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...