others, is out of work, and the burden of providing for the family falls on the mother and immediate relatives, with a little help from neighbours, and charity in the form of the local church mission. It’s a slice of gritty, social realism that could almost be treated as nostalgia (even I remember my elders talking in a form of the Glaswegian dialect more akin to auld Scots than the alien language spoken by some of the ‘less-fortunate souls’ who inhabit the poorer areas of the city today), and, in between the undoubted misery, it depicts community spirit and family cohesion (with obvious exceptions like the feckless son and his grasping wife, or the daughter who was the apple of her dad’s eye but grew up and turned to prostitution, or being a ‘kept-woman’, to escape her embarrassing family circumstances) to a degree Cameron and his friends on multi-millionaires row could only dream about for their sham of a ‘Big Society’. I saw a revised version; in the original version, life, and the play itself, were far more harrowing.

The most uplifting aspect was a sign that life was beginning to improve for the Morrison family once John had found regular employment, but it was also sad to think that many of the men of that era only escaped their grinding poverty by joining the armed forces when the war came along, leaving plenty of jobs for anyone else who wanted to work. Living standards eventually increased, the Welfare State became a safety net for some (and a crutch for others, in time) and slowly, over a number of years, the country got back on its feet. Yet I remember visiting a relative in 1970 and having to use a ‘stair-heid lavvy’.

Something went horribly wrong in Glasgow. The money was supposed to be there, but the poverty has never really gone away, we just have poor people in slightly better houses, a thin veneer of respectability. Leaving aside the Scottish Parliament and Government for another time, we still have a Labour council in Glasgow and we have in Westminster, as in the 1930s, a coalition including ‘Liberals’. Then, there was a schism followed by some traitors going off and joining the Tories. Are we on the verge of history repeating, in the same way, in so many ways? I couldn’t help thinking that with welfare reform, rampant unemployment, and the ideological desire to destroy the public sector, the themes and setting of this play could transfer seamlessly to the latter years of this decade or into the next; a terrifying vision of the future.

The strong women were the stars of this, much like they tended to be in Coronation Street of old, and it came as a shock to me that Lorraine McIntosh, in the lead role of Maggie Morrison, is a better actress (albeit in this context) than a singer, bearing in mind that, in a former life, she was the bimbo backing singer in that most superfluous of shit, pointless bands, Deacon Blue. Praise must also go to the woman who played her sister Lily; Julie Wilson Nimmo, better known as Miss Hoolie from Balamory. In between scenes, we were also treated to songs from well-known folk singer Arthur Johnstone, who also had a bit part as a removal man, in this, his first acting role.

As I made my way to the Citizens Theatre for the matinee performance of this National Theatre of Scotland production, I drove close by those who were marching from Glasgow Green to Kelvingrove Park in a protest against the Tory cuts. They were heading in the opposite direction to me. They always used to, but now I am on their side, though yesterday it was only in spirit.

May I just say...

...I love being so spectacularly wrong, especially when it makes me laugh so much.

Predictions in an envelope...

As I start to type this, I am, like everyone else, twelve hours from the end of this series of Doctor Who. It might be fun to try and second guess Steven Moffat, but it's also futile. I'm not clever enough to have predicted how the Pandorica two-parter was going to play out. If I was, I'd not have felt the onset of a headache every time I've thought about it since. I don't expect that anything I'm about to write will be in the same universe, never mind the same ball park, but here goes.

Based on the Sky TV Guide's description of tonight's (last-ever?) Doctor Who Confidential, there appears to be a (major?) plot development concerning River Song. Why do I think this? Well, why would the bulk of it be about River and/or Alex Kingston? Does this mean the end of the character? It shouldn't, as she died the first time we saw her, giving her life for The Doctor, who then 'saved' her in the Library (though, worringly, he did leave her diary for all to see). There is a bit of a pattern here; her saving him, him saving her. Presumably she saves his soul this time, turning him away from arrogance and violence (I'm still thinking that he saves his own body by substituting a, possibly more stable and sophisticated, Flesh avatar). So, if not her leaving then what? Another theory I've had for a while is that she is sent to prison (for killing the best man she's ever known, more of which later), but for her own protection, aranged by The Doctor, which might explain her ability to 'escape often enough, thank you'. She said that she had a promise to live up to. To The Doctor? To the Governor of the prison? To Amy and Rory? It appears to to me that she can look after herself (once she breaks free of Kovarian's control), and it's obvious that she's a risk taker, so escaping from prison would be a challenge she'd relish. Being able to do it at will, though, would have to have been agreed with someone in authority. Stormcage always makes me wonder just who Prisoner Zero was/is, and why it wanted to live in Amy's house.

To cut to the chase, something significant has to happen, or be hinted at, this evening. Who does it concern, particularly if it isn't River? Well, there has to be more to Rory than meets the eye. He says some unexpected, intelligent things, at times, and neither The Doctor nor Amy always pick up on them. He has two sides to his character; Rory the dithering suitor/boyfriend/husband and Rory the Roman, the boy who waited, the Last Centurion. No official confirmation of Arthur Darvill's continued participation in the series has been reported, so will he die (again), instead? Many girls and women will alway think of their dad as the best man they've ever known, and I picked up on that in 'Flesh and Stone', thinking it could mean The Doctor or her father, and no viewer knew it was Rory back then. Arthur has been wonderful as the straight man to Matt's ever-improving comedian, so I'd still love to see Rory reacting to River snogging The Doctor with what one would expect to be his fatherly concern for his errant daughter. I hope he's not out for too long, as both the character and the actor have only served to enhance this wonderful series and cast.

There appears to have been some sort of confirmation that Karen Gillan will be back, which means that she won't be staying in that house (for protection) or any other house, and will be back in the Tardis before too long. I do think, however, that it's not nice in a show written for 8-year olds, even in Science Fiction, to take a child from a young couple and not give them anything in return. So, for Amy, perhaps another baby is on the way? Either due to this, or the possible death of Rory (or loss by other means, cos you're not telling me we've had the real Rory all this time?), she tells The Doctor, he scans her, just to re-assure himself, and there's a happy ending all round (perhaps with some bittersweet connotations to which I have just alluded). She says farewell and then The Doctor takes River to prison in the Tardis, but the scanner is still on and he inadvertantly discovers something that River isn't telling him. It would explain these lines from 'A Good Man Goes To War'; 'Oh look, your cot, not seen that in a long time' (or something like that). Amy lived in the Tardis, and she hadn't seen a cot, so how did River see it (unless future Amy is travelling in the Tardis with another baby)? I'd also like to see 'Picnic at Asgard', perhaps ending with 'I've something to tell you'. Why not?

If Moffat wants any help with pushing River's story along, I'm here. All joking aside, though, the break up of what he himself described as a family will be hard for many of us to take. Moffat has made Russell T's show infinitely better, and has even managed to improve upon last year. This series has to end with something tantalising to bring the punters back next year and what better way, after a series or more riddled with themes like redemption and fatherhood, than to redeem The Doctor with impending fatherhood (with the baby to be raised by Amy and Rory)? Clearly, he won't have a clue how it happened! Cue end titles.

Seriously, Steven, I'm only a phone call away.

You say cutback, we say fightback

Today the Beeb announced that this Saturday's episode of 'Doctor Who Confidential' is to be the last. The cuts are beginning to bite, but the wrong backsides are being bitten. Here is the text of my complaint:

Dear Sir/Madam

It is easy to be flippant about the puerile nature of some of the shows on BBC3, and equally easy to take a pot-shot at the salaries of senior executives in the Corporation, in particular the Director General, but surely, if cuts have to be made, there are, really, much more worthwhile, higher value targets than an interesting, insightful and enjoyable programme such as Confidential? I suspect that this programme has, in its five-year existence, inspired many children and young adults to consider a career in the creative or technical side of the entertainment industry. I know that if I were a few decades younger my passion would be ignited by the unprecedented access to those who work behind the scenes of a highly-imaginative and iconic BRITISH television programme.

Please reconsider this short-sighted decision, not least because you may be putting perfectly innocent and talented people out of a job!

Yours faithfully

Complaining makes one feel good for a few minutes, but we all know that it's a futile exercise when those you are complaing to or about have already made up their minds. At least we were spared the pretence of a 'consultation'.

Just another manic Tuesday

I hate going to work after a day off. I hate it even more after a weekend, a long weekend or a holiday. Needless to say, I was very grumpy this morning, so I decided to take it out on the arrogant Tom Harris MP, one of those vying to lead the Scottish Labour Party following the enforced retirement of the Smug Silver Fox himself, Mr Iain Gray. There's just one problem: there is NO SUCH THING as the Scottish Labour Party. In true 'Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition' style, there are two problems: no such party and the fact that he's an MP (and the next Scottish election is four and a half years away. I wonder which little lost Labour lamb will be sacrificed in order for Harris and his monumental ego to be parachuted into Holyrood). I thought I'd get a wee, sleekit dig in about his comments about Labour being the party of the Public Sector (according to him, it shouldn't be). I noticed that he didn't offer his support to Public Sector workers in their forthcoming struggle, but then he's not John McDonnell. He should be exposed for what he is; a self-obsessed, bumptious Blairite; in other words, a dinosaur.

He's up against that greetin' faced wee troll Johann Lamont (who looks like she's chewing a wasp, except for the fact that the wasp had more sense) and Mr. Ken butter-wouldn't-melt McIntosh (who greets as much as Lamont, only with a posh voice). I've no idea when nominations close, but that line-up makes me yearn for Jack McConnell. The 'Scottish Labour Party' doesn't know what it's missing; Henry McLeish. Nice fellow, even if he's starting to sound as demented as Craig Brown.  I suppose the outcome depends on the eventual runners and riders and just how much support Harris has in West Central Scotland. At this juncture, it seems quite incomprehensible that someone so odious and conceited as he would make friends in Labour's heartlands, but stranger things have happened, like Tom Greatrex. Who could have predicted Gray's elevation to the top job, though as I tweeted to Harris, Gray seems like the Dalai Lama compared to him. One thing's for sure, if Harris does win and eventually finds himself in Holyrood ( he'd have to, as there'd be no point in having a review and talking about autonomy if the 'party' was still run from London) the Scots' Parliament will become a great battleground, the scene of endless, bitter conflict between a smart Alec and Smart Alex. Be careful what you wish for, Labourites.

Work got in the way of trying to poke Ed Miliband in the ribs. When I got home, I sent him a wee message on Twitter, but I know he won't read it (just like Nick Clegg from last week). Apparently, if you work hard and don't make a fuss (interesting, that bit), you deserve your reward. Personally, and for many women of a certain age in the Public Sector, the reward for paying for a pension for three decades or more should be the pension and retirement age stated in your contract of employment. None of us signed up to a pension administered by some fly-by-night asset strippers. Oh, wait a minute, we did. It's called the UK Government, and it even makes members of our Armed Forces redundant.

On a cheerier note, this evening's rehearsal started with the Triumphal March from Aida  (which was more like a diffident stumble) and ended with Finlandia, our rendition of which wouldn't stoke the fires of Nationalism in even the most febrile. Lots more work to be done.

Straight down the middle

Somewhere around ball 92 of 100, I discovered that my backswing has been wrong all along. I had spent around an hour and a half (and £6 something) hitting (or not hitting) the little round devils anywhere but where I wanted them to go when I thought "why don't I swing this club behind my head?". Have I been too girly and diffident all this time? It appears that way. Now I can't wait to return to the range and test out my theory.

After a mysterious hip/pelvis injury in June which made it difficult to walk, never mind pivot around with a golf club like a mad eejit, I have only practised once, and that was two months ago when I visited the North Wales Golf Course and Driving Range near St. Asaph. I wimped out of going round the course on that scorching day, but spent a relaxing hour trying not to hit the two pied wagtails that were bouncing about in front of me. All going well, I'll try the course next year.

What I'm trying to say is that I've got a good excuse for being rubbish.

Where did it all go wrong?

I don't pretend to understand everything (or anything, really) about subjects I claim to have an interest in, so it's not surprising that the first lecture of the new term at The Astronomical Society of Glasgow on Thursday evening left me baffled and not wanting more. Professor Robert Lambourne of the Open University gave a talk on 'Faster than light galaxies' and, whilst I believed every word he said, I struggled to comprehend any of it. I didn't find him a particularly engaging speaker and wasn't enamoured of quite where he pitched his talk. I can only presume that, as in other walks of life, I am the slowest cog that others are supposed to go at the same speed as. Quite why I chose a life on the fringes of Physics I will never know. I can't recall a time when I was ever cut out for it.

Fast forward to Saturday, and another mad dash to the East End of the city to watch my team play. It became much madder than originally planned due to a parade of boats on the canal, a rare sight that I found impossible to resist. If Celtic play the way they did yesterday, I suspect I will find it easy to resist these sojourns to Paradise. It's beginning to resemble a little hell on earth.

Yes, I know there are injuries (and one unwanted suspension) that make it impossible to settle on a back four (assuming that Neil actually knows what back four he wants) but surely we must have, at youth level, two men who instill more confidence in the support than Messers Majstorovic and Loovens. Last week, on Twitter, Marc Crosas, who is fast becoming Celtic's biggest exiled supporter, claimed not to understand the fans' antipathy towards our Glenn. He doesn't have to watch him. Partnering him with the square-headed Swede was always going to result in the kind of nervous tension that others are on medication for, so it was no surprise that we lost. Sorry, I lie. We actually won, though I have no idea how.

Well, we won because of two quite nice goals from Joe Ledley and James Forrest. The midfield come good again, while the strikers don't even get a shot on target. Hooper limped off early in the second half to be replaced by Mohammed Bangura, who is quick and agile but still looks as much like scoring as Fraser Forster. Badr El-Kaddouri turned in another solid performance, but his lack of height and pace was obvious, at times. Also obvious was the return of last season's lack of any real bite in midfield. Ki and Ledley do not make any sort of partnership, much less an effective one and, as an injury or suspension for Beram Kayal can't be far away, my nerves are preparing themselves to be shattered.

Then there was the crowd. May I say that, although I rarely agree with the subject matter of their songs, or the object of their affection, the Green Brigade do provide an atmosphere at the ground that has been lacking since the days of the old stadium. Their protests, however, are becoming tedious. What did they think yesterday's latest childish, pseudo-political raging against the establishment machine would achieve? In the same week last year, Celtic thrashed ICT 6-0 in a League Cup game, a match I was unable to attend due to two prior engagements. Not only did I miss a scintillating performance (and a soaking) but I won't ever be able to claim that 'I was there' the night Georgios Samaras scored a hat-trick, yet the talking point in the aftermath of that game was not this rare feat of prowess from the far-from-prolific Greek, but the lack of any attention being paid to the departure of Emilio Izaguirre due to injury. Legend has it that not one of the die-hard supporters in this group applauded the little Honduran or showed even the slightest concern for his condition because they were too busy protesting about something. I can't confirm this, but it wouldn't surprise me. If they think that the Anti-Sectarian legislation going through the Scottish Parliament is a threat to them and their freedom of speech, then it is with justification. If, God forbid, I live another 50 years, I don't think I'll ever know what a discredited religion or a proscribed organisation has to do with Association Football. I'll also never understand how silence is meant to motivate a team that needs all the help it can get at the moment.

Finally, Doctor Who. The penultimate episode of this quite wonderful sixth series set viewers up nicely for the finale next Saturday with a chilling, unexpected ending. On Confidential, Steven Moffat seemed to suggest that it's all very much as it seems (yeah, right); the adult Melody is in the suit, not the child version, and she, River, kills the best man she's ever known in the middle of his regeneration, with some sort of blaster gun. Do I think he, or she, is just...going...to...go? No. Behind every good man is a good woman, and I trust both of them, with a little help from Amy and Rory, to do the right thing. Do I trust the fiendishly clever Moffat to do the right thing in 45 minutes without giving me a migraine that lasts a year? Spoilers!

Another Tuesday evening

This evening, another sectional, this time time with our favourite clarinet player. Some bits of Schubert making more sense, very little of the Tchaikovsky doing likewise. Fun night, though. Sure beats work. Apologies for short, poorly constructed sentences, but it is rather late. Clearly not paying attention to 'Advice for writers' on Twitter.

A lost weekend

Do you ever feel you've done a lot but achieved very little? As much as I enjoy going out, when there's a lot to be done at home (some of it interesting and valuable, most of it practical but tedious), going out three times in two days means that virtually nothing can be crossed off the to-do list.

Since the recent bout of ill health, sleep has been neither plentiful nor regular, so tiredness and irritability have been the order of the day. I can't help thinking that yesterday would have been more productive had I got out of bed at 7 and tackled a few long-neglected chores. Instead, I sat around and read a couple of things, dispensed some wit and wisdom on Facebook and Twitter and stared into space, until I was forced to leap up like a scalded cat and get ready to go out. I had left it too late to head for Tesco on the way into town so I went straight to my usual parking spot and then the railway station. I took the train to Queen Street and headed for Breakfast at Debenhams (as I type, I am playing a recording of the BBS SSO Proms Last Night from Dundee thing, just at the point where the orchestra and amateur choir perform "Moon River" from "Breakfast at Tiffany's"). Enough with the serendipity, already!

On exiting the lift at the 5th floor, I wondered if I hadn't, in fact, stepped forward in time some three months. There was a display of Christmas goods and an ambient temperature reminiscent of Winter. The food wasn't much warmer, but I ate it, nonetheless. I left with indecent haste for my next port of call; the Britannia Panopticon.

To cut a long story short, it was Glasgow's Doors Open Day. A few years ago, one of the star attractions of this annual architectural excuse for a nosey in normally private buildings was a disused Variety theatre above one of those horrendous leather jacket shops near (the former) C&A in Argyle Street. This came as a revelation to me but not as much as finding out that this was the venue where a young Arthur Stanley Jefferson and, later, a young Alexander Archibald Leach made their stage debuts; Stan Laurel and Cary Grant to you and me. The theatre has been undergoing what someone called 'slow restoration' ever since, but yesterday was my first visit. I hope to go back next week for an example of the good old days.

After a few hours of downtime back at home, I headed out again, this time to the City Halls for one of those nights with the BBC SSO, the nights where they do something different from a bog-standard orchestra; playing along to Alfred Hitchcock's 'Psycho'. Now, up-front, I don't like the film. I'd only seen it once before, as far as I know, and it didn't do anything for me. That was nearly 30 years ago, but I know from other things that my taste has changed with age. Well, not this time. I still don't like it, but I was impressed with how the orchestra seamlessly integrated with the film, helped by John Wilson, of course. I returned home to watch Doctor Who, more enjoyable and interesting than 'Psycho', and a lot more thought-provoking.

I got up a bit earlier this morning, and did two weeks' worth of ironing. The day couldn't get any worse after that, believe me. Another rush to the Merchant City followed and another wonderful performance from the BBC SSO beckoned. The full orchestra and more were shoe-horned on to the stage for two hours of music by Bernard Herrmann and others and although the place wasn't packed out this time, the reception Mr. Wilson and the band got was just as loud and just as warm as Saturday's.

Nothing changes

Some things in life are inevitable, like death and taxes (!) and the customary away defeat in Europe. It's no disgrace to lose to a team from La Liga, and there was no disgrace in terms of the performance tonight. Not everyone will give Celtic the chance to keep the ball and run with it, so it's important to defend well. Needless to say, the loss of an early goal, from a set-piece, is not an example of defending well. Would it have been avoided if zonal marking had not been employed? Who knows? The second, killer blow could have been averted if Celtic had closed Atletico down more effectively, but they kept their distance more than they would do in the SPL. I wonder if this was in recognition of the fact that foreign refs give decisions you'd not see in Scotland, or are they just being too deferential to 'big' teams? I'm not sure if Neil left the substitutions a bit late (a lot earlier than in Switzerland, though), but Bangura looked off the pace (such as it was by that time), which could have been due to a reported groin strain. Here's hoping that the players and management learn from their so far limited European experiences and adapt to playing these types of teams. It's a steep learning curve for most of them, but this European 'reprieve' should be used purely for education. Oh, and the money.

What a difference a day makes

FC Sion are in Switzerland, presumably playing with their cuckoo clocks, and Celtic FC are in Madrid, presumably dressing James Forrest and Gary Hooper like ice hockey players and feeding Beram Kayal raw meat. Meanwhile, Constantin is going to claim 4 million Euros from UEFA. I'd like to see him try.

Edit: Fears of an appearance by Big Dan were groundless. I'd forgotten that one of the reasons we were hammered in Switzerland was that the numpty had been sent off before the ref had taken the whistle out of his mouth at kick-off.

New music, same old song

Just back from the second rehearsal. New music this evening, and some idea of what we'll be doing with the choir in the Christmas concert. The reason we're doing Finlandia again is because the choir wants to sing with us ('Be Still My Soul', I presume). This is positive news, as it will drown out the Second clarinet part. In other news, we're doing Zadok The Priest and the Triumphal March from Aida. The Tchaikovsky was a bit better tonight, helped by the fact that all the woodwinds weren't out for a sectional. I struggled to sight-read the Schubert (well, I struggle to sight-read everything), not helped the fact that they did some of it last week when we were out for a sectional!

Elsewhere, UEFA have told Christian Constantin where to shove his Toblerone, but he still refuses to listen to anything other than the sound of his own voice. His latest pronouncement included references to a possible prison sentence for Michel Platini!  They plan to travel to Madrid tomorrow, and will arrive at roughly the same time as Celtic. Now, a run the Europa League is going to be enough of an embarrassment for a team that couldn't beat these jokers, but mark my words, this will turn into a farce (if it hasn't already) with that clown and his bunch of ineligible players stalking them all over the continent. What are they going to do for Celtic's Home matches? Stroll up to the entrance to Celtic Park and walk into the home dressing room? Sadly for us, Badr El-Kaddouri is cup tied so, yet again, Neil can't field the team he wants. If Big Dan is in the team on Thursday, I'll not be behind the sofa. I'll be hiding in the attic until January.

This could be the last time

I've had an elephant in my room for eight months. This morning, just after 1am, I decided to confront it. By 2:10, one of us lay defeated, and I don't think I'll ever know which one.

September 11th will be remembered forever by all who lived through it as one of the most notorious days in the history of the world, the day when, for one nation at least, everything changed. That was in 2001. There were many September 11ths before that day, and there have been many since. Today is just another September 11th, but while it is destined to have considerably less significance in world affairs, it is the day that, in a sense, and on a very, very small scale, everything changed, and it is worth noting.

I have no idea how many bands continue to be interesting or creative or innovative or even just plain good after a ten year recording career and all the touring and promotion that comes with it. In spite of all the hype surrounding new bands and their seemingly rapid rise to prominence (almost all of it generated by record companies themselves), very few release as a first album an instant classic, and one that will endure for as long as music is played and human beings have ears. Of course, it's a curse that can never be broken and effectively strangles the band at birth. Discerning fans, critics and the casual, curious outsider will always claim that the second or third album is nowhere near as good as the first and so begins the inevitable and inexorable decline into obscurity or self-parody or Coldplay-style success.

So what should one expect by the time the fourth album arrives? A greater degree of competence, musically and lyrically? It would be nice. A recognisable 'sound'? That would help, too. A hint that the band knew where it had been before, and where it wanted to go after it decided on an ill-advised and utterly pointless change of direction? Yes, of course! The reason why I left that album on my shelf for so long was that I didn't want my experience of it to be, well, ruined by my opinion of the two singles released from it. I wanted to approach it afresh, and with no prejudice. Sadly, I fear I should have got it over and done with at the time. Of the thirteen tracks, only four are worth a second hearing, and only those four will ever get a second hearing. I don't have enough time left in my life to persevere with a pathetic rehashing of riffs or ideas from tracks on the previous album, with added electronic gadget doodling. The four tracks I alluded to all come from one member of the band, and never has the gulf between the songwriters been so wide. The yawning chasm is clear for all to see, and though it pains me to say so, a swift, merciful end is required.

A few weeks from now I will travel to the venue where I had my first, belated sighting. On the way back to the railway station that night, I vowed to see them again as soon as possible. I did, and I travelled the length and breadth of Britain to see them play more times than I had any other band. Never say never, but I suspect that I won't be in such a hurry to see them again, particularly if they continue in their present form with no signs of improvement. I love the symmetry of this, the beginning and the end; the same band, in the same venue. It is true that all adventures must come to an end. Back then, I wished that all of time could be like this, and with good reason.

Comfortable and rather good, at times

Four weeks ago, Celtic hammered Dundee United without breaking sweat. Today, a similar feat was achieved against a mostly good Motherwell side who, like United, came with the intention of giving it a go (in spite of having Craigan, Lasley and Hammell in their line-up). Today's performance was in stark contrast to the shambles witnessed three weeks ago against St. Johnstone. The Perth side showed up with the aim of stifling Celtic with their 9-0-1 formation and they succeeded. Were it not for Big Dan Majstorovic, the tumshie (Glaswegian for swede), the match would have ended in a 0-0 draw, but he gave the Saints such confidence in their limited ability to break down our defence. Thankfully for all concerned, the idiot was nowhere to be seen today.

The central defensive partnership comprised Kelvin Wilson and the reborn Charles Mulgrew Esq. Adam Matthews came in at right-back, either for the injured Cha Du-Ri or the emergency right-back/left-back/centre-half Mark Wilson. Badr El-Kaddouri made his debut at left-back, and looked like he'd always been there and Ki replaced the injured Scott Brown in midfield. James Forrest started for the second time this season, and made the most of it with a goal in each half and a few chances which, on another day, may have hit the back of the net. He also got bundled off the ball in the box, but the ref ignored it. It's just as well the outcome of the game didn't hinge on that honest mistake. Forrest richly deserved his man-of-the-match award.

Fraser Forster had little to do, so threatening were Motherwell in the final third, and Matthews kept Jamie Murphy in check for most of the game. After a slow start, no doubt due to his exertions during the International break, Joe Ledley was industrious and linked up well with his new partner on the left, in spite of the short introduction. Beram Kayal was made captain for the day and really looked the part, giving it welly in midfield and seeing out his entire contribution to proceedings without being booked. He was replaced by Victor Wanyama, who looked very comfortable in the holding midfield role Neil doesn't want him to play! Up front, Stokes and Hooper still look off the boil (as did Kris Commons,when he came on for Ledley). New signing Mohammed Bangura made his debut, replacing Stokes, and looked lively but didn't get on the scoresheet. So, all in all, some good passing and link up play, particularly by the Welsh contingent and the on-loan Morroccan, and four good goals, the third yet another masterful strike from Ki. I hope everyone went home happy.

p.s. I want to talk about 'The Girl Who Waited', but I fear it may end in tears.

Journey's End

A few years ago I went to see 'An Inspector Calls', J.B. Priestley's classic play. Tonight I went to the same venue, the Theatre Royal in Glasgow, to see a performance of R. C. Sherriff's 'Journey's End'. The former left me cold, bored and unimpressed and my immediate impression of the latter is somewhat similar. I may just be stupid or heartless, or I may be difficult to please. I like to think that it would help if I could empathise with at least one of the characters. Lt. Osborne, the former schoolmaster (played by Simon Dutton), was probably the only one I felt slightly sorry for when he realised he was going to his death, sent by the (much younger) man he admired and respected, presumably the man he expected would go in his place. 2nd Lt. Trotter, the man promoted from the ranks (played by Christian Patterson), provided mild comic relief, but neither of these characters were developed beyond the bare bones of two men who, like many in the Great War, were somewhere they shouldn't have been. This was a missed opportunity. Their stories had to have been more interesting than that of the angry young man, Captain Stanhope (played by Nick Hendrix, who may have been cast because of his inexperience, not in spite of it), who would drink himself into oblivion just to get through every day. Stanhope arrived at the front at eighteen, and had been there for three years. He had obviously been changed, irrevocably, by the war. His relationship with the new arrival, and old family friend, 2nd Lt. Raleigh (Graham Butler) was only hinted at, and I felt that there was no real, tangible animosity towards, or heartfelt sympathy with, 2nd Lt. Hibbert. It was like Stanhope was going through the motions to hide his own fear and inadequacies. Understandable, I suppose. Stanhope appeared plain selfish, and had he convinced the Colonel to let him lead the raiding party, it wouldn't have been to spare Osborne but to have someone else end his own life, as he didn't have the courage to shoot himself. That's my take on it, anyway. The real star of the show was the Sound Designer (Gregory Clarke) who deafened the entire audience at the end with his interpretation of the much anticipated German attack.

Missed opportunity 1

Tonight in Milngavie, some people were playing flutes (properly, not in an Orange band). Lots of different flutes. I could have got in for nothing. I saved myself the money by being ill and missing it.

Fugitive from the music police

I've just returned home from the first rehearsal (for this term) of what is frequently described as the "much-loved community orchestra". I won't mention its actual name, as demand for places is high and I would like to keep getting back in. Anyway, fresh from our triumphant (apart from the encore) summer concert in June, and refreshed after three months larging it up in the Scottish sunshine (ahem), I took my clarinet, and my aching body, out for an evening of fun and frolic.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that we will be reviving our greatest hit, 'Finlandia' by Jean Sibelius. This was the first piece we ever worked on, in the very first meeting in November 2007 ('we' meaning the orchestra; names and faces may have changed, but the orchestra is heading for its 4th birthday), and featured in our first concert in December 2008. I still can't play certain passages of it, particularly the trills, but it's probably the tune I've come closest to playing all the way through, and I've gone downhill ever since. No, I'm not being modest. I've got away with it for too long.

At the start of every term, I promise myself that I will practice and I never do. At the start of summer, I promise myself that I'll get lessons and I never do. As much as I enjoy "playing" in an orchestra (and fulfilling a lifelong ambition in the process), I've not done it justice and I've not progressed as much as I had hoped or as others expect I should have. I wonder how I'll feel after this next concert (mine and the orchestra's sixth). So far, we've got 'Finlandia', a movement from Schubert's 'Unfinished' symphony and two movements from Tchaikovsky's 4th, with a promise of more to come. Bring it on, as long as it's not YPG or Colas Breugnon!

In other news:

• Scotland win a game of football (but get a penalty and miss it)
• Congratulations to PJ Harvey on winning the Mercury Music Prize
• My throat infection still refuses to go away

Disaster for Scotland

2-2 against the cheating Czechs, so no Euro 2012 for the so-called, self-styled Tartan Army (unless the team from some obscure European state has a player called 'Scotland' or 'William Wallace'). A performance like that shouldn't win anyone a game at this level, but it was in the bag before the blatant simulation. Sadly, we couldn't hold on. There'll be some good players on show in Poland and Ukraine, so taking the nerves out of a night in front of the telly can only be a good thing, but I'd be glad if Scotland could, for once, get through to the finals of a tournament. The odds are against us, though, thanks to the break up of the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia (and similar post-Communism jiggery-pokery). Unless half the Spanish team come to live here and their children and grand-children grow up to be footballers, we have no chance of ever getting there.

Two puzzling things, though:

1. Why is Levein falling into the old trap of playing guys who have been out for an age with injury or who can't get a game for their club? Perhaps someone with more experience, awareness and match sharpness than Danny Wilson would have kept a few more inches away from the Czech cheat? He's played more for the full Scotland team than for Liverpool (4 vs 2, according to Wikipedia)!
   
2. Why did Sky Sports invite the traitor Smith on to their panel for the game? I can only guess that it's David Tanner's birthday. All that was needed was an intervention from Jim White. Mind you, I'd not want to be the studio cleaner after that.
   

Meanwhile, five months later...

OK, so what's the excuse this time? Nothing really, just the usual laziness and depression. As well as struggling to remember a simple password for this account, I'm struggling to think if I've done anything worth mentioning in the intervening five months since I last graced this blog with my presence. Let's see...

• I had some more golf lessons
• I had my photograph taken with the Ryder Cup
• I watched my team throw away the SPL for the third year in succession to a mob who wouldn't know good football if it ran out of the stands and assaulted it on live TV
• I attended a few concerts
• I played in a concert
• I took my annual holiday in Llandudno, as usual, but dispensed with a number of traditions along the way
• I saw a number of birds I'd not seen before
• I bought a laptop
• I came to the conclusion that the current incarnation of Doctor Who is the best one yet
• I saw the future, and it will be characterised by infirmity
• I started to realise that I may never be allowed to retire

OK, I didn't burn a lot of calories in the course of these momentous events, but I feel that I am on the threshold of something.

Exactly.

I don't belieeeve it!

No, I don't believe it. I've spent ten minutes trying to figure out what my password is (was) and had to jump through hoops to get it reset, and now I've gone and forgotten the bloody thing!

Anyway, it's been an age since I've done this (again) and not much has happened (again) unless, that is, you count my taking up golf (ahem). After intensive practice (OK, sporadic practice) since September, I finally ventured out onto a golf course for the first time yesterday. I say golf course, as it had all the features of one, but it was more like a swamp with a sprinkling of sand here and there to soak up the substantial accumulation of water (pronounced water, with the emphasis on wa). My shoes and clubs got dirty, so I must have been doing something right.



As I've only started, I don't have a handicap (apart from myself), so I'm not sure if scoring 79 is OK, when par is 29 using the Forward tees! The bloke in the hut (not a clubhouse) thought it was funny, but tried to be diplomatic. I did encounter a black cat on the way round, and gestured to it to cross my path, but it wasn't interested, probably because I was not displaying any outward signs that I was in possession of food. Anyway, I will not let it get me down and will have a go again at the earliest available opportunity (though not there, as the idea of having to hit the ball up a big hill from the 1st tee is enough to give me sleepless nights). Next year, maybe...

What else is there to cheer me in these troubled times? Well, a 15-minute programme on CBeebies came to my attention via reports of complaints of racism. Eh? On CBeebies? Who would have thunk it? Political correctness gone mad! So what is the cause of all this consternation? A mouse who plays in a reggae band with his two friends and solves mysteries at the request of the President of Mouseland. There's an obvious moral message in each story, but I have no idea who the show is really aimed at. However, it has a certain appeal for someone who grew up with the music of the late 70s and early 80s. Irie, man!

Infrequent blogging, the rapid passage of time and a corner of the world that steadfastly refuses to change.

I am shocked to see that I set up this blog over three years ago and I've only posted on 10 occasions since then; the last time over 2 years ago. I'm a lazy, good-for-nothing and should be exterminated.

I am even more shocked to realise that half of the last year of the first decade of the 21st Century has gone and not much has happened, unless you include the entire country finding out what I already suspected about our elected representatives, Michael Jackson dying and a black man becoming the head of the most powerful country in the world. It's weird, yet good to hear the words "President Obama".

In the week that the former Liverpool hero Michael Owen signs for Manchester United, I appear to have done his soon-to-be striking partner, Mr. Rooney, a great disservice in one of my early posts on this blog. I had read somewhere that he had a fondness for the Orcs, but it appears that he favours my team, the mercurial Celtic FC. I apologise profusely. However, I do not apologise for implying that Christiano Ronaldo was/is a cheating rat. He is, and I claim my £5. Good riddance to him.

Living in Nedsville, like I do, I wonder why anyone would want to stage a parade and service to celebrate the first Armed Forces Day in this city. Thankfully, our Lord Provost, Mr. Robert Winter and the so-called Secretary of State for Scotland, Jim Murphy, are not the best public speakers in Glasgow, never mind in the world, so I was not too disappointed to have their speeches drowned out by Strathclyde's finest in their whirlybird. However, I WAS disappointed that I could not go along and pay my respects to the men and women of our Armed Forces without having to put up with the scum that drags its knuckles along our filthy and pot-holed streets. On one side, you had a contingent of Plastic Paddies shouting some shite about Ireland and the IRA and, on the other, the fat, ugly, tattooed bastards who have hijacked the Union flag (itself not a symbol to be proud of) and who now wish to tarnish the Saltire, too (well, it is blue!). Perhaps an end to separate schools on religious grounds would help integration? Well, those with even an ounce of intelligence already know the difference between right and wrong. If you're going to be a Ned, you'd not be going to school, anyway, no matter what denomination it was, or wasn't. Education is an answer, one answer, but a bullet through the head would be a better solution.

How many so-called Irish republicans in that, or any other similar mob, have ever lived in Ireland or are Irish by birth or by parentage, or have even gone there on their holidays? Not many, I would suspect. How many of them realise or even care that there are still people today who come to the UK to serve in our Armed Forces? Not many, I would suspect. How many of those who can claim a direct link with Ireland come from the "North" or the "South"? I couldn't begin to guess, but those who come from the 6 counties are actually part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Their ancestors, like mine, would have come from the United Kingdom of Britain and Ireland. OK, so the "South" is now, and has been for a long time, a separate country, and a republic, and so has no legal ties with the UK. Perhaps the "Famine Song" (more later) should have a wee change of lyrics: "If Ireland is so great, why don't you fuck off and live there?".

Over on the other side of the street, those who refer to their opponents as the "manky mob" or as "Celtic supporters" stand with their beer bellies hanging over their shellsuit bottoms, waving a flag that is far from revered throughout the world by people of all races and religions, flaunt their "we arra peepil" tattoos, their Hun strips and their Orange Lodge polo shirts and, no doubt, swap stories of the night they tried to destroy Manchester. Meanwhile, in the middle, there are some polis and a few dugs. How many on that side of the divide realise or care that service personnel who have given, and still give, their lives for this country are not just White Anglo-Saxon Protestants? How many of them know that Protestants in Ireland who were not in the Established Church (i.e. Anglican) were discriminated against in the same way as Catholics in the time of Good Queen Bess and her successors? None, I'd wager. What does all this have to do with showing respect for, and pride in, men and women who would lay down their lives so that others may live in peace? What would Jesus do?

Donald Finlay QC doesn't understand why the "Famine Song" is racist. I suppose it's less politically-incorrect than a gollywog on a marmalade jar, but the reason some legal person decided it was racist was simply that Scotland's Shame have no sense of humour, and probably think irony is the name for the crime committed when someone batters someone else with an iron. How many of those neanderthals know that the Irish potato famine didn't just affect Catholics in what is now the "South", but affected Catholics and Protestants in all areas where the crop was grown? Only the in-bred oiks of the aristocracy who owned the land were unaffected. OK, that's not true. They were mildly inconvenienced when their slaves went in search of a new life elsewhere. It's about time the scum on both sides were eradicated, or sent to some godforsaken island somewhere (er, Ireland?) so that our streets, and our football grounds, can be made clean for all to enjoy.

Finally, you have to laugh at a Labour minister telling the assembled throng to be proud of our Forces. This man is the member of a party that took this country into an illegal and immoral war on a lie, and took us into another one at the behest of an idiot and his dangerous friends; a party that has sent those men and women into battle without the proper equipment or backup; a party that has closed military hospitals and seems happy enough to allow sick and injured veterans to sleep on the streets because they can't get a job or the benefits and housing they are entitled to. Sadly, Britain wasn't a land fit for heroes when men came back from what is now Iraq 90 years ago, and it still isn't.

OK, rant over, for now. It's July and what is the abiding image from this last 6 months? Well, it's got to be this:



Build a little duck house in your soul.

Ballads Of The Book

I’m not an Idlewild fan. I’ve never been an Idlewild fan. However, I have noticed that Roddy Woomble has been experimenting with folk. Last summer, he released ‘My Secret Is My Silence’, an album that included contributions from rising star Karine Polwart, Barnsley’s famous folk babe, Kate Rusby, and her (may or may not be any longer) husband John McCusker, the diminutive Scottish fiddle genius who also produced the album. With form like that, it was no surprise that he came up with the idea of uniting some of Scotland’s musical talent with some of the leading lights of the Scottish literary world, and so ‘Ballads Of The Book’ was born. Released earlier this year on Chemikal Underground to great acclaim in Scotland and further afield, the natural progression for this project was live performance of the songs, and what better arena than the all-day jamboree that is the Triptych Sunday closing event at the Tramway.

Not all the musicians and authors were able to attend, but Triptych and Chemikal Underground still managed to push the boat out, putting on a programme over three arenas; the Electric Stage, the Acoustic Stage and a room featuring readings from some of the authors. Sadly, the latter only had a capacity of 50, and I never seemed to get there on time to see anything. I wasn’t too disappointed though, as I was able to see how the art exhibition by Jenny Soep was progressing. This was yet another interesting aspect of the day as a whole, as the artist could usually be seen in front of the stage painting the musicians as they performed.

Mystifyingly, Norman Blake only played two songs; his contribution to the album and a track he claimed was by a Californian band called the Cabin Boys. However, this was fortuitous, as it allowed those interested to scurry along to T4 to see a performance by Burnt Island, the band featuring the writer Rodge Glass (who collaborated with Vashti Bunyan on the album). This turned out to be a duo, as the drummer had had an accident and was unable to play. I was impressed with what I heard, and resolved to check them out at the earliest available opportunity. They were the highlight of the day for me, and not just musically. I couldn’t help thinking that this was what Turin Brakes could have been if they had had a sense of humour, e.g., Rodge Glass asked for less vocal or guitar in his monitor and his compatriot asked for a little less irony in his!

Next, it was back to T1 for Foxface, a band featuring a drummer in a fox facemask (shades of Gabriel-era Genesis), which he had to remove when he wanted to play his banjo or his accordion. Yes, at the same time as he played the drums (think about it). I’d seen yet another enjoyable set, and the band left the stage with the promise of their first album, sometime at the end of the summer, they think! I’m sure we’ll all hear about it when it is released.

In order to avoid the dull as ditchwater Trashcan Sinatras, I went to check out Mike Heron, but I lasted about 5 minutes. It appears that he barely survived the 60s. What else was there to do but spot celebrities (I saw Stuart Murdoch at the bar), check out the price of food (quite reasonable, but very scarce) and see who was DJ-ing? Upstairs, Roddy Woomble and the bass player out of Sons And Daughters were in control of the decks, whilst downstairs, King Creosote was holding court.

It was soon time for Alasdair Roberts. I was surprised by his 45-minute set, and not least because he turned out to be quite a cheery chappy. Also, he only sang two songs with the word death in them! He seemed quite reluctant to perform his ‘Ballads Of The Book’ contribution, ‘The Leaving’, something he had in common with almost everyone I saw. They all appeared to be anxious not to make a mess of things. He needn’t have worried, because he didn’t put a foot wrong.

I decided not to watch Emma Pollock, as I’d seen her support Camera Obscura only 8 days before. I also decided not to wait for hot food, so had shortbread and hot chocolate, instead, and then went out into the Hidden Gardens to consume my meagre rations. On re-entering the building, I found the more miserable one out of Arab Strap delighting the audience with the extended version of ‘Come Back’ by the Mighty Wah!

After another walkabout, I took a seat upstairs to watch King Creosote. The fact that he was playing the Electric stage spoke volumes. I miss his accordion. I miss his folky tendencies. Normality was restored at 9pm when James Yorkston took to the stage in T4. It was good to see that at least one member of the Fence Collective had not deserted his acoustic roots. I had to chuckle, though, when I remembered a comment he made at a gig I attended in 2004. He alluded to the fact that a certain famous Glasgow band didn’t mean much to him beyond the fact that their success was bankrolling his next three albums. He was, of course, referring to his label mates Franz Ferdinand. I had to laugh because Robert Hardy and Alex Kapranos were standing in front of me!

After that, I decided that I’d had my money’s worth and had had a very enjoyable day (which would have been utterly unbearable without the smoking ban) so, on my way out of the building, I popped back into T1 and caught the end of Sons And Daughters’ set. They don’t do much for me, and didn’t last night, apart from try to blind me with a very bright light. It was late. I was tired. Other people were leaving. I didn’t have to feel guilty about wimping out 90 minutes before the end of an 8-hour day, and I didn’t have to worry that I’d appear rude by leaving before the headline act. I’m not an Idlewild fan. I’ve never been an Idlewild fan.

They seek him here, they seek him there

Today, I went for a walk in Elder Park. I try to go there once a week, just to be close to nature, you understand. My gran used to take me there when I was very young, though I have no idea why, as I didn't live anywhere near it. I was born just over mile from it, though, and have worked close by for the best part of quarter of a century. It's not the nicest park you'll ever see, but it's all there is; a little oasis in a desert of deprivation.

It was cold, but bright and sunny and, as I turned the corner from Govan Road, I saw a number of people wearing rosettes and carrying leaflets. It is only three days to the election, after all. I walked past them, and along side them, more than once in the short stroll past Linthouse St. Kenneth's church. I even walked past the candidate. At no time did he, his workers or the token Muslim and token African who accompanied them, offer me a leaflet or suggest that I should vote for that party. I guess that I didn't look like a Govanite (in spite of my heritage) or didn't look like I would vote Labour. What a relief.

Sadly, I didn't have a camera, not to take photos of the ducks in the park, but to capture the moment for posterity. If any Govanites chance upon this blog, they may wish to see the guy they have elected to the Scottish parliament for two successive terms, as he spends most of his time in court earning big bucks. Having said that, perhaps some of the natives already know him from his day job. Anyway, just for the record, here is a photo of Gordon Jackson QC MSP.




Here's hoping he has plenty of time to devote to his legal work after Thurday.

The price of everything and the value of nothing

I'm sitting here listening to 'Hunky Dory' by Dave Bowie out of the Dave Bowie Band. I bought it for £5 in the HMV 'sale' (though, to be accurate, it cost me nothing, as it was purchased using one of their Gift Cards). It was one of the cheapest albums in their 'sale', and one of the few in the entire emporium that interested me. I refuse to pay more than a fiver in that shop now, as I know that Fopp and various on-line retailers do not rip off people the way the little dog does, though £5 is still a lot more than the LP would have cost way back in 1971. I can hear you saying "why buy it in there at all?". Well, as I said, I had a gift card, totally unsolicited and unexpected, and I need to get rid of it somehow.

Anyway, I chose this album, not because of the classic singles 'Changes', 'Oh! You Pretty Things' and 'Life On Mars?', which I have on one of Bowie's singles collections, but because it's the album that features as its last track 'The Bewlay Brothers', a song I heard for the first time a couple of years ago sung by Guy Garvey from Elbow on Marc Riley's Rocket Science, and I've wanted to hear the original ever since. The album also includes 'Andy Warhol' and 'Song For Bob Dylan', plus the song that inspired the name of one of Brighton's more hideous pop bands, 'Kooks'; another track I heard for the first time on Marc Riley's show, and written about the unfortunately named Zowie Bowie, son of David and Angie. The lad changed his name to Joe Bowie at one point, but now prefers to be known as Duncan Jones, which is handy, as it's his real name!

It's easy to listen to old albums by legends such as Bowie through a rose-coloured digital hearing aid and feel overawed, especially when he is one of those artists that no one is meant to criticise (apart from Tin Machine) and even more especially when one was too young to appreciate such a work of genius when it was first released. However, I am not so easily swayed by the opinions of others, and have always sought out good music on my own recommendation or stumbled upon such gems by accident. That's the way it should be. The NME and Zane Lowe need not apply for the post of Master of My Music.

As a footnote, Killers fans may want to listen to 'Queen Bitch' before playing 'Mr. Brightside'.

The land that time forgot

I keep forgetting my password!

I'll be back here soon, I promise. Not that anyone's actually reading it...

Shave the whales

Bliar has been off on his travels again. This time, he's been off around Europe trying to save the world. Well, he's telling us all that we have to save the planet (we have to do it, not him or his party), that big blob between Venus and Mars. Nice idea, Tony. Tell everyone (after Al Gore's been telling everyone for over 20 years) that the earth is dying, and scare them so shitless that they'll forget about the illegal and immoral war in Iraq and all the lives that have been ruined at home and abroad as a result of his policy of saying "yes, master" every time Bush says jump (only, disagree with him once in a while to make it look like you're your own man).

Now, Tony is a proven liar, so do you believe him on all this climate change crap? Would you believe Prudence Brown? I'd not trust either of them (or anyone else in the Labour party) as far as I would throw them, nor would I piss on them if they were on fire. Bliar and Brown have not only brought this country to the brink of bankruptcy with their frequent and expensive military incursions (of course, not one penny goes on extra personnel or equipment, and many of our soldiers have died due to inadequate materiel, and the fact that that the Yanks, whose wars these are, lest we forget, are not there to take the bullets and bombs instead), they've fooled the population into thinking we have a booming economy. That'd be why Marks and Spencer no longer has any clothes made in the UK and financial institutions are outsourcing customer service operations to the Indian sub-continent. No, the two crooks who have been allowed to run this country into the ground for the last nine and a half years suddenly care about the planet because they now see it as a way to raise taxes to pay for more wars and more bribes, more bureaucracy and more obfuscation. Last night, some back-bench Labour MPs forgot they had a conscience, or forgot where the House Of Commons was, and Teflon Tony escaped, yet again, the kicking he's due. Here's hoping the Labour gravy train comes off the rails before the Yanks are stupid enough to put another Republican in the White House.

So, now they're playing into the hands of the hippies and the crusties and the namby-pamby, left wing, one-armed, black, lesbian vegetarian brigade who sit around, or up, trees in their multi-coloured crocheted cardigans eating mung bean soup and telling us how we're not doing right by the planet, before they roll a spliff and fuck up their own tiny minds. Soon, normal, freedom-loving individuals like you and me will be confined to quarters, too scared or too poor to venture out even to look at the wonders of nature, never mind walk round the corner to the local Asian-run mini-market for our pot noodles and multipack of Pepsi. What the hell are we going to do? Well, here's a plan. Feel free to use it and call it your own:

1. Don't fly. Only the rich should be able to fly, and only BA should be able to operate an airline.

2. Get rid of your car and travel to work by public transport. You will, of course, have to have a long list of excuses for your boss as you will never be on time.

3. Don't buy anything that comes pre-packaged. Take bags, boxes, jars and any other vessels to the shops (on the bus!) to collect your shopping. You may, in the short-term, find that most retailers will refuse to sell unpacked goods, in which case, buy them in the packaging, decant them into your chosen vessel and hand the packaging back to the retailer for disposal. Soon, he'll have to pay to have his rubbish taken away, as will you and I. Erm, hold on a mo, isn't that what Council Tax is for????

4. Don't ever go on holiday, including a walking holiday. Even the slightest movement could make the earth unstable, and will damge soil. Any form of travel, including a bicycle, which uses valuable air in its tyres, is harmful to the environment.

5. Due to the high risks involved in working (fuel for motorised transport, communicable diseases, the ability and right to purchase pre-packaged goods, the liability to pay ever-increasing taxes), it would be advisable to quit your job. This way, you will not be able to afford transport, food (packaged, unpackaged, processed, organic, etc.) holidays and any other potentially dangerous activity or commodity.

6. Wrap yourself in bio-degradable material. Curl up into a ball and die.

Hope this helps.