Thursday, November 24, 2005


The first in a series of 'Words of Advice for Young People'.

Anything you can unscrew the cap off isn't worth drinking.

An annual $24.95 for a referrer service?

I believe the phrase I'm searching for is, "Fuck off."

Right now.

Sunday, November 13, 2005


I tasted a spot of enforced sobriety last night and I'm not at all sure I like it. Get this. I volunteered...yup, you heard be the designated driver for an evening out at a nearby hotel and restaurant complex where we were lustily entertained by a thirteen piece retro rock 'n' roll/R & B band.

Four forty-five minute sets and only one trombone solo. Shocking. Anyway, a lot of mineral water under the bridge later and my mate's wife finally lets rip with a two minute tirade during which I was invited to "go in a cunt" for committing the heinous crime of failing to ask her to dance. I had to forgive her of course. She had obviously failed to understand the direct relationship that exists between consumption of alcohol and my stepping the light.

Picked up Froggy from the babysitters' this morning and discovered that she had been regaling them with repeated choruses of that Ian Dury classic, 'Fuck Off, Noddy'. I have no idea where she gets it from.

Now you must excuse me. Megyek a picsába.

Monday, November 07, 2005


It would appear that the practice of stating the bleedin' obvious on product packaging has finally reached Hungary. To whit, one milk carton. Itt nyí here.

Phew. Nearly had me foxed, that one.

I find it a wee bit surprising, given their obviously low estimation of consumer intelligence, that there is no indication whatsoever of in which direction the cap should be unscrewed.

No milk for me today, then.

And please don't get me started on 'serving suggestion'.

Friday, November 04, 2005


It's so good to see the Shoe back up and running after a hiatus seemingly filled with sex and violence and brought to an end by drugs. It would seem that some people have all the luck.

It was interesting to read Jess's take on that old Stoic, the Marcomanniacal Marcus Aurelius Antonius.

I would be much more interested however, in the story of Faustina, his wife. However did she put up with him?

Or did she, in fact, grin and bare it all to Avidius Cassius?

I think we should be told.

Edit: Er...I've been told. Here.

The Day of the Dead. The non-digital dearly departed were nearly joined by the trampled remains of my Nikon Coolpix 4100 as none of the 15 easy to use scene modes proved capable of dealing with the conditions obtaining at the time which were, pitch black bar the candlelight. Setting it to 'night landscape' met with a virtual slap round the chops from the flashing red hand, halt icon as did, strangely enough, setting it to 'fireworks display'. Or maybe I should have taken a tripod.

Steadying the camera atop sturdy tombstones was a bit of a no-no given the rather reverential nature of the occasion but I did find one grave unspectated and managed to surreptitiously squeeze one off without disturbing anyone's sense of propriety. Well, all except Idris that is, who gave a very good impression of not being in any way with me as long as I had camera in hand.

Of course, Froggy's firestarting propensities meant that candles would have to be lit but where? Idris hails from another town so we have no interred family here. The fact that we only had one common acquaintance led to us ending up at the grave of my ex-girlfriend's mother and lighting a candle or two to her memory. Rest in peace, Hugi.

I had never given much thought to what I would like to happen to me after my demise, reckoning that whichever way I was disposed of, I would hardly be in any position to object. Even my square foot on Islay is only a lifetime lease and any desire I might harbour to have my ashes placed on the shelves of The Whisky Shop in Lincoln is surely destined to be unfulfilled. But the idea of burial? A return from whence we all came? I don't know. Notwithstanding the problem of finding anywhere to bury me that wouldn't involve my being a fully paid up and practising member of one of a select few religious organisations, the idea of having a focus for remembrance is quite appealing. Well, if I were the one left behind, it would be anyway. My father was cremated and, although I remember him, often and everywhere, I sometimes feel the lack of the focus a grave would provide.

On the way home, Froggy was unable to resist a quick pose with these bronze ballerinas and, as you can see, her favourite colour is now blue. She hasn't wholly abandoned pink however, as evinced by the boots and I have a suspicion that it will be a while yet before I can consign all things princess to the attic, an outcome devoutly to be wished for. Bye-bye Barbie, parting would be such sweet...