Predator 2 review

This could have been a worthy follow up to the now action classic Predator, but fails on many fronts. The acting, apart from Danny Glover who does a reasonable job of filling Arnie's shoes, is pretty awful at times and over the top. The dialogue is equally unconvincing. The film lacks the atmosphere and suspense of the original, despite the effective soundtrack of the talented Alan Silvestri. The second half of the film is certainly more exciting and watchable, but ultimately you are left feeling short changed. Had John McTiernan directed it again, and with better script writers and actors, this could have been a much better film. Disappointing sequel. 5/10

Jimmy Poland

The first Sunday of every month my parents have a rosary group at our house. For those who don’t know the rosary is a Roman Catholic prayer with the use of prayer beads. It’s a small group, just my family and three others who used to go to our church before it was demolished: Mary Smith, Cathy and her father Jimmy Poland. After the prayer meeting we usually have a cup of tea and a chat, and sometimes I stay for this, even though I don’t say much. Conversation usually flows freely but sometimes it can be a bit difficult. Mary is a nice old lady but tends to talk over people and this can be annoying, especially to poor Jimmy. I don’t think she is aware of this, so desperate is she to have some social interaction. Jimmy is 91 years old and his hearing is not very good, so that does not help. And there is also the generation gap to contend with. A few months ago, however, the conversation turned out to be very interesting. I’m not sure exactly how but we began talking about the Second World War. We knew that Jimmy had been a soldier during the war so we asked him a few questions and he seemed happy to talk about it. He was there at Dunkirk, which is a port in northern France, and in 1940 British troops were cut off and encircled by the advancing German army. He remembers the ships coming from the English coast to save the stranded troops and recalls the feeling and sound of bullets flying around him, of men falling right, left and centre and dead bodies washing up on the shore. His regiment was the Argyle and Southern Highlanders and a small group of the survivors were pinned down behind a sand dune, unable to advance or retreat due to the intense gunfire. Eventually he manages to get off the beach but so many of his regiment had been killed or wounded in action that the remaining few joined the Black Watch. After D-Day in 1944 he was part of the second wave of troops that tackled pockets of German resistance. Probably the most poignant part of his story was when his regiment liberated the concentration camp of Belsen. It must have been a surreal, horrific sight to behold 60,000 poor emaciated Jews on the brink of death. The reaction of the soldiers was to give them something to eat, chocolate mostly, but for some medical reason their bodies could not handle this sudden digestion of solid food and they would simply fall over and die. Fortunately a medic came on the scene and ordered the soldiers to stop giving the survivors any food. They were hooked up to intravenous drips which their bodies were able to accept. Jimmy was very matter of fact about everything but it was fascinating to hear about it from someone who was actually there and was part of these historic events.

Super Mario

I played football on Saturday with some of my cousins and uncles. Just before kick off my cousin Brendan pulled me aside to tell me a funny story. His parish priest had organized a fancy dress party for Halloween. To get into the spirit of things he decided to dress up as superman, complete with red underpants on the outside. After the party he was relaxing in the parish house when he heard the doorbell. Looking through the spyglass he saw Archbishop Mario Conti on the doorstep. What to do? I'm assuming that he was not able to slink away unnoticed and avoid the embarassing situation. I would like to have seen the look on Conti's face when the door was opened by Fr. Superman. It could have been worse, he could have dressed up as a woman. How would you explain that to your Archbishop? The moral of the story? God has a sense of humour, and hopefully so do Archbishops.

how to impress a barmaid

I just want to say that the barmaids at Failte in Glasgow are the most pretty and comely barmaids in the whole of Scotland. I am now thinking of reasons to go there. I don't want to be constantly drinking in there and give them the impression that I am just an alcoholic bum in desperate need of a shave. Maybe I could go there again with a friend and then 'forget' my wallet or hat and have to go back and engage them in conversation but then they might think that I am an absentminded fool or a harmless eccentric, although of course there is some truth in that. I need to make the right impression. Maybe I should sit there pretending to read The Financial Times (but really with a copy of The beano inside) and stroke my beard in deep philosophical thought, nodding to myself now and again. Women are natural hero worshipers so maybe I could hire a stooge to rob the bar and then leap into action and save the day. Anyone fancy being a stooge to help an old pal impress a barmaid?

wrong end of the stick

Before playing 5-a-side football on Friday I overheard a bit of conversation. We were a player short and Anton was explaining to Pete why his friend decided to cancel. 'We were half way through our subway crawl and he just said "I can't play tonight."' I raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. I have heard of a pub crawl but this was new to me. I knew there was a chain of shops called Subway that sold baguettes and filled rolls,etc and my vivid imagination cooked up the idea (if you pardon the pun) that a subway crawl was people going from one Subway establishment to another, eating a baguette at each one. Apparently I am wrong. Glasgow has a subway system of 15 stops. A subway crawl is when you get off at each stop and drink a pint. I wonder how many have made it to 15 pints. I don't think I'll be trying either version of a subway crawl.

Why me, Lord?

I was quietly minding my own business in the basement of Border's bookstore drawing in my sketch book. A tap on the shoulder. 'That's very good.' An eldery woman, well dressed with short silvery hair, stood by my side. She started to talk to me. And talk. And talk. It was a one way conversation that flowed incessantly. I smiled politely and nodded, faining interest. This only encouraged her and after about 15 minutes I was beginning to wilt like a flower in intense heat. She talked about art and then somehow this developed onto a different subject and so on. She kept saying 'I better leave you in peace and go' but she just started off again. I can't remember half of what she said, I tuned her out after about 20 minutes, my eyes gazing over, but I still automatically nodded and smiled. Fatal mistake. And then she really pissed me off. She asked me if I stayed at home and I said 'yes' and she started to go on about how this was not a good idea at my age and that mother should not be pampering me or words to that effect. This is ignorance at it's worse, knowing nothing about my background, character or situation. She also said that I was interesting, when surprised me because I had not said a thing apart from the occassional 'mmm' and 'I see'. I was 'interesting' to her because I was willing to listen to her. I get that a lot. I think some people just like me because I am willing to listen to their crap. Eventually she let go of me and wandered off. I breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a draining experience and I was glad to get her off my back. Standing up to stretch my limbs I noticed some nice mugs for sale a few feet away. I was about to step across to look at them when a dithering old woman stood right in front of me, blocking my way. She just stood there, with a stupid look on her face, like she didn't know what to do. This was the last thing I needed. Although I'm a wrestling fan I am generally not a violent person but right now I really wanted to clothes-line this old grannie, smack her with a steel chair and finish her off with a suplex slam. Just as I was looking for a baseball bat she finally decided to shuffled forward and I decided to spare her life. So these two experiences have not endeared me to the weaker sex. What can we men do about ignorant, blabbermouths and dithering old women who get in your way? I don't have the answer but I hope for their sake somebody tells me soon before I strangle one of them.

A special night at the flicks

The choice on Monday night was between watching a digitally remastered version of The Godfather at Cineworld in Glasgow (Europe's tallest cinema) and playing chess with half a dozen old men. I love chess but the film buff in me knew that this was a great chance to watch a classic on the big screen. I am so glad that I went to see the film. It was a magical cinematic experience from the first scene to the last. Half way through the film I was dying for the toliet but I was trying to hold it in because I was so engrossed in the film and did'nt want to miss anything. Everything is perfect: the acting, cinematography, music, sound, costume and setting, script and direction. There are no crap bits. Simple as that. It is a film that demands to be watched and rewatched, again and again. It's the type of film that you never get tired of wacthing, it does not lose its freshness. One of the great things about it was the pace of the film. It just takes its time without being ponderous, allowing the plot to unfold, for tension to build in a scene, for characters to develop and reveal themselves. Francis Ford Coppola does a magnificent job in that respect. I went to see it with my dad and afterwards we talked about the film, comparing our favorite scenes. My favorite scene is probably when Michael assasinates the chief of police and some mobster in an Italian restaurant. Pacino's acting is amazing: you can see it all in his eyes, as he sits there with the concealed gun, deciding on whether to go through with the assassination. Although he does it to protect his father it is probably the turning point in the film for Michael, as he turns down the road to perdition, although the final nail in the coffin is when his wife is killed in Sicily. Before that happens you feel as though there is some good left in him. His Sicilian wife is innocent and pure and may be a good influence on him but her assassination kills off any chance of his salvation. From then on becomes a ruthless, cold hearted mobster. Pacino does an amazing job of showing this transformation, and he deserved an oscar for his performance over the first two films. Equally brilliant is Marlon Brando as The Godfather. He portrays him in such a way that the viewer is almost sympathetic to him but you are always aware of his power and the underworld of crime and deception he has chosen for himself. The cinema was packed and a lot of the audience were young so there is certainly a market out there for the rescreening of classic films, old and new, and hopefully they will show The Godfather Part 2. I will be at the head of the queue! As for Part 1 it is simply a masterpiece and a joy to watch. 10/10.

Adventureland review

Adventureland is a bittersweet tale of growing up and the lessons learned through life experience in the most unexpected place, a tacky theme park. The main character, James, is a college graduate who has plans to travel Europe during summer and then study at one of the Ivy League schools in NY. His hopes are dashed when his parents cannot fund him and he takes a summer job at Adventureland, a local amusement park, to cover his college fees. The job is spectacularly uninspiring and littered with bizzare characters but he falls for a smart and sexy young co-worker, played by Twilight's Kirsten Stewart, and the ups and downs of life and love follow. The film is quirky and slightly offbeat, which I quite liked, but there is a sense of realism at the same time. The cast are strong and the script is smart and thoughtful, helping the film rise above your average teen film. It's not a comedy but there quite a few funny moments, often delivered by the more bizzare or geeky characters. For some reason the film is set in 1987, but it is still relevant to this generation of young people. Most of the characters are white middle class Amercians and they are a bit lost, confused and rootless. They find their identity and comfort very much through the pop music culture, drugs, alcohol, and sex. I can identify with this to some extent. We have all done daft things when we were that age but personally I had my family, friends and faith to fall back on and keep me grounded. The characters in this film don't have that. This is not a judgement on them, many of them have good intentions and potential, but there is the sense that they have drifted into a sort of spiritual vacuum. Late teens is hard enough at the best of times but without a strong family background it becomes all the harder. Adventureland reminded me a bit of The Rules of Atrraction, but it is not as nihilistic or bleak. The film is set in 1987 and I guess the characters would be in their early forties by now. I'm not looking for a sequel but it would be interesting to see where they have ended up. 7/10

Twister or dental torture?

My friend Joanna is going to Italy on Monday for a year, so there was a informal party at her house. There was a nice crowd and things were going well until some sadistic person brought out the Twister game. Man, it was agony. I was doubled over with cramp after about five minutes. I would rather have dental torture performed on me. Who thought up this terrible game,,,the Spanish Inquistion? I can just imagine it. 'Now, Michael Gilfedder, recant or it will be left foot red square for you!' It's also a strangely intimate game. As the game progresses limbs are interwoven and I always end up with some guys bum in my face. If we were all naked it would look like something from a Kama Sutra manual. Twister or dental torture? I hope I never have to make that choice!

Edinburgh Festival - Part 2

Part 2 of our Edinburgh Festival adventure did not start smoothly. Tony Murphy (I include his surname because I have three good friends called Tony), Alan and I waited in Ballieston for the Citylink bus but the first passed us by with no seats and the second stopped but the the driver told us that there was only two seats left. The first show, Paul Merton's Impro Chums, started at 4.30 pm and we were running out of time. We had two choices: we could drive through in Alan's car but that meant he could not drink or we could jog down to the local train station and get to Edinburgh via Glasgow Queen Street Station. We choose the later and after a bit of huffing and puffing we eventually arrived at Edinburgh Waverley Train Station, just a ten minute walk from the venue. We arrived at the Pleasance Courtyard with just minutes to spare and found a seat at the back of the raised seated platform. I like Paul Merton, his quick wit and dead pan delivery, but I was not quite sure what to expect as Alan told me that he would be performing improvised comedy with four other 'chums'. It turned out to be a very entertaining and funny hour. They would play games or act out sketches much in the vein of 'Whose line is it anyway?'. For example Paul would ask the auidience for the genre of a film or a physical setting and then the performers would improvise within this. All his 'chums' were very talented and they all interacted very well as a group. I was not surprised that the show was a sellout and I would definitely see Paul and his Impro Chums again. Afterwards we got a burger and a pint outside in the courtyard and as we stood chatting Paul Merton himself passed by disguised in a bunnet, scarf and long overcoat. Alan took the opportunity to shake his hand and praise him for such a good show, which Paul seemed to appreciate. In the distance was Arthur's Seat, a hill of about 700 feet rising over Edinburgh, and we could see human pinpricks moving about on top. We had a couple of hours to kill before the second show so we met up for a drink with some of Alan's friends who happened to be in Edinburgh at the same time. They were very pleasant. Tony and I talked to Chris and his wife Joanne, while Alan charmed the lovely Rachel. In fact we were having such a nice time that we lost track of time and almost missed the start of Alistair McGowan's show. The venue was the Assembly Hall, a lovely old building that reminded me of Glasgow University. Alistair McGowan, for those outside the UK, is a well known British actor, comedian and impersonator, but it is for his wonderful impersonations that he is best known and loved. Maybe some people expected the show to be one impersonation after another but his set contained quite a lot of standup observational comedy. I'm assuming of course that he wrote all his own material and if he did then he made a very good job of it. His impersonations were spot on but to fully appreciate them you needed to have watched a decent amount of British tv. I was surprised when, after the show, Alan told me that his show had only been rated three out of five stars in a review magazine or newspaper. He deserved more than that. It was dusk when we emerged from the Assembly Hall, the sky tinged with a beautiful red and orange glow to the west. The silhouette of Edinburgh Castle against this backdrop was very impressive. The dark blue water in the distance gave me a pleasant surprise because I always forget that Edinburgh is right next to the sea. We rejoined Chris, Joanne and Rachel and after a bit of trial and error we finally settled on a Chinese restaurant that didn't look like it would result in food poisoning. In fact the food and service was excellent. I even tried to eat my chicken with ginger and spring onions and fried rice with chopsticks but I resorted to the safer option of a fork after spilling half my meal down my jumper. I then further disgraced myself by eating all the leftovers like I had not been fed in three weeks. I possess all of the seven deadly sins in abundance but gluttony must be at the top of the list. After the meal we found a nice little pub for another drink and chat before Chris, Joanne and Rachel had to catch the last bus back to the borders. Our own journey back to Glasgow was uneventful; Tony listening to Guns 'n Roses on his Ipod (that boy is stuck in the 80's!), Alan staring out of the window in silent thought, and myself reading the excellent 'Birds without wings' by Louis de Bernieres. My second taste of the Festival had been very successful. Two top class shows, good company, the novelty of being in Edinburgh, the energy and atmosphere of the crowds, lots of cider and a good meal. Same again next year.

Inglourious Basterds review

"You have'nt seen war until you've seen it through the eyes of Quentin Tarantino" says the trailer. The film does not disappoint in this respect. Like the Coen Brothers he does have a highly unusual and individual style of directing that gives his films a unique visual and dramatic taste. With Inglourious Basterds don't expect a film like Platoon or Saving Private Ryan with a fixed moral about the horrors of war, its terrible destruction and tragedy and all the moral dilemmas it creates. I'm not saying that Tarantino is exploiting a terrible, and often fascinating, period of history to gain critical and commercial success - he is just expressing himself in his own unique way within the context of a war film. He does fully portray the brutality of war, often in graphic detail. Tarantino loves his violence and this film certainly earns its 18 certificate. The Inglourious Basterds are a group of Jews who are dropped into France with the simple goal of killing Nazi's and generally reigning destruction. The plot does not allow most of the group to really feature prominently in the film. This is okay, as just killing Nazi's (however appealing that sounds) for the whole film would get a bit boring after a while. Once the nature and intent of the Basterds has been established the plot goes in an interesting direction. Some of them become involved in a plot to kill Hitler and all of his high command. I don't think Tarantino is trying to rewrite history but he does offer us an alternative ending to the war, what could have happened if there really had been a group like The Basterds and if certain events had fallen into place. The cast are all excellent, except Mike Myers who is horribly miscast as an English general. Brad Pitt does well with his southern drawl and swagger, but it is Christopher Waltz (possible oscar contender?) who steals the show as the infamous 'Jew Hunter'. He sparkles as the Nazi officer who is in charge of rounding up all the hidden Jews in Nazi occupied France. On the surface he is charming and suave, almost playfully toying with his victims, and is completley at ease with what he is doing. Although this is not my favorite Tarantino film I certainly enjoyed it. I was going to rate this film 7/10 but on the strength of Christoph Waltz and Brad Pitt's performances, and the presence of the gorgeous Diane Kruger (marry me Diane!), I will add an extra point. Hopefully Inglourious Basterds marks a return to form for Tarantino. 8/10

Edinburgh Festival - Part 1

Last Saturday I went through to the Edinburgh Festival with two friends to see comedians Mark Thomas and Phil Kay. I had been to The Fringe once before but this was my first proper taste of the Festival and I was looking forward to the experience. The bus journey was not long but it gave me enough time to catch up with Alan and hear about his Swine Flu scare. It was probably only a bad cold but I kept a safe distance from him just in case. Mark Thomas was performing at The Stand comedy club and when we arrived a queue had already formed. I had never heard of Mark Thomas before but Alan told me that his comedy is very political. I don't know much about politics so I was a bit worried that it would go above my head. While waiting in line everybody was handed a slip of paper which invited the audience to suggest policies that they would like to see passed in Parliament. He would read out some of the suggestions during the show and the favorites would be voted in and presented to a cross party group of MSP's at the end of his two week stint at the Festival. Interesting idea and it worked very well. It got the audience involved and allowed him to react with a sharp wit and some thought provoking insights. He was equally enlightening as he was funny. My own policy was something along the lines of people in Britain being encouraged to rent their property instead of being under pressure to buy. Most Europeans rent and they are able to live within their means and not be burdened with a huge mortgage. I should have written 'Scrap tuition fees and replace student loans with student grants, the bastards!' but anyway he didn't read my policy out. The winning policy was 'To have a national bring and buy or swap every Tuesday. When it starts working we start swapping with other countries until everyone is involved and we don't need money.' Very good. It could be way of defeating rampant capitalism. He showed us other policies from previous shows on a powerpoint screen, which included 'To introduce a national maximum wage' and 'Instead of being able to vote you should be able to 'unvote', so insteads of voting for a party you can opt to vote against your least favourite. Every 'unvote' against a party cancels out a vote for them'. I agree with my friend Tony that the best part was when Mark suggested that the National Anthem should be changed from 'God Save The Queen' to the imperial march tune from Star Wars. Like Mark pointed out, the national anthem should be about the people of Britain and not all about the Queen, and also the imperial march tune would scare the shit out of other competitors at the Olympics. Overall the show was very good. Plenty of laughs and food for thought. I would definitely see him again. We had plenty of time to kill before Phil Kay so we had a bite to eat and a few pints at a variety of nice traditional pubs, admiring some of the beautiful girls that Edinburgh seems to have in abundance. Phil Kay was a late start and he buzzed onto stage just before midnight. I had heard of him before but never seen him perform. Alan told me that he is very hit and miss so I wasn't sure what to expect. Unfortunately this was not one of Phil's better performances. He did not have much material to draw on except talking about the pregnancy of his wife and most of the show was ad-libed. There were some funny moments and it was obvious that he has plenty of raw talent but it just did not work on the night. He is a likeable character and there was something manic about his performance that was quite funny in itself (possible case of bi-polar?) but he should spend more time on having material to fall back on if his ad-libing is not going well. The show only lasted about 45 minutes and we all came away disappointed. We caught the 1.30 am bus back to Glasgow and I did not get home until about 3am. I was tired but it had been a good day and I look forward to seeing Paul Merton and Alistar McGowan next weekend.

The Wrecking Crew

I played golf with my dad today. All was going well until the 4th hole. I had just made a par 3 and was feeling pretty good. Then we watched a threesome of middle aged ladies ahead of us slice and hack the course to pieces. It was painful to behold. This agonising slow play continued for the next five holes. Generally I'm not a violent person but I wanted to wrap my 4 iron around their heads or say 'Dad, hand me the rifle, I've got some culling to do.' P.G. Wodehouse, in one of his wonderful golf stories, called them 'the wrecking crew' because they wrecked other people's game. Woman golfers are the worst. I've nothing against the minority who can actually play well and I'm in awe of the professional woman golfers who are wonderful. But there are two types of woman golfers who are the scourge of society. There are those who hit a shot, then stop for five minutes and have a chat, play another feeble effort and then have a good laugh and chat about it. Behind them there are strong men on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Then there are those woman golfers who are just rubbish but are not aware that they are holding up players behind them. The threesome ahead of us belonged to the later. They lacked the awareness that they should let us play through and overtake them. At the end of the game my dad went ahead and spoke to them, bringing to their attention their slow play and the custom of letting those behind play through. Their response was a bare faced lie, claiming that they had been held up by players ahead of them. This was absolute rubbish. At one point my dad and I had sat on a bench for twenty minutes and watched them zigzag their way up a hill to the green. When I heard this I really wanted to personally headbutt each one of them. My solution to all this is separate golf courses for men and woman, or alternatively woman should be given golf lessons until they are good enough to avoid slow play. If I ever become Prime Minister then this will be my first law to pass!

Glencoe and Ninja Mike

When I returned from football a week last Thursday I discovered that I had a missed call on my mobile. I didn’t recognise the number but, high on endorphins, I impetuously returned the call. My cousin Michael Pat answered the phone. ’Want to come camping and hiking this weekend?’ Still buzzing from exercise and without giving it much thought I said ’Sure, okay.’ Maybe if I had known what was ahead of me I would have changed my mind but I did‘nt have the benefit of hindsight. We met up in town early Friday evening, the idea being to camp Friday and Saturday night up at Glencoe and climb two Munros (an Munro in Scotland is a mountain over 3000 feet high) on the Saturday afternoon. No problem for Ninja Mike, the fitness freak, but for me it was always going to be a big challenge. Like myself Ninja Mike has a slight eccentric streak in him. One time he dressed up in full black ninja gear, complete with hood and mask, and, with a real razor sharp sword slung over his back, he attempted to slink ninja style through people’s gardens, hanging off trees and trying not to get noticed. As my cousin Ciaran pointed out, if caught by the police how would he explain himself, especially carrying a lethal weapon. ‘Eh, I'm a ninja officer.’ Quite a character. Anyway the drive north was very pleasant. The weather was promising and the forecast was good for the weekend. Mike hooked up his Satnav. Much to my amusement the voice giving directions was Christopher Walken, a feature he must have downloaded from the internet. Personally I would have chosen the calm gravitas of Morgan Freeman or the deep dulcet bass of Barry White. ‘In one hundred yards baby turn left, oh yeah.’ The drive to Glencoe took about two hours, which included a short stop at Taynuilt to buy booze and other essentials. Whenever Mike passed a camper van or caravan he would stick up two fingers in their direction. I’ve got no problem with them but Mike is a purist and he detests their modern convenience and luxury and does not regard the owners as true campers. They are also slow and cumbersome, and there is nothing worse than getting stuck behind one and unable to overtake. The breathtaking scenery however was ample consolation, especially with the evening light catching on the rugged hills. We passed through the long handsome valley of Glen Coe, mountains rising majestically on either side. With daylight beginning to fade we stopped at Clachiag Inn, parked the car, assembled our gear and tramped off into the woods to find a location suitable for camping. This did not take long, as we came across a clearing in the trees which had the remains of a fire. Mike had trained with the Royal Marines so he knew how to set up the bivy (short for bivouac) and get a fire started. A bivy is like a tarpulin which you tie between two trees, so essentially you are sleeping outdoors but the bivy provides overhead shelter and insulation. The advantage of a bivy over a tent is that it is easier to pack and quicker to set up. We spent the evening mostly tending to the fire, having a few beers and dipping in and out of conversation. A campfire has a powerful, almost hypnotic hold over you, it’s hard to take your eyes off it. It must connect to some deep primeval instinct in man. In Royal Marine slang it’s called watching ’bootneck tv’. We settled down for the night but unfortunately for some reason I could not sleep and I lay awake until about 6am. Maybe it was just the unfamiliar surroundings and situation. I ended up only getting 2 or 3 hours sleep, not ideal preparation for a day of arduous hill walking. We packed up the bivy and set out to find a place to eat. The weather was horrible: grey skies, mist descending on the mountains and as we entered the village of Glencoe rain began to come down heavily. We eventually found a café and fuelled up with a traditional Scottish breakfast of sausages, potato scone, egg and bacon. While I finished my coffee Mike plotted our course on a finely detailed map using his compass. He had experience orienteering with the Royal Marines so I was happy to leave all that in his hands. We parked the car at a lay-by about a quarter of a mile from the start of the ascent and packed some rations, water, mobile phone, map, compass, and waterproofs. I put on waterproof trousers - not very fashionable but they did the job. We set off amid the drizzle of rain just before midday. The ascent was gradual but after about twenty minutes the sweat was pouring off me and I was really struggling physically. Bidean nam Bian is 3373 ft and remember thinking that there was no way I was going to able to climb such a high mountain. I pushed on and the terrain became a bit more rocky but surprisingly my body began to adapt to the physical exertion, as though it had recovered from the initial shock and was getting into exercise mode. As we continued to climb our path consisted more and more of broken rock fragments called scree. This was a bit tricky at times but we stopped every now and again for a water break or to consult the map. After about an hour the terrain changed and we started to scramble. According to Wikipedia ’scrambling is a method of ascending rocky faces and ridges‘. You have to use your hands and it takes a certain amount of skill, upper body strength and balance. At first I quite enjoyed the challenge of scrambling but as the ridges and rocky faces became more vertical and demanding I began to get a bit concerned for my safety, especially as the rain continued to come down and make the rocks slippy. The ascent gradually became more steep and the scrambling more difficult and treacherous. It was as much a test of nerve and mental concentration as it was of stamina and physical strength. Mike led the way and I followed him cautiously. About a third of the way up the rain started to really batter down and we decided to put on our waterproof jackets. We continued to negotiate our way up and over ridges and rocky faces. I was getting tired and at times fell behind Mike. ’Enjoying yourself?’ asked Mike. ’Yes and no,’ I replied. I thought for a moment. ‘More no than yes,’ I added. After about three hours of this gruelling exertion we began to reach the final ascent to the summit. Mike had to check his map several times and gradually I began to have doubts that we were not taking the correct route to the top. Then the mist descended and our situation instantly became more perilous. We really had to get our bearings correct or we could get lost and end up in serious trouble. Finally we curved round a craggy and steep ridge that you would have to be bonkers to tackle head on and through the mist we saw the route to the summit. Although I was exhausted the sense that the summit was within reach spurred us on. After about twenty minutes of moderate scrambling we reached what we thought was the summit but through the mist and rain more mountain beckoned before us. Slightly dismayed we pushed on but my legs were beginning to buckle. We reached the top of one ascent but again we faced another one. Over the next hour this happened again and again. Now I began to realise why the gaelic translation of Bidean nam Bian is ’Pinnacle of the hides’ or ’Peak of the mountains’. It was simply never ending, one ascent after another, over rocky and difficult terrain. My legs were like jelly now and frequently I had to stop and rest. Mike spurred me on. It is a beast of mountain but some stubborn part of me was determined (or mad enough) to tame it. Finally, after fours of climbing in mist and rain, we reached the summit. We were wet, cold and exhausted but we had done it. We took a couple of photos, Mike posing theatrically for the camera, myself sitting on some rocks looking tired but relieved. I wanted to rest but we had to keep moving. We were exposed to the elements and I could feel the coldness starting to set in. As we started our descent Mike checked his map anxiously, unsure of his bearings. Finally we found something that resembled a path and zigzagged our way slowly down through scree and mud. While we were still unsure of our direction there was some divine intervention. For a few moments the mist cleared and we saw what lay before us. A valley surrounded by imposing peaks with a gorge running through the middle. Our descent was slow and tricky but I did not feel that it posed any serious danger as the ascent had done. About two hours later we finally reached the valley floor and found a path next to the gorge. This is where Mike’s navigation came into question. He should have followed along a ridge taking us to the correct descent point but instead our descent down Bidean nam Bian had taken us away from our starting point. To be honest I have a terrible sense of direction so I’m not in much of a position to criticise Mike. To reach that starting point we needed to climb over another munro and we both knew that I didn’t have the legs for that. Instead we turned left at the bottom of the valley, judging the distance to the road to be about two miles. This was a major misjudgement. It turned out to be about four or five miles away. After about a mile the landscape of the valley changed dramatically - it was a strange mixture of large boulders and rocks, trees and a stream, all intertwined like a exotic assault-course. It felt almost pre-historic and I half expected to climb over a boulder and come face to face with a dinosaur. As we worked our way through this strange and demanding environment my boots began to come apart. I had bought them a couple of years ago in a charity shop for about £10. I should have invested in a proper pair of walking boots that could withstand this kind of treatment and now I was paying the price for it. We eventually found a path that led us to the road but the last two miles were agony on my feet and Mike forged ahead as I was slowed down with the pain. As I tenderly trod the last mile the sun came out and the mountains were bathed in glorious sunshine but I was too tired and in too much pain to appreciate the beauty of the surroundings. After seven or eight hours of climbing and walking I reached the road. Mike was waiting for me at a lay-by. We were about four or five miles away from where we had parked the car so the plan was to thumb a lift from a passing car. After about twenty minutes a Spaniard approached us and kindly offered us the one remaining seat in his car. The plan was that they would drop Mike off at his car and he would come back to get me. That was the plan but there was another twist in the tale. As I waited, shivering in my cold clothes, cars and the occasional bus load of tourists pulled in to the lay-by to better appreciate the scenery and take photos of the hills. After about twenty minutes Mike still was no where to be seen. Ten more minutes passed and I began to wonder where the hell he was. Car trouble? Had the Spaniard got lost? Had Mike went for a quick pint? After about 40 minutes I was getting really cold and more worried. A mini van pulled up and a bunch of Russian tourists climbed out. They stretched their legs, smiled in my direction, wrapped up against the cold, took some photos. One guy noticed me pacing up and down to keep warm and kindly offered me a cup of tea. I gratefully accepted. As I was sipping this hot beverage the Spaniard’s car suddenly reappeared and Mike jumped out. ‘My keys are in your bag!’ I didn’t know whether to punch him in anger or hug him in relief. I handed the keys over and he jumped back into the Spaniard’s car and they sped away into the dying light of the evening. God bless that Spaniard. About ten minutes later Mike’s car appeared. We were both wet and cold and did not have a spare change of clothes so we decided just to head back to Glasgow. Just after 10pm Mike dropped me off in Glasgow and we shook hands as we went our separate ways. It had been quite an adventure. Not everything had gone to plan but hey, shit happens. I had survived. More than that I had achieved something that a year ago would have been physically impossible. When I got home I had a hot bath, changed into dry clothes and had a couple of bottles of cider. I think I deserved it.

food for thought

Films have a classification, like PG or 15, according to its content such as swearing, violence, sex, drug use, etc. This makes perfect sense. But what about having a similiar rating for books? The book I'm reading just now, 'Miss Smilla's Feeling For Snow', was made into a film and was rated 15, but there is nothing stopping someone under 15 from buying the book. Is there anything stopping a 12 or 13 year old from going into Waterstones or Borders and buying something from the erotic section? Even a book like Trainspotting would be unsuitable for someone of that age although maybe some would argue that Trainspotting would be educational in teaching young adults about the dangers of drugs. Maybe this is something that should be looked into.

time of repose

I came across something I had written a couple of years ago. It needed an edit but I thought it was worth posting.

Sunday. The pub was noisy and crowded. My football team was losing. I decided to bail out and find repose in the local Catholic church just around the corner. As I approached St. Bridget's I heard the unmistakable wail of the bagpipes and was confronted by a posse of well dressed people descending on the entrance to the church. A wedding had foiled my quiet time with God. I intended in going walkabout but the handsome sandstone building about one hundred yards along the road caught my eye. On further investigation it turned out to be St. John's Episcopalian Church. I had passed it several times, by car and foot. The church was closed but there was nothing stopping me from strolling around the well kept grounds. It was filled with gravestones. They were simple and modest in both scale and style, a far cry from the enormous gothic tombs of Glasgow's Necropolis. Flowers adorned a few of the gravestones - some fresh and colourful, others faded and withering, others as dead as those who lay beneath. I passed a gravestone which had several names on it. The last person had dies only two years ago. Someone close to her had recently laid a profusion of pretty flowers in her memory. As I continued my walk the white gravel crunched pleasantly under my feet. I reached the back of the church - somewhere beneath the grass and soil that edged down to the stone wall were the remains of paupers, people too poor to be given a decent burial. I was not sure if their grave extended out under the stone wall that surrounded the church grounds but I wanted to know. I wanted them to be given a decent burial. It might not make much of a difference to where their souls ended up but it just seemed like the right thing to do. A simple act of humanity and respect. But it would cost a lot of money and time and effort. Life goes one and money is spent on the living, although we erect monuments of great leaders, paint pictures of icons, wear T-shirts of Che Guvara. As I rounded the church's main front I let my eyes wander over the neat columns of gravestones, standing erect like a military parade on display. One gravestone stopped me in my tracks. The names and dates did not interest me. It was the four letters underneath. 'A kind and gentle man'. That would be a good way to be remembered. That would be a good way to be. In the end most of us will be forgotten. Achilles was a fool to think that his name would be made immortal by winning great battles. There are indeed names that will echo down through the ages but so what? In their eyes it gave their life meaning but it was a shallow victory. I left the church grounds with a sense of calm and perspective. I had got my quiet time with God after all.

Blood Simple review

After receiving positive feedback about my film review of Public Enemies I thought I would give it another go. I am a fan of the Coen brothers. They have a unique way of telling a story and this is evident in their debut film Blood Simple (1984). It is written by both but Joel directs and Ethan produces - does anyone know what a producer actually does? Anyway, the story is set in Texas and it is about the intricate chain of events started by a bar tender having an affair with his boss's wife. Deceit and double crosses ensue. It's not a fast paced thriller, it's a slow burner and takes its time to build tension and atmosphere. The cinematography is quite unusual at times, typical of the Coen brothers, and gives the film a very dark atmosphere, its subject matter and style is almost Film Noir. Thanks to skillful direction the film grows in tension, the storyline has enough twists to keep the viewer engaged and by the end it becomes quite gripping. The cast are excellent, especially M. Emmet Walsh as the sinister, slimy private detective. It's not their best film, it's like a rawer, less polished version of No Country For Old Men, but I enjoyed it and it is well worth watching, especially if you are a fan of the Coen brothers. 7 out of 10.

Nunraw

I'm just back from a week's holiday with my family at Nunraw Abbey Guest House. We've been going there for over 20 years and it's become a home from home. The monastery and the guest house are situated in the beautiful countryside of East Lothian. It's a lovely part of Scotland, very prosperous and boasts some top class golf courses, which ticks all the right boxes for me. I did'nt really do very much, just slept, read some books, played golf and lazed about. I finished 'The Kite Runner' which is a brilliant book. It is by an Afghan/American author called Khaled Hosseini and, althouhg my finger is not really on the pulse of modern fiction, he must be one of the best contemporary writers about, along with Louis de Bernieres. It is extremely well written. Very powerful, honest, compassionate, moving. The same can be said of his second novel 'A Thousand Splendid Suns'. I can't recommend them highly enough. I enjoyed the two games of golf with my dad, although my game was very erratic, especially my short game (pitching and putting). It ususally takes a month or two to find your feel for the short game. Golf is strange. One minute you are playing well and all is sweetness and light, and the next minute you have triple bogeyed a hole and you feel like snapping the putter over your knee and wondering why on earth you play the infernal game. I like the challenge and it's a father/son thing to do, which is important, but futhermore I like the feeling when the club connects sweetly with the ball and soars through the sky like a bird or when a long putt rolls in to save par. I play the game for those moments. When not playing golf or sleeping, we visited Haddington and Gifford, a town and a village about six milles from Nunraw. Both are charming. I did'nt make mass in the morning (I'm an insomniac) but my room was near the chapel and I enjoyed going in and sitting in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. Sometimes I would pray, sometimes I would just be still and rest. Compline in the evening is the last prayer that the monks say. It's a lovely service but the community numbers have noticeably diminished in the past few years and it's quite sad. The voices chanting passages of the psalms are old and not as strong as they used to be. It would be a great shame if Nunraw closed but it is a possibility if there is not an influx of new vocations. I don't think that the monks are worried, they just get on with their life of work, prayer and community. They are holy men and the world is crying out for people like them.

What not to say

I played 5-a-side football this evening with my cousin Raphe and some of his mates. Towards the end of the match one guy caught the full force of the football in the testicles. It had him on his knees for a couple of minutes and he was still holding his genitals tenderly as the whistle blew for final time. We all shook hands and as I approached him to shake his hand I almost said 'How are your balls mate?' but stopped myself just in time. I didn't want him to take it the wrong way and follow me into the showers!

Craig Lodge

At the weekend I went to a Catholic house of prayer up in the highlands of Scotland called Craig Lodge. Craig Lodge was originally a hunting and fishing lodge up until the early 1980's. Following a pilgrimage to Medjugorje, a small town in Bosnia where Our Lady is appearing, the owners had a powerful spiritual experience and felt called to turn the lodge into a house of prayer. A community started up, living a life of prayer and service, and subsequently Craig Lodge started to take in guests and host organised retreats. It is a very special place, an oasis of peace and grace in the barren desert of this secular society. It has played a very important role in my own life and I have experienced much healing and grace there. On Friday evening the bus journey took about two hours, and I spent the time reading a book called 'The Kite Runner' (great) and taking in the scenery, which at times was beautiful. At Dalmally, a village about a mile from Craig Lodge, I was picked up by one of the community members, a pleasant girl called Christina. I had not been to Craig Lodge for a couple of years and I knew the weekend was going to be a challenge. When you have depression everything is a challenge, even getting up in the morning, but this was a quite a big step for me. I was a bit apprehensive at first but the guests and everyone in the community made me feel welcome and I began to feel more at ease. This weekend was a 'Community Retreat', the idea being that the guests take part in the way of community life through adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, divine office, the rosary and mass. There were also talks, testimonies, a healing service and praise and worship lead by the community. The retreat went well and I enjoyed most of it but it is quite an intense spiritual and human experience and it's a very religious environment if you take part in everything. I was glad that I had attended and I'm sure I was blessed in some way. Part of me did'nt want the retreat to finish, but I was feeling emotionally drained and raw by Sunday and part of me was relieved to go. I got a lift back to Glasgow and as we entered back into the city everything seemed drab and flat in comparison to the beautiful setting, atmosphere and spirituality of Criag Lodge. It took me a couple of days to settle down and feel better. I hope to go back in Novemeber for an advent retreat. I highly recommend everyone to visit Craig Lodge. http://www.criaglodge.org/index.htm

Public Enemies review

The film revolves around the infamous John Dillinger and his gang during an golden era of bank robbery in the early 1930's. The cast is excellent, particularly Christian Bale as the FBI agent in charge of the manhunt. Johnny Depp portrays Dillinger with smooth charisma and the eye candy for the male viewers is provided for by Oscar winning French actress Marion Cotillard. Ooh la la, is she pretty! Michael Mann's direction is stylish and slick, and he excels in the action scenes which are exciting and realistic. The log cabin shoot out is reminiscent of the climatic gunfight in Heat. The choice to use digital instead of film is interesting and possibly open to criticism. To capture that 1930's period feel most directors would use film whereas digital is more effective when dealing with modern urban settings such as modern day Los Angles in Collateral. The cinematography is very modern and at times the camera moves around like it was a documentary but it is effective in an unusual way. There are other interesting aspects to Public Enemies, such as the birth of the FBI, the portrayal of Babyface Nelson (who was a real nasty piece of work, bordering on pschyopathic) and the way America dealt with its criminals (Dillinger was sentenced to 10 years in prison for robbing a store of just $50). All in all, Public Enemies is solid entertainment. 7 out of 10.

A night out with The Boss and Raphe

Last year I decided not to go and see Neil Young in concert and I've regretted it ever since. Sometimes you have to take the chance when it comes along, so when my cousin Raphael sent me a text to see if I wanted to go to the Bruce Springsteen concert I hestitated for a moment, mostly for financial reasons, but ultimately decided yes. It's not often that you will get to see a legend of rock in concert and I did'nt want to feel that I had missed a great opportunity. Raphe lives in Shawlands so we met about a mile from Hampden stadium shortly before the concert started. In our haste to get tickets we bought the first we came across and then discovered that we were sitting in different parts of the stadium. Our plan was to meet up inside but after 20 minutes of running up and down corridors and going through doors marked 'Restricted' or 'Staff Only' I realised that my search would be fruitless and decided to find a seat and hope the stewards would not ask any questions. I ended up on the upper tier of the east stand with a seat that offered a really good view of the stage and screens. The concert had started by this time and Bruce was already in full flow. The first thing that I was struck by was the energy and great voice he had for a man almost sixty years old. His enthusiasm was infectious and he had great charisma and stage presence. He belted out song after song. Some songs I did not know, some I recognised but I could not name. It didn't really matter. Even somebody not aqcuainted with Springsteen's songs would have really enjoyed the concert, it was that kind of night. I liked some of his new songs, particularly 'Outlaw Pete' and 'Working On A Dream'. Other classics such as 'Pink Cadillac' and 'Thunder Road' went down a treat. The atmosphere inside Hampden was terrific, the crowd of 55,000 applauding every song. The famous E Street Band lived up to their reputation and it was obvious that they were all top class musicians. The sound crew also deserve credit. The sound was really clear and well balanced. Bruce saved the best for last. The encore started with an old time ballad about hard times, followed by 'Dancing In The Dark', another song I did not know and 'Born To Run'. Towards the end I noticed a lady standing up just behind me, her eyes closed, mouthing every word of the song being played. She was totally in the zone and I suppose it would have been something almost like a religious experience for her. He played for just under three hours, eclipsing his two and a half hour set at Glastonbury and the whole band walked off to a deserved standing ovation. I've been to a few gigs this year: Ray LaMontagne, Tom Paxton, Half Man Half Biscuit and Richard Thompson. They were all excellent but this evening had been something a bit special. I met up with Raphe afterwards and we both raved about the concert. I don't know if it was Raphe's terrible sense of direction or the fact that we were so engrossed in our conversation (probably a bit of both) but we ended up miles away from Shawlands and not with the faintest idea where we were. For a while we wandered around a prosperous looking area with big mansions and gardens before stopping a couple to ask for directions, which they kindly did. They had also been to the concert and we parted agreeing that it had been a wonderful night. We eventually found Raphe's place just before midnight, a handsome tenement flat in a nice area. We stayed up a couple of hours, had a glass of Glenlivet whiskey (lovely), chatted for a while and then watched an episode of The Wire (very good but I could'nt understand what they were saying half the time). Despite his terrible sense of direction Raphe is a great guy and I really enjoy his company. I slept in the spare room, woken only by Raphe at about 7.30am to get some clothes and say cheerio. I dozed for a couple of hours but decided not to stay too long because Raphe's fiancee was on holiday and due back at the flat at some point. I did'nt want her to return to the flat and find a stranger making coffee in his underwear. I had visions of me being lead away by the police shouting out 'I really am Raphe's cousin, honest!' so I made a quick getaway. As for Raphe he was never heard of again. He is still probably wandering around the south side of Glasgow as I speak looking for his flat, poor guy!

A short reflection on Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson. Where do I start? It took me a couple of days for his death to sink in. I don't have any of his albums but I admired his great talent as a singer, dancer, musician and showman. It's hard to separate fact from fiction. All the rumours, all the speculation, the lost childhood, the weird behaviour, the physical transformation, the constant media spotlight. After his untimely death it did'nt take long for the tasteless jokes to circulate via email. He was never actually found guilty of child abuse, but I guess we'll never really know the whole truth. Maybe there was child abuse, maybe there was'nt. Maybe he just loved the company of children in a totally innocent way because he was denied his own childhood. I think it's a sad reflection of the society that we live in. I'm sure there are many adults, especially men, who are afraid to show physical affection to a child because, in the back of their mind, there is the worry that people might misinterpret it as something more sinister and perverted. He was rich and famous and liked the company of children - he left himself wide open to be taken advantage of and it was something the media could get their claws into. He was probably naive in that sense. My friend Alan reckons he faked his own death and it won't be long till there are 'Jacko sightings'. I would disagree with him there. If you saw the touching and tearful words spoken by his daughter Paris at the memorial service then I don't think a loving father would willingly put his children through all the trauma and pain of grief. Anyway, the man will always remain a mystery, he will always be an icon and his talents will always be admired and celebrated. Rest in peace Michael.

Rosie and Paul's wedding

Rosie and Paul's wedding started at 1pm but we had to pick up my sister Christina and my Uncle Kester on route so we left the house about 11.30am. Christina looked great in her blue vintage dress and thankfully she had recovered from her recent illness well enough to attend the wedding. Uncle Kester was co celebrating mass so he had to be at the church fairly early to get prepared. His short term memory had deteriorated in the last few years and he kept forgetting peoples names although during mass he recited a long prayer off the top of his head and later on at the reception he talked to my dad about books and philosophy so obviously certain parts of his brain are still functioning very well. I like him very much, he's a cool guy. This was the first big family event I had been to for a number of years so I was slightly nervous but all my cousins and aunts and uncles were pleased to see me and we exchanged warm greetings. The mass was lovely. Rosie looked beautiful in her white wedding dress and was glowing with happiness. Paul also looked very relaxed and happy. The only blemish was the homily. Instead of talking about the sacrament of marriage and Rosie and Paul he droned on about the priesthood and himself, repeating the same points over and over. He did eventually talk about Rosie and Paul but it felt more like an afterthought, rather than the focal point. I think he liked the sound of his own voice. My Uncle Brian timed the homily at 30 minutes but it felt more like two hours and my mind began to wander after a while, daydreaming about Jessica Alba and other gorgeous and unattainable women. Afterwards we made our way to the Marriott Hotel in the city centre for the dinner and reception. I mingled and chatted for an hour or two in the lobby, sipping on the complimentary champagne. Then Rosie and Paul arrived to loud applause and shortly after we made our way through to the main function room for dinner. The tables were all named after albums or songs by the late great Michael Jackson. I don't know if this was a last minute tribute or something planned well in advance but it was a novel idea. Maybe at my wedding the tables can named after my favorite wrestlers. 'John, you're sitting at the Bret 'The Hitman' Hart table'. Each table had a photo of MJ and the title of the album or song. I was sitting at the 'You Gonna Start Somethin' table but, in keeping with my character, maybe I should have been at the 'Bad' or 'Off the Wall' tables. I was seated next to Christina and an old acquaintance David Kerr on my left and my cousin Lucille Rose and her boyfriend Tom on my right. Lucille Rose is a lovely girl and over dinner we chatted away about Michael Jackson and her degree in medicine. The dinner was very good: melon and mango slices for starter, chicken wrapped in bacon with potatoes and veg for the main course, and cheesecake for dessert. The wine and chat flowed freely, maybe a bit too freely as my memory from this point gets a bit hazy. I was just about lucid enough to follow the speeches and to cheer and laugh and applaude at the right moments. They actually went very well, including the best man's speech, which is always a bit of a banana skin, and thankfully there was no embarassing anecdotes. Contrary to tradition Rosie got up and spoke, and she did so very well. She recalled the time when Paul and herself were 'just good friends' and saying to him 'You're not my type and I'll never be your type'. It's funny how things turn out! She also said to Paul 'Thank you for not trying to understand me but for just loving me and accepting me'. I thought that was very sweet. Shortly after the speeches the band arrived and they were terrifc, playing swing and jazz, so Rosie and Paul had their first dance in style. My dancing is quite shocking so I stayed away from the dance floor, the only exception being when everyone gathered around to watch my mad cousin Adrian dance Michael Jackson style to one of his songs. It's really the only time a man can grab his crotch and shout 'OOiii' and not get arrested for indecent behaviour. To give Adrian his due he was a great mover and thoroughly entertained the onlookers. I spent the rest of the evening mostly catching up with my cousins, who I had not seen for quite a while. There was a mixture of good craic and banter, deep and philosophical conversations, and general chit chat. I'm not a great conversationalist but I managed to pass myself okay and enjoyed the company. As for chatting up a good looking blonde I'm afraid I was unsuccessful. My excuse is that I have about 40 cousins and most of the evening was spent catching up with them, so there was not much time left for chasing girls. I did have a very good conversation with a nice girl in the early hours of the morning but her boyfriend was lurking in the background so it was a non starter. But I can't really complain, it was a great wedding. My only regret was that I did'nt get a chance to say hello and congradulations to Rosie but I will send her a card after she returns from honeymoon in Thailand. Rosie and Paul are a really lovely couple and I'm sure they will be very happy together. I wish them all the very best.

Tailor made

My cousin Rosie gets married this Friday so I went in search of a new suit to impress the ladies with. I had tried on the suit jacket that I had bought about ten years ago but, to the dismay of my wallet and I, it no longer fitted my waistline. It reminded me of the scene from 'Father of the Bride' when Steve Martin is determined to fit into the tuxedo he had worn twenty five years earlier at his own wedding. As memory serves me he struggles comically for a while and then his trousers rip down the back. I certainly don't want that to happen to me when I'm chatting up a good looking blonde at the reception, so, with a sigh of resignation, I went to our local outdoor shopping mall armed with my debit card. With my mum as personal advisor we first went to Asda looking for a bargain. The suits there were quite nice and very cheap but the sizes were all to big. I'm no slim Jim myself but they were hanging loosely from my frame as though they were designed for sumo wrestlers. I guess this is a sad case of supply and demand as, accordingly to statistics, Scotland is the unhealthiest nation in Europe and has the highest rate of obesity and heart disease. Our diet plays a major part in this, as we deep fry anything that is edible, from pizza to Mars bars. It reminded me of a funny comment made on a comedy quiz show called 'Mock the week'. The topic of conversation was the spotting of sharks in the North Sea just off the coast of Scotland. One comedian, a sharp witted Scotsman called Frankie Boyle, quipped that if a shark was to eat Scottish people the shark would probably die of a heart attack. It was one of those moments when you are walking or sitting among a crowded area and you think of something funny and involuntary burst out laughing or grin inanely, causing people to edge away from you cautiously. Anyway we moved onto another shop but with the same outcome. I absolutely hate shopping, especially for clothes, so I decided to go a proper shop that specialises in suits, fancy shirts, etc. I found a suit that I liked fairly quickly and it was half price, so twenty minutes later I emerged with the content air of a man who knows that come Friday he'll be looking smart and suave. The wedding will be HUGE. 200 guests at the wedding and dinner, and then another 150 will come to the reception. Hopefully it will be a good day. To quote Jane Austen, I wish Rosie and Paul 'all imaginable happiness'.

Terminator v Nokia

After watching Terminator Salvation at the cinema recently I was faced with the inevitable question - which is more indestructible, a Terminator machine or my Nokia mobile? The endurance of the Nokia phone is quite remarkable. Over the past ten years or so I have dropped it more times than I can remember and it has a crack the size of the Grand Canyon but it still faithfully operates. My friend Alan once dropped his Nokia down three flights of stairs, smashing it to pieces. He managed to reassemble the phone and it still works to this day! I have lost many things over the years: keys, books, hats, even friends, but my trusty Nokia is still by my side and as a result a sort of spiritual bond has developed between us. Terminator v Nokia? There is only one winner!

Pennychews hit by global recession

For those who don't know a 10p mixture in Scotland is traditionally a bag of sweets to the value of ten pence. A pennychew is a sweet worth one pence and usually there will be a couple of sweets worth 2p and maybe one worth 5p but it all adds up to ten pence and the economics are pretty simple even to a mathematically challenged person like me. That all made sense until my friend Mark told me that he recently went into a shop and noticed, I imagine, to his bemusement that a 10p mixture actually cost 20p! I know this is a time of global recession but this must be the worse case of inflation that I've heard of. 10p mixtures were part of my boyhood and I can't help to think of them without a hint of nostalgia, so it's sad to see the day when a pennychew is no longer a pennychew.

Prologue

Welcome and warm greetings to the launch of my much awaited blog. I have procrastinated enough and it's now time to start it off. My blog will have no real theme, it will just be a collection of random thoughts, anecdotes, observations, rants, some poetry and quotes. If you are expecting Jane Austen or Bill Bryson then you have come to the wrong place, but I will try my best to keep my blog entertaining and enjoyable to read. I have the bad habit of not persevering with things that require a certain amount of discipline and effort but I hope that I will keep this blog up and running with fairly regular entries. It will be interesting to see how it develops over the coming months and years. Comments are very welcome and please forward this blog onto friends if you think they will enjoy it. An honourable mention to Tony Murphy for encouraging me to start this. Thanks.